CHAPTER 83

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The morning of the 15th of May, 1945, on the edge of the Barnim Forests, near Berlin.

Hilda stood for a minute outside the front door of their little cottage. She breathed in the cool air of the early summer morning. She could smell the dampness of the leaves, wafting from the forest just a few hundred yards from their back door. There was the fresh brightness of a day that would soon turn warm and beautiful. She breathed again, tasting the air carefully. No, she couldn't smell any of the bad smells. She could smell the leaves. She could smell the grass, the cows and the faint smell of the chicken coop. She could not smell the smells that had drifted towards them from Berlin in the previous weeks. The smells of smoke and death.

Hilda was a stoutly built young woman. In her thirties, she was solid in all proportions, and she carried that distinctly beautiful construction that was the birthright of many Germans and their kin. Her hips were wide and fertile, her breasts full and round. Those hips had never known, nor ever would, those breasts had never known, nor ever would, the tasks of bearing and feeding children.

She cast a glance towards the milking shed. Otto stood at the door. He, too, was looking towards Berlin. He, too, seemed distracted and curious.

Otto was tall. Not as tall as her own impressive height of six feet and four inches, but very close. He was older than she was by a decade, his dark hair completely receded at the top of his head to reveal his shining crown. He had tried, so very hard, to give her children. But, he had failed. She loved him, though. He was kind and gentle. He would have been ageless, she thought, but for the strain that their childlessness had put on him. She doubted he really cared, not from his own heart. All Otto cared about were his cows, his reading, and his Hilda. But it goaded and guilted him that he could not bring a child into the world for his wife. And it aged him.

He turned and saw her then. Their eyes met and there was as much love there as there had ever been when he was a man of thirty, she a girl on the threshold of twenty. He smiled at her and, in that moment, he was the most handsome creature she had ever seen, pot-belly and all. Then he turned and went into the milking shed, a metal pail in each hand. War, or no war, cows had to be milked.

Hilda turned as well, towards the chicken coop, a basket hanging from the crook of her arm. War or no war, eggs had to be collected, and chickens had to be fed.

Hilda walked around the side of the cottage. They had a crude gravel path leading to the dirt yard behind the house. The dirt yard was bordered on one side by their house, on another by the milking shed and on the third side by the chicken run.

Hilda walked towards the chicken hutch, the gravel crunching in the dew dampness beneath her feet. She was distracted and thoughtful, as one could not help but be when they lived only a few hours walk from the end of the war in Europe. She was so distracted that she did not see the damage to the chicken-fence until she walked right up to it.

Hilda paused, hands on ample hips, and stared at the wire netting that surrounded the chicken run. It had been torn open. There was no sign of digging or scratching. She looked a little more closely and saw that the fence had been ripped in one clean sweep.

‘What in the world?’

She stepped closer but she could discern no clear marks on the ground.

‘What could have done this?’

Hilda considered going back for Otto. She decided against it. He would have started milking now and it would distress the cows to interrupt the process. Besides, what did she really expect had done this? And did she really expect that it was still here? She sighed sadly, fully certain that all that awaited her inside the coop was a selection of chickens ranging from dead to deader.

She placed the basket on the ground and reached for the yard brush. Holding the brush in front of her she advanced on the chicken coop. This was no frightened maiden. Her face was set in an expression of firm determination.

Hilda paused again outside the door. The ground here was wetter and muddier. Rain and dew regularly ran from the roof of the coop and gathered on the ground. It was a problem she was continually nagging Otto about. Right now, she could see a track in the mud. It was a smeared print. It was the shape of a small human foot.

Hilda again considered going for Otto.

She opened the door and pulled it gently back, the brush held before her as both shield and weapon. She was greatly surprised by two of the things that her eyes told her. The first things to surprise her were all the feathered shapes, perched reasonably contentedly, very much alive. Not even a little dead.

As surprising as this revelation was, the next one was far more shocking. Sitting amongst the dirt and straw, on the floor of the coop was a little boy. He was naked but for a filthy pair of underpants. The boy was maybe five years old. That was as much as she could tell in the dim light of the shed.

‘What?’ She said it to herself, not to him.

In a shaft of white morning light, she could see his face quite well as he raised it to look at her. His eyes were both frightened and interested. There was a plaintiff loneliness there as he looked into her face. She didn't need to think too hard about the events that led up to this moment. Thousands were dead in Berlin. Three armies had battled in this country in the last weeks and months. Orphaned children running wild would possibly become a common sight.

Orphaned children were not her concern. For now, her only concern was this one little boy.

She beckoned with an open hand and stepped backward through the door, opening it more widely. ‘Come on. It's okay.'

