Post by unknowntales on Jun 21, 2006 18:11:12 GMT -5
More FLUFF: SS Antartic base, a sonic gun, walking tanks, magnetic bazooka...
I hope you guys enjoy!
[shadow=red,left,300]It’s 1946 and the war is still raging with no end in sight. The quest for a weapon that will end the greatest war the world has ever seen is well under way. The outcome is yet to be determined and history has yet to be written, everyday holds something new for an Unknown Tomorrow.[/shadow]
[glow=red,2,300]The shores of NewSchwabenland, 1946…[/glow]
Corporal Marks pulled the lapels of his combat jacket against his cold neck trying to corral whatever warmth was left in his frigid body. He shook uncontrollably as he tried to place the last of the magnet mines against the rusted metallic door embedded in a flat section of the rock face. He pressed a white switch on the last of the shiny disks and a small red light sprung to life. The corporal smiled.
Fifty yards from the thick steel door huddled against a two ton slab of Antarctic rock, sat Captain Tyler and his commando force. The blonde haired captain cradled his Thompson ’46 machine gun against his right side anxiously awaiting the arrival of Corporal Marks. He looked at his platoon, or what was left of it. The other dingy capsized in the cold Artic waters: all aboard had perished.
Fumbling through his medic bag, Corporal Johnson searched for the stim packs they would need to inject soon. The air temperature was too cold for a normal human to survive its brisk, dry affects. The moisture in their lungs would soon freeze causing certain death in less than an hour. They would have to re-inject within minutes, thought Johnson. The sun was beginning to set along with their body temperature.
After checking the clamps along his magnetic bazooka, Sergeant Osborn smiled to reassure himself that the weapon would, could do its job. He had been trained at Fort thingys extensively on how to use the complicated electronic weapon, but had never fired it in combat. He patted the muzzle cover several times and looked to his Captain for further orders.
The quickening pace of crunching snow and beach rocks echoed past their position against the huge slab of rock. The Sergeant raised his head slightly, just enough to peer through the falling snow to see who was headed their way. Captain Tyler motioned for the unit to remain quiet, something the men had already digested from the onrushing noise. NewSchwabenland was a desolate place, but not too isolated from the rest of the world. There were soldiers here at the underground base: German soldiers. Probably SS, the men thought and they would have to fight hard with the few left to complete their mission and paddle back to the extraction point off shore. If it wasn’t Marks, if the Germans had been alerted somehow…
The walls of the dark, cold tunnel seeped moisture from the snow pack on the surface above. They had been carved out years ago by German engineers to create access tunnels for the main complex of the SS base. The tunnel an arched roof, barely eight feet tall. The sides carried power cables, telephone lines, and the occasional red service light.
The roof of the tunnel dripped in different spots causing pools of chilly water to appear every ten feet or so along the bleak path.
As the hue of the red service lights faded, they gave way to a metal human slowly plundering its way down the long corridors to an unknown destination. Its thick tubular arms slowly scraped the wet stone edges of the tunnel’s walls. The thin weapons fitted to the chaffed silver appendages rotated to the walking tank’s wrists so it could traverse the narrow hallways. Sitting atop its bulbous thorax was a squat dome with a small window for the tank’s operator. The human inside stared straight ahead, relentlessly fixating his vision on a door deep within the maze of tunnels and corridors. The creature’s legs were engorged, rounded and heavy. It could not run, yet its strength was evident; it crushed small rocks and stones along the path as if they were piles of salt. Wrapped like overgrown vines along its legs and arms were tubes of fluid and compressed air that seemed to hold the metallic creature together. Its hands were clenched creating ball-like fists out of its armored black gloves.
The pilot was focused; its mission undeniable.
Sweat formed on his forehead just long enough to freeze as the anxious Corporal Marks pounded his boots with authority while running for the stone fortress his fellow soldiers were hiding securely behind. He was running for his life: scared and alone. He caught sight of the large rock and ran to its east, sliding in the snow and pebbles after reaching its protective shelter.
Captain Tyler was happy to see his corporal, “Marks. You made it!” The captain patted him on the shoulder. “How’d it go?”
“All three charges are in place, Sir. Smooth as silk, Captain.”
“Good. Still no one?”
“Didn’t see anybody, Captain. I think we made it in undetected,” said Marks.
