Grimderpshitfixed

On some distant level, the young man was aware he was screaming.

His world was a nightmare; a blazing maelstrom of violence and death. His sidearm barked in his hand, dropping charging figures he was only dimly aware were enemies. A tiny, almost insignificant part of him wondered if this was what going mad was like, but it was soon swallowed up by the desire – the need – to survive. Every sense, every muscle, every cell of his being was devoted at that moment to staying alive.

And to stay alive, he needed to kill.

And kill.

There were others like him, and together they fought, firearms chattering through the burning night. Dark figures speaking a language he did not understand died in droves before them but there were always more. One of the shapes next to him dropped with a wet gurgle as a bullet ripped through his throat; another fell scant moments later, the top of his head missing.

The young man charged.

He reached the line of figures unscathed, and, with bayonet knife in one hand and pistol in the other, began to carve his way through the indistinct figures that clustered around him. He stabbed one in the gut and unloaded the last bullets in his magazine into the face of another. He withdrew his knife and fell back as a gun butt smashed into his face. The blow was hasty and there was not enough power to drop the young man, so he snapped around and lunged at his attacker.

The taste of blood filled his mouth as he clamped down on the throat of the figure. Savagely, he wrenched his head back and felt himself roar as he lifted himself from the dying foe and towards his next victim, who backed slowly away from him, as if afraid of what he saw. The young man heard a shout, that strange language again, and suddenly his knife was no longer in his hands. Seconds later he was borne to the ground as one of the shapes wrapped his own digits around his throat and began to squeeze. The young man jammed his thumbs into the eye sockets of the figure and dug. The figure screamed and let go.

The young man did not.

Something tugged on his shoulder when the body began to twitch and the young man whirled around, fist raised and teeth bared in a snarl. He paused when he saw green eyes. Familiar eyes. Like his own. How he knew to stay his hand in his berserk state he would never be able to explain, but he did. Her mouth was moving but the young man couldn’t tell what she was saying. All he could make out was the gunfire, the explosions, the pounding of his own heart…

…and the screams.

***

The American waited in the dimly lit chamber with only a dull metal table and the equally dull metal chair he sat on for company. It was comfortably heated, but the man found he could barely suppress a shiver.

He knew why he’d been all but dragged here. Or at least, he suspected. The idea of revisiting the last forty-eight hours didn’t sit comfortably with him and he fidgeted, playing with the cuffs of his BDU as he waited for whomever it was who had called him to this cold part of Potsdam, Germany.

The grey-green door swung open suddenly and the soldier started, but managed to collect himself before the entrant could focus on him. He was wearing an impeccably tailored suit and a pair of shades; he appeared fairly young; not much older than Jones himself, and he exuded an air of complete and total calm and control. If this guy wasn’t Secret Service Jones would kiss an aviator. A Navy aviator.

‘Captain Sam Jones?’ the suit asked. Jones almost scoffed, the guy had to know who he was, but he caught himself before he could. Instead he nodded and tried to resist the temptation to drum his fingers on the table. He succeeded. Just.

The agent observed him for a moment and then sat down opposite him. He did so slowly. Was he trying to make a point? Trying to make him stew? Jones felt a brief surge of indignant anger. He’d done nothing wrong and fuck this guy and the horse he rode in on if he believed otherwise.

‘I wager you know roughly why you’re here?’ the suit asked, fixing Jones with a look the Captain believed was supposed to be friendly.

‘I think I do,’ he replied.

‘Care to share?’

Jones took a breath and exhaled, folding his arms against his chest as he did so. Maybe that’d alleviate the temptation to do something – anything – with his fingers.

‘Chorin.’

The suit nodded.

‘We have your after-action report of course but there are some details which I’ve been asked to clear up with you.’

Jones stared blankly at the suit, all discomfort forgotten. ‘You mean to tell me,’ he began slowly, ‘that you’ve brought me here, away from my unit, just to retell you what happened?’

‘Not everything Captain, just what happened when you arrived at Chorin.’

