Beneath Hut 7 the nightform gathered into an undulating pool of blackness. The djinn listened to feet pounding against the floorboards overhead and the muffled chatter of frightened men, the snap of orders, pushing, sliding, things dropping, flurries of movement. Panic. Panic and chaos.
Relishing those emotions, the nightform drifted under the steps that led up into Hut 7. From within its blackness, two yellow jewel eyes took form and peered across the compound. Everywhere, men could be seen coming out of the huts, carrying armloads of clothing and blankets and forming lines in the storm. Eyes furtively glanced about, each man unsure of the one standing next to him. Talk diminished as fear and suspicion took over. Beneath the steps, the djinn trilled happily to itself. Smoky black tendrils whipped out excitedly, as if even from this distance the djinn could grasp victims and pull them in.
Time. Time enough. Wait. They’re not going anywhere. They think they are, but they’re not.
The nightform withdrew up the corner of Hut 7 and settled across the roof as, within it, the djinn gathered all its force for a major assault.
Bruckner emerged from his quarters with a terrified look. “What’s the matter?” said Steuben.
“I can’t find Churchill.”
“Enough with that damned dog—”
Bruckner shot him a look of fury then moved down the corridor, banging on door after door, calling his dog. Steuben watched him throw open the outer door and holler into the storm, “Churchill!”
Steuben turned and shoved the homemade knife into his belt then buttoned his coat over it. He no longer needed it for Kirst, but perhaps against this djinn...
Huddled against the storm, Loring stood with Gilman as two MPs came by, headed for the gate with Vinge’s body on a stretcher between them. Other MPs worked Kirst’s body free of the barbed wire and brought it down, but Gilman ordered his remains sent to the German rec room. Loring said nothing as he leaned over to explain, “I’d just prefer leaving him inside the camp.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “You’re not really suggesting I send my men through this compound holding up mirrors. Can’t you come up with something a little better?”
“Nothing else seems to have much effect.”
“What about salt? You never got around to that earlier.”
“I just wish we could test it. I mean, what if we’re face to face with the djinn, and we throw salt at him, and nothing happens?”
“Is there any reason to think it might be effective?”
“The dig at Ur-Tawaq was heavily salted. In those times, they salted tombs to keep evil spirits in check, The Romans used to salt the graves of their enemies killed in battle so they wouldn’t rise up again—”
“Look, I don’t need a history lesson. I need ways of killing this thing.”
Loring stared at him. He apologized then looked at her—with her hair storm-blown, her hands clutching the coat tightly about her body, her nose blue. She was shivering.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
“I’m all right. I’ll take care of myself.”
Gilman thought back, recalling what they had been doing a short time ago. It already seemed distant, part of the unrecoverable past. He wanted to ask why she had made love to him, but he already knew. Desperation. Fear. Need. No love at all.
He looked up as two squads of MPs double-timed through the gate, led by Lieutenant Blish but slowed by the storm as they headed down the hill to take charge of moving the Germans out. Behind the MPs came Hopkins. He stopped at the gate and shouted down to Gilman:
“General headquarters on the radio, sir! They want a word with you!”
The radio shack was a separate cabin behind the MP mm hall. Loring opened her coat mid warmed herself at the potbellied stove. Hopkins took the extra chair. Gilman replaced the radio operator at his seat and grabbed the microphone.
“This is Major Gilman. Over.”
A voice crackled from the speaker. “This is General Hawthorn. What’s all this crap about moving the prisoners, Major? Your assistant commandant wisely thought to check that order through channels. Are you aware that it’s against regulations? Would you care to discuss it? Over.”
The last thing Gilman wanted was to get boxed into an explanation that would sound utterly ridiculous to an outsider. He opted for vagueness. “Sir, we have a condition here,” he said. “Some unexplained casualties. So far, eight Germans and one MP have been murdered. For the security of all concerned, I intend to move the prisoners out of the compound and quarter them in one building where they can be carefully watched. We’ve got a hell of a storm going, sir, and that’s making it difficult to conduct an investigation. Over.”