Captain Tyler turned to Corporal Johnson and nodded to the skinny brown-haired medic. Johnson knew the procedure. He removed four stim packs and placed them on his lap. Marks became agitated. He squirmed in his army trousers, trying to leave his body behind on the god-forsaken island and head somewhere else in his mind, somewhere pleasant.
“Corporal Marks, don’t make me force you to take it. You know we can’t survive in these temperatures long without bio-heat stims. You’ll be dead in minutes.”
Corporal Johnson looked at Captain Tyler who in turn looked at Sergeant Osborn. Without warning, Osborn lunged at Corporal Marks and tackled the squeamish soldier, containing him in a bear hug.
The medic injected Marks. Within seconds, he began to convulse. The liquid warmed his blood and his muscles as well. The shaking stopped and the corporal blinked twice; he was ready for combat.
“Not so bad, eh Corporal,” said Sergeant Osborn.
“Not now,” replied Marks.
“Let’s not delay. Johnson, inoculate the rest of us. The corporal followed orders injecting the stim packs into the other two and as well as himself. The men shook off the unnerving effects and readied their weapons.
Tyler patted Marks on the shoulder again and smiled.
“The explosives, Sir?” asked Marks.
“Blow the hatch, Corporal,” said Tyler.
He pulled out a small control unit no larger than his fist. After activating a power switch, the corporal pressed a bulky green button on the unit and the hatch erupted in flames and smoke. The men were showered with rock particles raining down from the heavens.
The smoke cleared; the hatch was open.
As they began to stand up, a rusted metallic chunk landed next to the captain. It impacted the pebble surface and stuck into the rough soil. The captain smiled again. Lucky, he thought, lucky indeed.
The men moved forward, entering the frame of what was once the hatch with caution. Vigilant of the jagged metal along the frame, but weary of what lay inside the tunnel. Corporal Marks was ordered in first, followed by Johnson, the sergeant and finally the captain. The sergeant slung his strange bazooka over his shoulder, trying not to hit the archway of the tunnel overhang. They moved slowly, as if a family of turtles had invaded a pet store full of customers fearful of shoes and boots that could crush their shells. The captain wiped the cool water dripping on the back his neck, immediately onto his combat jacket; the water had a chilling effect. The forward section of the tunnels had ice placated on their walls, but as they moved farther into its bowels, the ice gave way to wet walls and dripping ceilings.
A flashing light illuminated a long control panel centered inside a command room. The SS corporal manning the panel straightened his back, cleared his throat, and barked his commanding officer’s forgiveness. Major Kinnel was walking from the elevator to the briefing room when he heard the request.
The major, realigning his jaw to his left in an attempt to push feeling into the long scare that rode from his eye to his ear on his left side, stopped at the SS corporal’s station.
“Yes, Corporal, you have something to report?” asked Major Kinnel.
“Herr Major, the sensor for access tunnel 26 is not responding. It just went completely dead.”
“What is its maintenance history?”
“It’s never had any problems, Herr Major.”
Kennel put his thumb and index finger against his chin to help him search his memory, “Send a Volkspanzer to investigate the error.”
“Yes, Herr major,” said the corporal obediently. He reached for a section of his control panel and depressed a flat clear button.
Stepping from the shadows of the poorly lit control room, Dr. Gottwin approached the major with contempt written all over his face.
“I am uneasy about this, Herr Major. There have been reports from the SD back in Berlin that the Americans have been planning a raid of some sort. I don’t think ONLY ONE of your walking tanks will keep us secure,” said Gottwin.
“Dr. Gottwin, the Volkspanzer is adequate enough to handle any threat to this base. The Fuhrer has promised his Wunderwaffens will turn the tide and I have full confidence in the Volkspanzer unit stationed here,” said the Major.
“Still, I want the Green Glove to assist in the equipment malfunction. The monk is well versed in hand to hand combat and can render any threat negligible.”
“The Volkspanzer will suffice,” said Kinnel.
“Major, the base must be protected at all costs. This is Department VII, the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, not some fool Waffen SS unit for you to command. Sonderkommando-H has authority here at NewSchwabenland. Do you understand, Herr Major?”
Kinnel turned away from the doctor and studied a security panel while he gathered his thoughts, “We have been charged to advance the science of the Reich, not propagate a witch hunt!”
“Lower your tone with me, Herr Major. I will not tolerate your emotional outbursts. You will force me to notify Berlin unless you control your temper and complete your duty,” said Gottwin.