Jones chewed the inside of his lip before shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. The discomfort was back and it was going to get worse as he dove back into the memories of Chorin.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s really changed but if it makes you happy…’

THIRTY-SIX HOURS AGO

The helicopters roared through the burning night skies. Gunfire and explosions boomed in the distance like claps of thunder. Jets blasted and danced through the air, trading shots with each other, though there were far fewer now. Occasionally, smaller shadows darted in and out of visibility, concealed by the dark; witches in their strikers, flying and dying with their steelwing escorts to keep the skies over Berlin safe for the ground forces who were now grinding down on the dregs of the largest Soviet offensive since the start of the war.

Much of the fighting was done, Jones heard tell, though as in all things, Ivan proved persistent, and pockets of resistance plagued the advancing allied forces. Captain Jones expected he and his men would soon meet one such pocket at their destination. He didn’t relish the prospect.

‘We’re relieving a company of British Paratroopers,’ he said over the radio, informing the hundred and fifty odd men and women who made up his command. ‘C Company of the 3rd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment was ordered to Chorin to set up, dig in and hold until the Brits could bring in some heavier firepower. Last word out of Chorin was that they had successfully evacuated the village and made contact with a Soviet Guards unit. We’re going in to scope the place out. If all is well and the Brits are in one piece then we’re to relieve them. If not, then I guess we show Ivan his eviction notice.’

‘Why are we doing this?’ a female voice asked. One of the tank witches lent to him asked. She was hanging with her legs out of the Black Hawk, her strikers too bulky for her to sit comfortably in the confines of the helicopter, especially not with the full complement of troops loaded inside. She spoke with a cultured Southern accent, and possessed a bust so large she could only just squeeze into fatigues three sizes too large for her, which made her seem positively comical in comparison to her better tailored sisters-in-arms. ‘The Brits set up shop here and they promised their own relief right? So why are we here then?’

Jones didn’t begrudge her ignorance; the witches had been seconded to his company almost last-minute, something he was sure he’d be grateful for if it turned out they were running into a unit of Stalin’s finest and most fanatical.

‘The original plan was for the King’s Regiment to move up and support the Paras. Then Ivan went apeshit on Berlin and that support is now tied up putting down the many pockets of resistance along with a lot of other allied units. We were the only ones not doing anything in reasonable shape and reasonably close by so we got dealt the play.’

The Lieutenant nodded and then turned her gaze outside, leaning back on her arms as if bathing in the baleful orange glow of distant infernos. Jones noticed a number of his men watch her do so. He was half tempted himself but he was spoken for already, and Hannah had an uncanny knack for knowing almost whatever he did and said and looked at even from the other side of the world. He sighed and muttered something inane about magic and treacherous subordinates under his breath before turning his own attention to the burning outside.

They reached their DZ minutes later as the sun began to rise. Jones noted with some satisfaction that all his men were on the ground and had established a sensible perimeter along with their witch support within the span of half a minute. “Delta Force can eat their heart out,” the young Captain thought smugly as he gave the order for the company to advance in a staggered formation, with the witches, of whom there were six, moving along the left flank.

They reached the woods just due west of Chorin and advanced cautiously, each man and woman alert for traps or any glimpse of Russian soldiers. They saw nothing, but even as they advanced Jones couldn’t help but feel uneasy. His skin crawled, almost like…

‘We’re being watched,’ came the low, hushed voice of Sergeant Meyer, a solid, dependable soldier and one of the finest NCOs a man could go to war with, in Jones’ biased opinion. Jones froze, and that in turn made the others freeze. The effect was like tipping over a domino, and soon Jones’ radio was filled with confused questions and requests for orders.

‘You’re certain?’ Jones asked, crouching down to present a smaller target profile. Everyone else followed suit and began to scan the forest.

‘I…’ Meyer began, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know sir. I feel it sure as sure but as far as I can tell there’s nothing. It’s like… my eyes are telling me this place is empty but my body’s telling me someone’s got a bead on us.’

Jones said nothing, mulling over his thoughts. Eventually he decided. Meyer had never given him any cause to doubt him before. He wouldn’t start now.