As the light increased with the widening door, she could see a little more of him. He was ghostly pale, pale enough to match the white plumage of the birds perched above him.

He watched her, uncertainly. He did not shy away, but he did not move towards her.

‘It’s okay,’ she said again. ‘I have food in the house. You look hungry.’

This seemed to pique his interest and he crawled forward on the straw. She caught glimpses of marks and lumps on his body, but the light was still too poor. He paused inside the door, looking up at her. His expression captured the pitifulness of every lost puppy that had ever been born and Hilda’s heart swelled with a need to help him.

‘I won’t hurt you, I promise.’

He considered this very carefully, still not moving any further.

‘And I have food…’

That spurred him into motion again and he came to his feet and walked into the light.

Hilda gasped when she saw his body exposed to the full honesty of daylight. He was emaciated. He looked like a doll made from twigs. His skin was covered with cuts and scars. There were surgical implants all over his body, things she expected were used for attaching tubes to. His body was littered with these scars and attachments. Even his bony spine was dotted with signs of old incisions.

Hilda dropped to her knees in front of him and, without even thinking about it, reached an arm out to touch his shoulders. The boy looked at her hand in shock and confusion. It was as though he had forgotten, or maybe had never even known, a tender touch. Then he looked back up at her and tears welled in his eyes before rushing down his face. Hilda took this as permission to draw him into an enveloping embrace. She held him close to her bosom and he instinctively buried his head in her shoulder. She could feel his body shaking with sobs.

‘It’s okay now,’ she said. ‘It’s okay now. No-one will hurt you here.’

He continued to press himself into her embrace and she kept holding him. As she did this, a thought crept into her mind. This was only part true. The thought had leaped into existence the second she saw him sitting in the straw, the second she had thought of the orphaned children the war had created. It grew now until there was no way to suppress it. Otto would not protest, or at least not very much.

She voiced the thought. She said, ‘Would you like to stay with us?’

The little boy stopped crying and slowly, gently, pushed himself far enough out of her embrace to look her in the eye. She tried to hold him close but somehow his withered limbs overpowered her grip with ease. It was briefly disturbing.

She said, ‘Would you like to live here? Milk cows, keep chickens? It’s safe. It’s warm. We have food.’ She didn’t add the last incentive, but he understood it and she knew he did. We have love, too.

The little boy nodded and threw himself back into her arms. She hugged him close, not nearly as amazed at the situation as she was at her own insane impulse to take this strange boy into her home.

She spoke, into the air more than to the boy, ‘It’s decided. Otto won’t mind. You’re one of us now. Now, you’re a Stryker.’

CHAPTER 84

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Leaving the settlement in the mountains came with a genuine tinge of regret for Ardia. The people there had not been what she had expected. Ardia, well accustomed to dealing with undesirables as part of her career with Razmik, had expected the product growing settlement would be populated by a certain kind of person. Instead, she had found that the people there were of a liberal, communal mindset. They lived there, in the mountains, in perfect isolation, because they wanted to be separate from the restrictions imposed in other parts of the country. The settlement, somehow, radiated an air of idyllic peace. There was something faintly utopian about the place.

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Before they left, the settlers there had insisted they eat with them. The meal had been simple. The experience had not. Ardia had found herself immersed, as she sat at the huge communal table, in what felt like a family dinner. Little Hassan was the only child, and every adult there doted on him.

As they had loaded up the pickup truck that the settlers provided, Ardia had felt a deep pang at the sincerity with which Hassan had asked her to help Metis. He cared for her. She understood, from speaking with both Arafa and Slayer, that Metis had used her abilities to compel Arafa and others to supply her with basic necessities. Yet, somehow, they didn’t mind. Ardia left them with the impression that Arafa and Hassan, amongst others, would continue to help Metis even if she no longer used her powers to instruct them. There was a kind of kinship between Metis and the settlement. The settlers wanted the freedom to live and learn and love independently of the social rules in the rest of Chad. Metis, too, wanted freedom of a sort.

As they drove away, Homer and Ardia sitting in the bed of the truck, the others in the cab, Ardia watched the receding figure of Hassan and Arafa. The duo stood at the fringe of the settlement, watching them go. Arafa was still and serious. Hassan was exuberantly waving after them. Ardia reached a place of fierce determination then. Helping Metis was something they were doing because Damien had insisted they do it, because he felt responsible for her new vulnerability, and because they were the only ones who could help. More than that, this was also an opportunity to face off against some form of the shadowy power that had been pursuing and blocking them thus far. For all of that, Ardia suddenly found herself motivated by a greater urge. She wanted to do it for the little boy who cared so intensely for the strange woman that lived in the mountains. She wanted to do it so his little heart wouldn't break. He had made her promise and she could not bring herself to imagine breaking a promise to such a perfectly sincere and pure little being.