“Herr Doctor, I will provide the security for the base, but you will keep your mystical friends at bay. They are a distraction and an unnecessary risk,” said Kinnel.
“The monk will not bother your duties. The men of the glove are obedient.”
“I should hope so, Herr Doctor, I should hope so.”
Inside a darkened tunnel, the walking tank crunched snow as it moved slowly, trudging past arch supports and the intermittent crimson service light. Behind the metallic creature, a shadowy figure with an emerald hue kept its distance, following the SS machine, daintily maneuvering around puddles of water, tailing the walking tank.
Corporal Marks turned with the corridor moving his feet along the edge of the tunnel’s wall. He stopped when the noise of advancing footsteps captured his hearing. The noise grew louder, resonating against his chest until the rapid beating of his heart drowned out the crunching noise.
It was a giant robot, a walking tank with a swastika on its chest. They had been discovered. Frantically raising his rifle, Marks fired two shots at the advancing hulk. The bullets bounced off, deflecting into the stone wall and down the corridor.
Corporal Marks was defenseless.
Fear gripped his throat. His feet felt heavy and time began to slow until he thought it had stopped. His first idea was to toss his rifle, try to crack the glass window in front of the soldier’s face, but his arms could not move. The Volkspanzer raised its right arm. The weapon on its wrist rotated before a muzzle extended from its surface. An electric charge sprung from the weapons interior and the weapon began to glow.
The mechanical monster’s arm recoiled and the weapon appeared to misfire. Corporal Marks fell to the ground clutching his abdomen. He reached into his chest cavity searching for his lungs, intestines, or any other organs, but they had been dissolved by the Volkpanzer’s sonic weapon. Created in an SS lab, the weapon vibrated the insides of the soldier liquefying his bowels and reducing them to quivering diarrheic conglomeration of unidentifiable parts. Marks’ eyes rolled back in his head. His body plunged to the stone surface where his head fell into a cold pool of water.
Sergeant Osborn watched his corporal fall silent and without hesitation, dropped to one knee, removing the bazooka from his back in the same move. He pulled off the muzzle cover and readied the weapon at the bend in the tunnel. The Volkspanzer made the turn and faced the sergeant. Osborn fired the bazooka: direct hit.
The magnetic shell from the bazooka launched at the creature. It plowed into the Volkpanzer’s chest, attaching to the machines surface like a black widow spider attacking its prey. Small tentacles protruded from the shell and attached themselves to the metal monster’s skin. An electric charge released causing the walking tank to stall, and then stop. The SS hulk tipped over; it was dead. The pilot was trapped. He tried to release the domed lid, but without power he was a nut in a shell.
Captain Tyler smiled for the third time today; the German wanted to be in that thing, and there he would stay: to die.
Back at the command center, Dr. Ernst Gottwin watched one of the corporal’s panels with curiosity. There were a dozen lights with names above each. Volkspanzer 3 had three of four lights in the red. Dr. Gottwin smirked.
The corporal was not as pleased, “Herr Major, the Volkspanzer has been destroyed!”
“Send another unit. I want another Volkspanzer in that tunnel immediately!” ordered Kinnel.
The skinny Doctor Gottwin turned to a map of the NewSchwabenland complex on the wall, “It is of little consequence, Herr Major. The Green Glove will eliminate your intruders. The Monk will not fail us”
Sergeant Osborn moved forward and signaled for the medic and the captain to follow. Johnson stepped over Marks’ body, kneeled to check his pulse, and moved on. As he stood up, he noticed the gaping cavity on the dead corporal. His innards had been reduced to a fistful of indiscernible parts. Johnson shook the image from his mind; at least the walking tank could not harm them the same way.
The sergeant moved a once lit cigar from the right side of his mouth to the other. The magnetic bazooka was back on his shoulder and a Thompson ’46 leveled down the corridor. The Sergeant walked gingerly, constantly checking to see if his captain the medic were close behind.
Down the corridor ran the disfigured body of Corporal Atkins. The Sergeant opened his mouth and the unlit cigar fell to the tunnels’s surface. Atkins had died in the water off shore. How did he get inside the complex?
“What is it Sergeant? What do you see?” asked Tyler.
“It’s Atkins, Sir. He’s alive. Alive, but badly injured!”
“He’s dead Sergeant. You saw his body float away. He was face down in the Atlantic. Lifeless.”
“I know that, Sir. But he’s here. Headed this way!”
