The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) (3 page)

The tea grew cold, but Trace was beyond concern for such trivial matters now. He finished the letter and then looked out of his window at the beautiful spring day, deep in thought.

Some time later, there was a knock at the door, and Marjorie entered with several of the men who had followed him during the winter mission, including Sergeant Walker. They saluted.

“Reporting as ordered, Colonel, sir,” said Walker.

Trace returned their salute. “Thank you, Marjorie,” he said. “That will be all, and see that we’re not disturbed, please.”

As the door shut behind her, Trace turned to his assembled men, his face grave. “Let me tell you about Unit 73...”

The Coldest Winter

Belzec Auxiliary Extermination Camp
Poland, 1942

Jack crouched in the low scrub brush between the trees and peered through his binoculars at the wire mesh of the fence, two hundred yards beyond the treeline. Previously, he had felt disgust when seeing the prisoners held at this sub-camp of Belzec, but now… now he just felt pity, and wanted to help them.

“Not that they would even know if I did,” he said.

“What was that, sir?” asked Lev, one of his corporals.

Captain Jack Randall realized that he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing, kid.”

The young corporal merely grunted in response, and Jack eyed the camp laid out in the forest before them. He motioned for the rest of the team to move forward. The men glided through the trees, silently taking up their positions to either side. Randall took pride in the stealth of his men. No rattles from loose equipment, no reflections glinting off an uncovered iron sight, and no twigs broken beneath a careless step.

You’d hear a mouse fart before you’d hear my guys
, he thought.
Well done, fellas. Now, if I could just figure out what to
do
here
.

His orders hadn’t really been too clear about the prisoners, but he had a feeling he knew what the colonel had been trying to say, without actually coming out with it. Fact is, there was only one thing he
could
do here, and everyone knew it. And, of course, that was the one thing he’d been rather pointedly
not
ordered to do.
What a mess
, he thought.

The men waited, cold and shivering in the Polish winter. As he looked across the cleared space between their position and the wire, he realized just what the war had done to him. He thought back on the carnage and destruction he’d not only witnessed but also personally wrought; families wrenched apart, children dead from stray bullets, and whole cities lying in ashes, all because they made convenient stopping points for one army or another. He’d been changed forever; even the literal dead walking around in their pens a short run away had no impact on him now.

“It’s not right, Cap’n,” said Lev. “We should help these people.”

“Really, Mr. Grossman?” retorted Randall. “And how, exactly, would you suggest we do that, Rabbi?”

As the only Jew in the squad, Grossman had picked up the nickname fairly quickly, despite or, perhaps, because of his objections. When Lev didn’t reply, Randall nodded.

“Not even you know what to do with them, do you? It’s not like we can send them home,” he whispered. “Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“I know that, it’s just—”

“Take a good long look at them, corporal. Go on, look!”

Lev turned back to the ‘prisoners,’ and Randall could see him bite back the nausea. They were clearly, definitely dead, and yet… and yet they moved when they heard a noise, or when one of the guards passed by, staying well out of grapple range. Their bodies had been ravaged by unknown chemical cocktails created by Josef Mengele, with their bones standing out from their flesh, their shaven heads bent and slack, the skin peeling and rotting away in places.

Zombies
, he thought.
Walkers. Five thousand of them, give or take
.
How can even the Nazis create such monsters?

Suddenly, the noise of a truck engine came through the trees, and Randall signaled for everyone to take cover. His men disappeared into the brush and snow, taking cover where they could, and he dropped flat, keeping an eye on the camp through his binoculars. The area around the camp was fairly flat, all things considered, but they’d managed to find a slight rise in the terrain and he had a pretty good view of the camp. The only way he’d find better would be to climb a tree, and he was
way
too old for that.

The covered cargo truck stopped at the entry checkpoint, then proceeded inside the camp proper, where it backed up to one end of a low, wooden structure. The building had several exits into the pens, and though the walkers—as the brass called them—obscured some of his vision, he could make out observation windows along the length of it.

The truck driver stepped down from the cab and lit a cigarette, watching with little interest as the two guards in the back of the truck let down the gate and began pushing and pulling people out into the cold. Randall could see some identifying patches on the Jews, some in the familiar dress of the Romani, some in peasant clothing, all scared, stick-thin, and shivering.

The guards were met by others from inside the building, and the new prisoners were herded inside. Randall couldn’t make out what happened next, but whatever it was, it didn’t take long. The doors along the side were opened in sequence, and a new prisoner was shoved out of each one. They began screaming and beating on the glass of the window or door immediately, but it did them little good. The walkers were on them in moments, and Randall turned away, barely holding down his meager Army-ration breakfast.

“What is it, captain?” Lev hissed from a few feet away.

Randall just shook his head, closing his eyes and trying to force the images from his mind, trying not to think, to feel, to imagine.
They… they
fed
them to the walkers. Monsters!
He wanted to attack, to wipe them out, both the walkers and the Germans, but age provides wisdom, and he knew it would be pointless. Besides, they weren’t here for that. Their mission was to gather intelligence
only,
so the brass could kick it up the chain and the boys back in Washington or London or wherever could make the call.

Somedays, it just doesn’t pay to be in Unit 73
, he thought. Movement caught his eye as he glanced back at the camp, and he raised the binoculars once more. A tall man in an
Schutzstaffel
uniform swaggered toward the pen nearest the end of the building, talking to another man, bundled in cold weather gear. Randall would’ve bet money the second man was a scientist of some sort, and he recognized the SS officer’s rank as that of an
Oberführer
, or senior colonel. Clearly, this was the guy running the show at this camp. Randall strained his hearing, but couldn’t make out what they were discussing.
Dammit. We need to hear this.