Hopkins smirked, confident that the ploy wouldn’t work. They waited through the hash coming from the speaker as Hawthorn evidently conferred with other officers. Loring glanced out the grimy, iced-up window, but she couldn’t see the compound. Even the fence was obliterated by the storm. She felt as if she should be down there right now, because something was happening.
The general came back on the line. “That’s a negative, Major. Your orders are to keep the Germans inside the compound and confined to their huts. Do not move them. Repeat, do not move them. Do you read me? Over.”
Loring closed her eyes. This was getting out of hand.
Gilman thought carefully before answering.
France. Window Hill. Second Battalion.
“I read you, sir. Over.”
“I will send a detachment as soon as the weather lifts, Major. Do you read me on that as well? Over.”
France. Window Hill
“Yes, sir. I read you, sir. Over.”
“Good, Major. I’m glad we understand each other. I will enter this conversation into my records. I advise you to do the same. Over and out.”
Gilman turned the microphone back to the radio man and stood up. Hopkins was gloating.
France. Window Hill. Never again.
“Hopkins, haul your ass over to the office and write down that conversation. Add that you failed to obey my order and on your own initiative took the matter up with General Hawthorn. Say that upon signing off I decided to disobey the general’s orders”—Hopkins blanched—”and proceed on my own authority. Have your stooge, Corporal Chilton, type it up for my signature. I’ll be outside, supervising the move—”
“Sir, if you refuse to obey the general’s orders, I’ll have to assume command—”
“You’ll assume shit!” Gilman leaped over to Hopkins.
“I am not going to lose any more men!
Now”—Gilman rebuttoned his coat—”get some guards into our mess hall. We’ll put the Germans in there. Are you with me, Captain?”
Hopkins rose and nodded bitterly. “Yes, sir.”
Gilman left with Loring. Outside, the storm had calmed; the wind had slowed. “It must be reassuring fighting your own officers,” Loring said.
“That’s why we have captains and majors. The major doesn’t have to be right—he outranks the captain.”
“And the general?”
“Fuck the general.”
Gilman slowed at the crest of the hill, expecting to see German POWs filing out the gate past armed MPs. But the gate stood open and there was no one guarding it.
“Goddamnit.” His anger rose and he lengthened his stride, intent on chewing somebody out. Loring grabbed his arm and pointed into the camp. He paused and followed her arm and saw... nothing. Nothing but the fence and the sentry towers running to the left and the right Nothing but searchlights stabbing an impenetrable darkness. Nothing beyond the fence but blackness. No huts, no Germans, no MPs, no snow-covered slope. A black shroud hung over the compound, concealing everything. Even light couldn’t break through. Swirling snow was swallowed up in blackness.
Gilman hardly heard Loring’s muttered gasp because of the sounds rising from within the camp. Howls of terror, screams of shock and fright, shooting—
Yanking himself free of her clutching hand, Gilman floundered toward the gate.
“Major!” she called.
On his right, the sentry in the nearest tower descended quickly and hurried to join him, rifle ready.
“Major—don’t go in there!”
He went in.
Chapter 26
With the storm thinning out overhead, Blish had moments earlier been checking the ranks of prisoners wrapped in coats and blankets and waiting in front of their huts. Then he authorized the first hut to move out.
Armed MPs fell into step around the prisoners, but they never got beyond the circle of buildings. They stopped and looked up curiously as a thin veil of black rose up into the sky from the roof of Hut 7 and expanded to create a canopy over the entire compound, blotting out the searchlights and plunging the camp into pitch-black darkness so thick that men two feet away couldn’t be seen.
As the MPs tried to prod the Germans into formation, they began shuffling and muttering in the blackness. One shove too many and suddenly there was shouting and cursing.