Osborn thingyed his gun. If it was Atkins, if it’s him…
The bleeding figure stumbled as he ran, bouncing against the wet walls.
“Atkins! Atkins, is that you?” shouted Osborn.
“Turn Back! They have the others. Look what they did too me! My god, Look at me!” cried the withering body of Corporal Atkins. His face was carved out exposing tendons and nerves. Blood dripped along his flapping cheeks and one of his eyeballs hung from its optic nerve. The site of Atkins was repulsive. Sergeant Osborn’s stomach wrenched; he forced his throat to keep his lunch down.
“Shoot it, Sergeant! It’s not Atkins. Shoot it, damn you!” ordered Tyler.
Osborn fell against the stone wall. He couldn’t fire his weapon. It was one of his men, struggling to live, and using his dying breath to warn them to turn back. Osborn woke from his panic and pressed the sub-machine gun against his chest.
“I can’t do it, captain. I know it’s him.”
Corporal Johnson turned to the captain. The look of paralysis covered Johnson’s face. He stared at Tyler, overwhelmed with fear, “This is a science facility. What if the pulled the bodies out from the water and experimented with them?”
“We’ve only been here a few hours, Johnson. There hasn’t been enough time for that to happen! God damn-it! Get a hold of yourself!” ordered Tyler.
The sergeant pushed his way past Tyler and Johnson; he raced for the exit, leaving his comrades behind. Corporal Johnson ripped his arm form Tyler’s grip and followed his sergeant. Captain Tyler was left alone, alone in the tunnel with the decrepit body of Atkins headed his way. Tyler raised his Thompson ’46 and fired a round. It tore through the dilapidated soldier and ricocheted down the corridor, but the dying man continued as if he were an illusion, unaffected by the projectile.
“I knew it,” said Tyler. He pulled his Thompson against his chest and spun around. Without his men, he could not complete their mission. He picked up his feet and ran towards the blown hatch.
Gliding from the shadows, the Green glove slipped out of the darkest corners of the corridor and stopped where the American soldiers had last been. He picked up Osborn’s discarded cigar with his emerald glove and waved its aroma near his nostrils. The ornately dressed monk pushed aside his flowing orange robe and looked down the hall to where the light from the hatch was filtering in. He stood upright and walked back into the inner workings of the vast SS complex.
I hope you guys enjoy!
[shadow=red,left,300]It’s 1946 and the war is still raging with no end in sight. The quest for a weapon that will end the greatest war the world has ever seen is well under way. The outcome is yet to be determined and history has yet to be written, everyday holds something new for an Unknown Tomorrow.[/shadow]
[glow=red,2,300]The shores of NewSchwabenland, 1946…[/glow]
Corporal Marks pulled the lapels of his combat jacket against his cold neck trying to corral whatever warmth was left in his frigid body. He shook uncontrollably as he tried to place the last of the magnet mines against the rusted metallic door embedded in a flat section of the rock face. He pressed a white switch on the last of the shiny disks and a small red light sprung to life. The corporal smiled.
Fifty yards from the thick steel door huddled against a two ton slab of Antarctic rock, sat Captain Tyler and his commando force. The blonde haired captain cradled his Thompson ’46 machine gun against his right side anxiously awaiting the arrival of Corporal Marks. He looked at his platoon, or what was left of it. The other dingy capsized in the cold Artic waters: all aboard had perished.
Fumbling through his medic bag, Corporal Johnson searched for the stim packs they would need to inject soon. The air temperature was too cold for a normal human to survive its brisk, dry affects. The moisture in their lungs would soon freeze causing certain death in less than an hour. They would have to re-inject within minutes, thought Johnson. The sun was beginning to set along with their body temperature.
After checking the clamps along his magnetic bazooka, Sergeant Osborn smiled to reassure himself that the weapon would, could do its job. He had been trained at Fort thingys extensively on how to use the complicated electronic weapon, but had never fired it in combat. He patted the muzzle cover several times and looked to his Captain for further orders.
The quickening pace of crunching snow and beach rocks echoed past their position against the huge slab of rock. The Sergeant raised his head slightly, just enough to peer through the falling snow to see who was headed their way. Captain Tyler motioned for the unit to remain quiet, something the men had already digested from the onrushing noise. NewSchwabenland was a desolate place, but not too isolated from the rest of the world. There were soldiers here at the underground base: German soldiers. Probably SS, the men thought and they would have to fight hard with the few left to complete their mission and paddle back to the extraction point off shore. If it wasn’t Marks, if the Germans had been alerted somehow…
The walls of the dark, cold tunnel seeped moisture from the snow pack on the surface above. They had been carved out years ago by German engineers to create access tunnels for the main complex of the SS base. The tunnel an arched roof, barely eight feet tall. The sides carried power cables, telephone lines, and the occasional red service light.