“Alright, Rabbi, you’re up,” he whispered to Lev, who lay nearby. Not only was the corporal the quietest man on the team, he was also the only one who spoke more than passable German, and Randall had a feeling he’d need it. “I need you to tell me what they’re saying, son.”

Lev looked at him, then back at the 200 yards of open ground between the treeline and the camp fence, and back at him, then swore when it was clear Randall meant it. He crawled out of his gear and began inching his way forward across the snowy ground.

At least they don’t have spotlights
, thought Randall.

It was a good ten minutes before the Rabbi returned, and only after the camp commander and scientist had gone their separate ways. Lev shivered, wrapping himself in his gear and heavy coat once more, blowing on his hands. Randall looked at him pointedly, and the young man sighed.

“I heard, but you’re not going to like it, captain.”

“No doubt.”

“They’re working on air-dropping them.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though dropping zombies from planes with automatic parachutes was the most normal thing in the world.

“Right. Fall back,” Randall said, signaling to the other men, who were no doubt as cold and tired as he was.

“Fall back, sir? But what about…”

“That’s an order, corporal. They’re not going anywhere.” He sighed. “Moretti is
not
going to be happy about this.”

Allied Headquarters
London

Moretti wasn’t just unhappy, he was
pissed
. “Son of a bitch!” He said, stomping around the desk and sending the trash can flying with one swift kick, papers scattering through the air like startled birds. “You’re
sure
that’s what this SS colonel said?”

“That’s what the message says, sir,” said his aide. “I decrypted it twice myself.”

Moretti threw himself down into the chair, scrubbing both hands across his eyes and groaning. “Do you have any idea the shitstorm this is gonna bring down on everything? These assholes are
manufacturing
walkers
. And they want to drop them out of goddamned
planes
.”

“That’s about the size of it, sir.”

“Well, we damned sure can’t let
that
happen.” Moretti stood up once more, grabbing Randall’s report from his desk. “Come on. Let’s go give the general the good news.”

His aide blanched. “General Eisenhower, sir?”

“Did I stutter?”

“It’s just… he doesn’t like me, sir.”

“Well, corporal, he’s not gonna like
me
either, after I give him this.”

Belzec Auxiliary Extermination Camp
Poland

Randall raised a nearly-full tankard of the local beer to his lips, enjoying, for the moment, being in a warm house and out of the cold. He and his men were taking shelter in a local sympathizer’s home, free from the prying eyes of the German patrols. His team were all sacked out, eating, or drinking alongside him, except for the Rabbi, who was pulling radio duty. Randall tried not to think about the warmth of his southern California home, even during the depths of winter, and concentrated instead on the strong beer.

The door crashed open, the frigid wind billowing snow inside and causing more than a few muttered—and some not-so-muttered—curses from the men. Randall glanced at the snow-dusted corporal as he entered, but didn’t so much as pause his drinking.
Waste not, want not
, he thought. He licked the foam from his lips as he set down the tankard. “I take it you’ve got something, corporal?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lev, shrugging out of his coat and handing Randall a radio message with one hand and grabbing a bowl for the stew heating over the fire with the other. “Came in just as I was about to close up shop, sir.”

Randall unfolded the message, glancing around at the men, who were suddenly alert, even those that had been sound asleep mere moments before. It was a simple set of orders, for a change.

INTEL REC’D. OP IMMINENT. HOLD POSITION, OBSERVE TARGET, AWAIT ORDERS. -73

‘OP IMMINENT
?’ he thought.
What the hell does… oh, shit.
He looked around at the expectant faces.
Gotta tell them something. Rabbi’s gonna talk, anyway
. “Okay, fellas, here’s the deal. Higher says they’ve got something in the works for our friends up the road. No telling when, but we’re to sit tight and wait for further orders. And no, Carlyle, I don’t know what they’re thinking,” he said as one of the men started to speak up. “You know as much as I do. But I can bet it won’t be pretty. So we’re gonna keep an eye on things until we get word. For now, get some rest and we’ll take another look tonight. Any questions?”

There was a chorus of ‘nosirs’ and the men spread out to their pallets, bedding down for the day.
It’s gonna be another
long
night
, he thought.

Allied Headquarters
London

Colonel Moretti looked up as his aide walked in and took a seat. “There’s a call for you, colonel,” the corporal said. “General Eisenhower, sir. I thought I’d stay in case you needed anything.”

Moretti grunted and shook his head to clear it after being deep in reports from his operatives spread over what felt like half of Europe, and picked up the secure landline. “Colonel Moretti here, sir. I see. Yes, sir. Two weeks, sir? That’ll… yes, sir. I understand. Will do, sir.” He sighed as he put the phone down and began scribbling on a pad, ripping off the sheet when he was done and handing it to the other man. “Corporal, get this to the boys at Belzec, pronto.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide glanced down at the note as he stood, and shook his head.

OP DELAYED 2 WKS MIN. MAINTAIN POSITION. REPORT ACTIVITY. PHOENIX. -73

“Problem?” asked Moretti.

The corporal started to reply, then merely shook his head again, clearly changing his mind about speaking up. “No, sir.”

“Out with it, Roger.”

“It’s just… we know what they’re doing. Our men are in position to take action. Why the delay?”

Moretti stood, walking to the window and looking down at the busy London street below. “What sort of action would you have them take? There’s only 8 of them.”

“I’m not suggesting a straight-up assault, sir, even for
your
men. But what about an infiltration? Sneak in, take them out from the inside?”

“To what end?”

“Sir?”

“What would be the point, corporal?” Moretti folded his hands behind his back, his voice taking on a somber tone. “Would you like to know what Colonel Trace told me, just before he retired as head of Unit 73?”

“What, sir?”

“‘You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.’ What he meant was that the walkers are here, and they’re here to stay. We can’t take them all out, and, eventually, unless we prepare ourselves adequately, we will lose everything.”