When they reached their destination, the group had transformed somewhat. Homer had shed most of his clothes, retaining only a pair of shorts. He seemed more at ease than before. He was free to move, his prehensile feet were no longer constrained by the crude shoes he had been wearing in front of the settlers. A shadow of hair was returning to cover his naked flesh. It was not long enough yet to obscure the blocky muscles that were attached to him at every angle and he was both the most spectacular human figure that could be imagined, and not human at all, as he stood up in the bed of the stationary pickup.

The others all carried rifles, side arms strapped in holsters. They all wore body armor. They had become battle ready warriors at Damien Slayer’s insistence.

There was no armor that could fit Homer, though he did not seem interested. Ardia mentioned to Raz that this might be something they could try to address, that maybe he could mention this to the tailor he planned to use to make suitable clothes for Homer's outrageous figure. There was a furtive delight in Razmik's eyes when he contemplated the idea of a bulletproof Homer barreling towards helpless opponents.

They dismounted from the truck and looked up the slope to the cave entrance. A huge male lion sat stationary at the entrance.

‘He belongs to her,’ Slayer said. ‘He’s no threat to us.’

Homer guffawed slightly, ‘He is no threat to us, anyway.'

Slayer glanced up and down Homer’s imposing form and nodded an agreement.

‘What should we expect?’ Ardia asked.

Slayer said, ‘Just stay calm. We're not too many for her, not for a short time. Stay quiet and try not to get too excited. Stressful or energetic thoughts are harder for her to shield and we don't want to set her off. Come to the mouth of the cave with me, let her see you. Let me go forward for a start. That way she can tell you to back off, if she needs to.'

Razmik patted the heavy kevlar vest on his chest and said, ‘And you still can’t tell us why we need to be ready to take on half of Chad?’

Damien looked sideways at him and said, ‘It’s not Chad I’m worried about.’

Ardia said, ‘Then what?'

He shook his head, ‘If I knew, I’d tell you. It’s a feeling I’ve got, but it’s not intuition. It’s a feeling Metis has given me.’

‘We should have brought some more of my boys,' said Razmik, a faint flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He was the coolest man in the world because he was always in control and always prepared. The unknown was one of the few things that could thoroughly disturb him.

Slayer shook his head, ‘We're pushing it with the numbers as it stands. If we overload her defenses… We don't want to set her off.'

None of them bothered to ask what that might entail. They started up the slope towards the cave. The sunlight was very strong. They had all applied sunscreen, with the exception of Homer. His exposed skin was a concern to Ardia in the strong African sun, but he had refused the cream. His dark, grayish skin did not seem troubled by the sunlight.

The group came to stop at the entrance to the cave and Damien proceeded into the cool interior. They could see the frail shape of Metis sitting on her rock by the tranquil pool. As Slayer approached, she slowly raised her head to look at him. Though Abraham and Razmik could not see it, the sharp eyes of both Homer and Ardia were able to discern a weak smile spreading on her face.

‘You came,’ she said. Her voice was not strong and the words did not carry clearly beyond Slayer to the others. Along with the words came a psychic echo that they could receive.

Slayer said, ‘Of course I did. I’m so sorry, Metis. This is all my fault.’

‘My brother…', was all she said. The meaning was clear in it, she did not allocate blame to Slayer, but to someone else.

Slayer said nothing, the two shared the same space in peace for a moment. Then Metis waved a bony arm past him, towards the others. She said, ‘Others…’

Slayer said, ‘Can you handle them? They’ll understand if you need them to back off.’

‘They can be closer…’

Slayer beckoned the group and they approached. Abraham remained at the entrance to the cave. He stood opposite the lion and nearly as stationary. The two of them, the lion and the veteran soldier, were a remarkable pair. Each was ready, each guarding their masters.

Razmik wasted no time and said, ‘What should we be expecting?’

‘They’re coming, very soon,’ Metis said in reply.

‘Yes,’ said Razmik. ‘But who is coming?’

‘Troy is coming. Zeus is coming. Not Troy and Zeus. They are sending.'

Razmik looked at Slayer and his slanted eyebrows already indicated exhaustion.

Slayer smiled the way the parent of a toddler might smile before translating the child’s babbling noises. Slayer turned to Metis and said, ‘Who are they sending?’

‘And who are they, Zeus and Troy?’ Ardia interjected with poorly suppressed urgency.

Metis’s head lolled a little from side to side. She said, ‘Troy’s are worse for me, Zeus’s worse for you.’

‘Who are they, Metis?’ Ardia asked again.