The roof of the tunnel dripped in different spots causing pools of chilly water to appear every ten feet or so along the bleak path.
As the hue of the red service lights faded, they gave way to a metal human slowly plundering its way down the long corridors to an unknown destination. Its thick tubular arms slowly scraped the wet stone edges of the tunnel’s walls. The thin weapons fitted to the chaffed silver appendages rotated to the walking tank’s wrists so it could traverse the narrow hallways. Sitting atop its bulbous thorax was a squat dome with a small window for the tank’s operator. The human inside stared straight ahead, relentlessly fixating his vision on a door deep within the maze of tunnels and corridors. The creature’s legs were engorged, rounded and heavy. It could not run, yet its strength was evident; it crushed small rocks and stones along the path as if they were piles of salt. Wrapped like overgrown vines along its legs and arms were tubes of fluid and compressed air that seemed to hold the metallic creature together. Its hands were clenched creating ball-like fists out of its armored black gloves.
The pilot was focused; its mission undeniable.
Sweat formed on his forehead just long enough to freeze as the anxious Corporal Marks pounded his boots with authority while running for the stone fortress his fellow soldiers were hiding securely behind. He was running for his life: scared and alone. He caught sight of the large rock and ran to its east, sliding in the snow and pebbles after reaching its protective shelter.
Captain Tyler was happy to see his corporal, “Marks. You made it!” The captain patted him on the shoulder. “How’d it go?”
“All three charges are in place, Sir. Smooth as silk, Captain.”
“Good. Still no one?”
“Didn’t see anybody, Captain. I think we made it in undetected,” said Marks.
Captain Tyler turned to Corporal Johnson and nodded to the skinny brown-haired medic. Johnson knew the procedure. He removed four stim packs and placed them on his lap. Marks became agitated. He squirmed in his army trousers, trying to leave his body behind on the god-forsaken island and head somewhere else in his mind, somewhere pleasant.
“Corporal Marks, don’t make me force you to take it. You know we can’t survive in these temperatures long without bio-heat stims. You’ll be dead in minutes.”
Corporal Johnson looked at Captain Tyler who in turn looked at Sergeant Osborn. Without warning, Osborn lunged at Corporal Marks and tackled the squeamish soldier, containing him in a bear hug.
The medic injected Marks. Within seconds, he began to convulse. The liquid warmed his blood and his muscles as well. The shaking stopped and the corporal blinked twice; he was ready for combat.
“Not so bad, eh Corporal,” said Sergeant Osborn.
“Not now,” replied Marks.
“Let’s not delay. Johnson, inoculate the rest of us. The corporal followed orders injecting the stim packs into the other two and as well as himself. The men shook off the unnerving effects and readied their weapons.
Tyler patted Marks on the shoulder again and smiled.
“The explosives, Sir?” asked Marks.
“Blow the hatch, Corporal,” said Tyler.
He pulled out a small control unit no larger than his fist. After activating a power switch, the corporal pressed a bulky green button on the unit and the hatch erupted in flames and smoke. The men were showered with rock particles raining down from the heavens.
The smoke cleared; the hatch was open.
As they began to stand up, a rusted metallic chunk landed next to the captain. It impacted the pebble surface and stuck into the rough soil. The captain smiled again. Lucky, he thought, lucky indeed.
The men moved forward, entering the frame of what was once the hatch with caution. Vigilant of the jagged metal along the frame, but weary of what lay inside the tunnel. Corporal Marks was ordered in first, followed by Johnson, the sergeant and finally the captain. The sergeant slung his strange bazooka over his shoulder, trying not to hit the archway of the tunnel overhang. They moved slowly, as if a family of turtles had invaded a pet store full of customers fearful of shoes and boots that could crush their shells. The captain wiped the cool water dripping on the back his neck, immediately onto his combat jacket; the water had a chilling effect. The forward section of the tunnels had ice placated on their walls, but as they moved farther into its bowels, the ice gave way to wet walls and dripping ceilings.