‘Get low and keep your eyes sharp. I don’t think we’re alone in here.’

They waited five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Half an hour before Jones felt comfortable enough to move again. He couldn’t explain it. One moment he was as certain as his Sergeant was that they were deep in Indian country and then the feeling simply… passed. A look at Meyer told him the rough NCO experienced the exact same thing. They shared a grim look before Jones gave the order to move once again.

Mist began to fall as they advanced on Chorin; cloudy tendrils snaked through the undergrowth and wound around tree trunks like they had minds of their own, seeking to ensnare and pull the unsuspecting down into the earth to–

‘Sir? Snap out of it,’ Meyer hissed.

The Sergeant’s voice snapped Jones out of his daze and he realised that he was stood upright with his weapon slack in one hand, barely a stone’s throw away from the edge of the treeline. Any sharp-eyed shooter who was hunting Allied officers would have had a perfect opportunity, and Jones felt his face flush at his mistake. He could have died, could have gotten his people killed. Anyone who’d have seen him would surely have realised he could not be operating alone. “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” he chided over and over, forcing himself to remember his officer training; “A wandering head is a head soon ventilated,” one of his instructors had said, and Jones agreed; it was just common sense. It was this place; a tiny little voice said in the back of his head, it wasn’t right. Jones ignored it.

Jones said nothing for a moment, making sure he was back in the zone, with his head focused on the task – and the potential firefight – ahead of him. He owed it to his command to be as clear-minded as possible in case the worst happened. He took a few steadying breaths and played his fingers along the grip of his M16, feeling the reassuring weight of the weapon bring him back to peak. He nodded to himself, a fractional movement that only Meyer caught, and then turned to Meyer.

‘Spread the word,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘We’ll advance one platoon at a time, the rest will cover.

And so Jones’ command took their first steps into Chorin.

And into hell.

The first thing they noticed was the stench. The air was thick with an odour so cloyingly foul that it made a few men choke. Jones was one of them.

His subconscious mind immediately placed a few of the distinctive battlefield aromas; the first was cordite, and he wondered how much ammunition had been expended in this place to give such a strong scent of the stuff. The next was the acrid tang of combustion, and Jones’ stomach lurched as he realised that he could pick out what smelt almost like roasting pig fat.

Almost.

The final one was the most difficult, mostly because it had been so long since he’d been acquainted with it, but once he passed the first house he realised full well what it was.

Blood.

Oceans of blood.

‘Christ preserve us,’ Meyer muttered, the colour draining from his face.

Chorin was a graveyard.

Bodies lay strewn everywhere, many in the distinctive garb of the Soviet Guards, but more than a few wore the maroon beret of a paratrooper. Entire households had been chopped to kindling by massed, concentrated firepower, and more were simply burnt-out husks. Charred corpses greeted the Americans as they spread out and searched. One of the witches turned and was messily ill when she found what she had taken as the creaking floorboards of a family home was actually the carbonised remains of a squad of soldiers, only able to be determined by their blackened, ruined weaponry.

It was a grim, morbid sight, but as they approached the centre of Chorin it only got worse.

The bodies, particularly those of the Russian Guards, became progressively worse, as if they had been brutalised by the defenders. Jones saw bodies with eyes gouged out, torsos stabbed so many times they resembled meat puree, more evidence of incendiaries deployed, several corpses arranged as if they had been dragged to form a fleshy wall, some badly mauled bodies propped up over the cadavers of paratroopers – had they used these bodies as shields? How desperate was this fight to make civilised men stoop to such behaviour?

They came to a brick abbey, the church had been shelled by mortars and its roof had been blown completely open. Jones saw a few of his soldiers shake their heads at the sorry state of the old church, a few more made the sign of the cross, including the chesty witch lieutenant. The body of a witch greeted them by the entrance. Sat up against the wall, she stared ahead through sightless, green eyes. She had been shot in the gut five times; one of her strikers was a wreck while the other lay splayed out, dead and useless. The maroon beret sat atop her head, strangely unmarred by blood or grime of any sort. The unit of tank witches clustered around her body. From another country she may have been, but they were allies, and the death of a witch was a solemn event for any nation.