‘Makers,’ Metis said.

Slayer looked at Ardia with sudden interest. He turned back to Metis, ‘Makers of you?’

Metis said, ‘Makers of many. Makers of each other. Of one.’

‘Did they make you?’

‘Not they. They don’t… They’re not… Troy makes first, then Zeus makes. They make alone.’

‘They’re not together?’ Ardia asked, brow furrowed in confusion and concentration.

Metis released a short bark of laughter. The laughter had echoes of madness to it, but also a childlike honesty. She said, ‘Once. Once together. No more.’

‘Why is it funny?’ Slayer asked.

Ardia became aware of Homer stiffening where he stood. A heartbeat later, she detected the sound as well. The distant, but approaching, buzz of helicopter blades.

Metis seemed to become aware as well and her face suddenly became gripped in panic. ‘They come.’

Razmik turned to the others and said, ‘Homer, you better get out of here. The rest of us can use the mouth of the cave as a defensive position. You won’t be much use in here, get out there and get hidden. Then get close.’

‘No trees,’ Homer said sadly as he turned to go.

‘Wait!’ Metis said sharply, urgently. She was suddenly and briefly coherent, ‘Stop Troy’s men. Kill them. They stop me. I can’t… He’s changed them. I can’t touch their minds, I can’t concentrate if they’re near. He built them for me. Zeus’s are worse, but not for me. There’s no chance until Troy’s are stopped.’

As soon as she stopped talking, her head rocked back on her neck as though she had been shot. She slumped on the rock in a sudden spasm.

Slayer said, ‘Shit. That's not good. She's losing it.'

‘You said we wouldn’t be too much for her,’ Ardia said.

‘We’re not. It’s the helicopter. She said as much. Whoever is coming has some ability to defeat her. If she can’t keep a handle on herself then this could get very dangerous for us.’

‘I have the feeling,’ Razmik said, turning towards the mouth of the cave, ‘that this is going to get very dangerous for us one way or the other.’

They ran to take up positions. Ardia planted herself behind a large boulder a few feet in front of the cave mouth. Abraham took cover behind a similar rock a few yards in front and to the left of her position. Slayer and Razmik used the actual walls of the cave mouth for cover. Homer, glumly, ran out into the rock-strewn wilderness and, despite his despondency at the lack of foliage, was able to quickly disappear.

The lion turned slowly, gracefully, and walked back into the cave.

The landscape before them was rugged, uneven and rock-strewn. The ground sloped down and away from them. The sound of whirling blades and engine noise grew louder but the mountains blocked the approaching enemy from sight until the last moment. Then, they appeared, flying low. Not one helicopter, but two. Ardia looked to Abraham and they locked eyes.

Ardia shouted to Razmik, ‘Are we just going to start shooting? Do we try and talk?’

Slayer answered for him, ‘The way Metis seems to feel about them… I don’t think talking is going to be much of an option.’

They watched the helicopters land precariously a few hundred yards away. Abraham produced a pair of binoculars and pointed them towards the helicopters and the group of figures that were dismounting. He stared hard through the lenses for a few seconds. When he brought the binocs from his face, his expression was dazed.

‘What is it?’ Ardia said. She kept her voice low because the men had made no indication that they were aware that they were present.

Abraham shook his head. He tossed the binocs to her. She caught them without leaving the concealment of her cover and peered through them at the group of men.

There were at least a dozen men. They were all armed with automatic rifles. They all wore heavy combat armor and helmets. This was worrying. These men had them heavily outnumbered.

What was more worrying were the men themselves. Their postures were wrong. They stood, completely stationary. There was no shuffling, no shifting. The men stood like statues when they weren’t moving. It was not a disciplined lack of unnecessary movement. It was something else.

As they turned, almost as one, and started to move towards the cave, Ardia tried to focus on their faces. Her own sharp eyes, augmented by the powerful lenses of the binoculars, could examine their faces in detail, even at this great distance. What she saw disturbed her.

Their faces were blank. The expressions were slack. Some of the men walked with their mouths hanging open, tongues lolling. Others walked with drooping mouths, like drunks. The eyes of all of the men were empty and staring.

‘What the fuck?’ Ardia breathed. She looked over at Abraham and he returned her questioning gaze with another.

She looked back through the binoculars and examined the men again. They had closed a few dozen yards. She saw the other details then. The zombie faces were explained. Many, if not all of the men, bore scars on their foreheads. The scars were ugly. On some of the men, the scars were simply freshly stitched incisions.

She looked back at Abraham and said, ‘Holy shit.’

‘What?’ he hissed back at her.

‘They’ve… Abe... I think they’ve all been lobotomized.’