A flashing light illuminated a long control panel centered inside a command room. The SS corporal manning the panel straightened his back, cleared his throat, and barked his commanding officer’s forgiveness. Major Kinnel was walking from the elevator to the briefing room when he heard the request.
The major, realigning his jaw to his left in an attempt to push feeling into the long scare that rode from his eye to his ear on his left side, stopped at the SS corporal’s station.
“Yes, Corporal, you have something to report?” asked Major Kinnel.
“Herr Major, the sensor for access tunnel 26 is not responding. It just went completely dead.”
“What is its maintenance history?”
“It’s never had any problems, Herr Major.”
Kennel put his thumb and index finger against his chin to help him search his memory, “Send a Volkspanzer to investigate the error.”
“Yes, Herr major,” said the corporal obediently. He reached for a section of his control panel and depressed a flat clear button.
Stepping from the shadows of the poorly lit control room, Dr. Gottwin approached the major with contempt written all over his face.
“I am uneasy about this, Herr Major. There have been reports from the SD back in Berlin that the Americans have been planning a raid of some sort. I don’t think ONLY ONE of your walking tanks will keep us secure,” said Gottwin.
“Dr. Gottwin, the Volkspanzer is adequate enough to handle any threat to this base. The Fuhrer has promised his Wunderwaffens will turn the tide and I have full confidence in the Volkspanzer unit stationed here,” said the Major.
“Still, I want the Green Glove to assist in the equipment malfunction. The monk is well versed in hand to hand combat and can render any threat negligible.”
“The Volkspanzer will suffice,” said Kinnel.
“Major, the base must be protected at all costs. This is Department VII, the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, not some fool Waffen SS unit for you to command. Sonderkommando-H has authority here at NewSchwabenland. Do you understand, Herr Major?”
Kinnel turned away from the doctor and studied a security panel while he gathered his thoughts, “We have been charged to advance the science of the Reich, not propagate a witch hunt!”
“Lower your tone with me, Herr Major. I will not tolerate your emotional outbursts. You will force me to notify Berlin unless you control your temper and complete your duty,” said Gottwin.
“Herr Doctor, I will provide the security for the base, but you will keep your mystical friends at bay. They are a distraction and an unnecessary risk,” said Kinnel.
“The monk will not bother your duties. The men of the glove are obedient.”
“I should hope so, Herr Doctor, I should hope so.”
Inside a darkened tunnel, the walking tank crunched snow as it moved slowly, trudging past arch supports and the intermittent crimson service light. Behind the metallic creature, a shadowy figure with an emerald hue kept its distance, following the SS machine, daintily maneuvering around puddles of water, tailing the walking tank.
Corporal Marks turned with the corridor moving his feet along the edge of the tunnel’s wall. He stopped when the noise of advancing footsteps captured his hearing. The noise grew louder, resonating against his chest until the rapid beating of his heart drowned out the crunching noise.
It was a giant robot, a walking tank with a swastika on its chest. They had been discovered. Frantically raising his rifle, Marks fired two shots at the advancing hulk. The bullets bounced off, deflecting into the stone wall and down the corridor.
Corporal Marks was defenseless.
Fear gripped his throat. His feet felt heavy and time began to slow until he thought it had stopped. His first idea was to toss his rifle, try to crack the glass window in front of the soldier’s face, but his arms could not move. The Volkspanzer raised its right arm. The weapon on its wrist rotated before a muzzle extended from its surface. An electric charge sprung from the weapons interior and the weapon began to glow.
The mechanical monster’s arm recoiled and the weapon appeared to misfire. Corporal Marks fell to the ground clutching his abdomen. He reached into his chest cavity searching for his lungs, intestines, or any other organs, but they had been dissolved by the Volkpanzer’s sonic weapon. Created in an SS lab, the weapon vibrated the insides of the soldier liquefying his bowels and reducing them to quivering diarrheic conglomeration of unidentifiable parts. Marks’ eyes rolled back in his head. His body plunged to the stone surface where his head fell into a cold pool of water.
Sergeant Osborn watched his corporal fall silent and without hesitation, dropped to one knee, removing the bazooka from his back in the same move. He pulled off the muzzle cover and readied the weapon at the bend in the tunnel. The Volkspanzer made the turn and faced the sergeant. Osborn fired the bazooka: direct hit.