Panic erupted. The Germans broke ranks, shoved past the MPs, and ran. Within seconds, Steuben stood alone on the steps of his hut and stared into blackness, listening to the sounds of his men running and shouting.
The first blast of tommy-gun fire made him flinch. Then he felt something cold and wispy touch the nape of his neck. He turned abruptly. It brushed his face. He tried to grab it and caught something. He brought his hand close to his eyes and in the gloom saw black mist curl from his fingers then shoot upward to be lost in the cloud overhead.
A light stabbed Steuben’s eyes. A frightened MP roared something at him. When the light wavered, Steuben glimpsed the MP aiming his carbine one-handed. Steuben dove through the hut door as a burst of gunfire chewed up the threshold behind him. He kicked the door closed and flattened himself on the floor. More bullets ripped through the door and plowed overhead only inches from his body. Then he heard boots crunching away fast in the snow. More fire elsewhere. He looked down the empty corridor.
What’s happening?
Lieutenant Blish stood in utter blackness at the corner of a hut—he didn’t even know which one—.45 in hand, fear making a lump pulse in his throat as he waited for the next German to charge by. So far, he had fired at two of them, two rifle-bearing soldiers wearing long greatcoats and coal-scuttle helmets. Somehow, these helpless, unarmed prisoners had acquired a stash of war gear and weapons and, under cover of this freak darkness, had become a fully equipped little army. At least that’s what he
saw,
but common sense told him it was impossible.
Again, icy coldness brushed at his cars and he swatted it. Blackness stirred past his eyes. He had never seen fog like this—thicker than the proverbial London pea soup and so unrelievedly black.
A man lumbered around the corner of the hut and collided with Blish. Shoving him away, Blish had a fleeting glimpse of his helmet and rifle and, hearing his guttural war cry, fired point-blank into his face. The soldier crumpled in the snow.
Got one at last
Dropping down before the blackness could move back in and obscure the body, Blish prodded the soldier over with the muzzle of his .45 and stared into the gory, pulpy face, unrecognizable in death.
Blish froze. This soldier had no weapon or helmet, because it was no soldier. It was an unarmed prisoner.
Blish felt a surge of horror. Blackness closed over his face. Icy fingers of gloom seeped into his mind and siphoned off his fear. Aware of what was happening, Blish’s terror mounted. He screamed and leaped to his feet. He fell back against the wall of the hut and clawed at the blackness, the .45 still in his hand, his finger still hooked around the trigger. He got off a shot, but the force extracting his emotions gripped him even tighter and, where it drained him, he felt freezing cold injected in its place.
Squirming in terror, Blish fired the .45 again and again. The last time he squeezed the trigger, the muzzle was against his eye.
Glacial cold pierced Gilman’s brain as he trudged down the snow-crusted slope, blind in the overwhelming darkness. The sentry who had come in with him crunched off to the right. In a few seconds, his footsteps were lost in the rising pandemonium from below.
Something flitteUd into Gilman’s face. He brushed it away.
Snow,
he thought.
Just snow.
But if there was any snow falling through this murk, it was invisible to him. He stopped, realizing he was no longer walking on snow. He was standing on something that had the consistency of mud. Squatting down, he peered at the ground and was able to discern only a shapeless dark mass. He ran a hand over it. It felt wet and slimy. In the midst of it, his fingers encountered something hard and sharp—like a meaty stick.
Disgust surged in Gilman’s stomach. It was a human rib, and the pulpy stuff around it was the remains of a body. The gloom thinned a bit, and he found himself on a dark familiar hillside, squatting inside the rib cage of a dead GI whose entire torso had been blown apart. Around him on the hill were more bodies, scattered like split broilers waiting to be cooked.
Gripped by an uncontrollable sickness, Gilman vomited over the body beneath him. The bile came in nauseating waves, convulsing his neck and shoulders. Gasping, he crouched to recover, heart pounding with horror as he smelled burnt flesh and cordite on the air. His worst nightmare had come to life.