The magnetic shell from the bazooka launched at the creature. It plowed into the Volkpanzer’s chest, attaching to the machines surface like a black widow spider attacking its prey. Small tentacles protruded from the shell and attached themselves to the metal monster’s skin. An electric charge released causing the walking tank to stall, and then stop. The SS hulk tipped over; it was dead. The pilot was trapped. He tried to release the domed lid, but without power he was a nut in a shell.
Captain Tyler smiled for the third time today; the German wanted to be in that thing, and there he would stay: to die.
Back at the command center, Dr. Ernst Gottwin watched one of the corporal’s panels with curiosity. There were a dozen lights with names above each. Volkspanzer 3 had three of four lights in the red. Dr. Gottwin smirked.
The corporal was not as pleased, “Herr Major, the Volkspanzer has been destroyed!”
“Send another unit. I want another Volkspanzer in that tunnel immediately!” ordered Kinnel.
The skinny Doctor Gottwin turned to a map of the NewSchwabenland complex on the wall, “It is of little consequence, Herr Major. The Green Glove will eliminate your intruders. The Monk will not fail us”
Sergeant Osborn moved forward and signaled for the medic and the captain to follow. Johnson stepped over Marks’ body, kneeled to check his pulse, and moved on. As he stood up, he noticed the gaping cavity on the dead corporal. His innards had been reduced to a fistful of indiscernible parts. Johnson shook the image from his mind; at least the walking tank could not harm them the same way.
The sergeant moved a once lit cigar from the right side of his mouth to the other. The magnetic bazooka was back on his shoulder and a Thompson ’46 leveled down the corridor. The Sergeant walked gingerly, constantly checking to see if his captain the medic were close behind.
Down the corridor ran the disfigured body of Corporal Atkins. The Sergeant opened his mouth and the unlit cigar fell to the tunnels’s surface. Atkins had died in the water off shore. How did he get inside the complex?
“What is it Sergeant? What do you see?” asked Tyler.
“It’s Atkins, Sir. He’s alive. Alive, but badly injured!”
“He’s dead Sergeant. You saw his body float away. He was face down in the Atlantic. Lifeless.”
“I know that, Sir. But he’s here. Headed this way!”
Osborn thingyed his gun. If it was Atkins, if it’s him…
The bleeding figure stumbled as he ran, bouncing against the wet walls.
“Atkins! Atkins, is that you?” shouted Osborn.
“Turn Back! They have the others. Look what they did too me! My god, Look at me!” cried the withering body of Corporal Atkins. His face was carved out exposing tendons and nerves. Blood dripped along his flapping cheeks and one of his eyeballs hung from its optic nerve. The site of Atkins was repulsive. Sergeant Osborn’s stomach wrenched; he forced his throat to keep his lunch down.
“Shoot it, Sergeant! It’s not Atkins. Shoot it, damn you!” ordered Tyler.
Osborn fell against the stone wall. He couldn’t fire his weapon. It was one of his men, struggling to live, and using his dying breath to warn them to turn back. Osborn woke from his panic and pressed the sub-machine gun against his chest.
“I can’t do it, captain. I know it’s him.”
Corporal Johnson turned to the captain. The look of paralysis covered Johnson’s face. He stared at Tyler, overwhelmed with fear, “This is a science facility. What if the pulled the bodies out from the water and experimented with them?”
“We’ve only been here a few hours, Johnson. There hasn’t been enough time for that to happen! God damn-it! Get a hold of yourself!” ordered Tyler.
The sergeant pushed his way past Tyler and Johnson; he raced for the exit, leaving his comrades behind. Corporal Johnson ripped his arm form Tyler’s grip and followed his sergeant. Captain Tyler was left alone, alone in the tunnel with the decrepit body of Atkins headed his way. Tyler raised his Thompson ’46 and fired a round. It tore through the dilapidated soldier and ricocheted down the corridor, but the dying man continued as if he were an illusion, unaffected by the projectile.
“I knew it,” said Tyler. He pulled his Thompson against his chest and spun around. Without his men, he could not complete their mission. He picked up his feet and ran towards the blown hatch.
Gliding from the shadows, the Green glove slipped out of the darkest corners of the corridor and stopped where the American soldiers had last been. He picked up Osborn’s discarded cigar with his emerald glove and waved its aroma near his nostrils. The ornately dressed monk pushed aside his flowing orange robe and looked down the hall to where the light from the hatch was filtering in. He stood upright and walked back into the inner workings of the vast SS complex.
.