Jones plodded slowly into the abbey, his rifle held limply in both hands. Meyer and a small combat squad followed him in. The old abbey was no better a sight than the rest of Chorin was. Corpses adorned the interior like macabre decorations.

‘Crazy bastards wiped each other out,’ one soldier said, his voice soft. ‘There was what? A company here? Against how many fucking Russians? And they wiped ‘em all out to a man…’ The soldier, a Private Allen, sniffed and shook his head, at both the math and the horror if Jones was any judge.

The Captain turned his gaze towards the altar of the church; a hastily erected barricade of pews had been set up, and just as quickly knocked over as bullets ripped through it. A mound of corpses surrounded the altar, which made Jones think of paintings of the old crusades, of Christian knights fighting glorious last stands against the heathen Saracen hordes. Jones sniffed. There was nothing remotely glorious about this, he reflected bitterly.

Then a hand wrapped around his ankle.

Jones screamed as he was tugged into the pile of bodies. Instantly his senses were overwhelmed by the stench of death, thick and pervading and invasive. He struggled but another hand clamped around his throat even as the other released his ankle. He heard his men shouting behind him and clamouring to reach him. He felt fresh hands grab hold of him his assailant began to crush his throat and starve him of air.

A mighty tug and Jones was pulled free.

Along with his attacker.

The first thought that Jones had was that he was being attacked by a revenant. The figure was positively /caked/ with blood and grime, and he held a slender commando knife in one hand while the other reached for Jones’ throat. His green eyes were wild and bloodshot; possessed of a primal rage that chilled the blood and he snarled and bared his teeth like a savage predator.

A blur tackled him and it was only a second later that Jones realised he’d heard the bellowing war cry of Sergeant Meyer as he came to the rescue of his commanding officer. The pair rolled in the hill of bodies, wrestling for dominance. Meyer threw a vicious punch with his free hand, the other clasped around the knife-hand, but the revenant only renewed his assault and clamped its teeth down on the sergeant’s arm. Blood exploded from the puncture and Meyer roared in pain. The Sergeant head-butted the revenant twice and his nose gushed blood and, finally, he faltered. Sergeant Meyer withdrew his bitten hand and picked himself up and away from the figure, almost lashing out with a vicious kick but stopped himself before he could put any real force into it.

Jones in the meantime, had recovered his wits, and ordered one of the men who had simply stared slack-jawed at the sight to run for a medic. The others levelled their weapons at the prone figure, who clutched at his nose dazedly, including Meyer, who held his sidearm in his unhurt arm.

‘What the /fuck?/’ Private Allens breathed.

The figure tensed. Then, slowly, removing his hands from his bloody face, he took in the sight of the American soldiers. He stared at Allens, who fidgeted awkwardly under the revenant’s gaze, and then flitted his eyes over the others, then Meyer, and finally Jones himself. His eyes widened, as if he’d suddenly come to a realisation.

‘Not Russians…’ he breathed, his voice hoarse from fatigue and activity but it carried an unmistakable British accent. The act suddenly humanised him; and Jones saw now that this bedraggled figure was dressed in the fatigues of the C Company of the Parachute Regiment’s 3rd Battalion. He was also young, younger than Jones by far. “What has this poor boy seen in this place? What has he done?” Jones wondered to himself as one of his men helped him to his feet. The boy continued to stare at him. There was something unsettlingly familiar about his face, but Jones couldn’t place it for the life of him.

‘Meyer, help him up,’ Jones said. Meyer gave the boy a wary look before gently, slowly, extending an arm to help him up. The boy ignored it, instead picking himself up similarly slowly.

‘I’m–’ Jones began and stopped as his voice broke. He coloured and tried again, this time attempting to inject a note of care into his voice. ‘I’m Captain Mike Jones in the United States Army. We’re here to… well… we’re here to relieve you I guess.’

The boy didn’t reply. His arms hung limply at his side as he stared at Jones. Growing uncomfortable, Jones cleared his throat and tried again, ‘what’s your name uh,’ he paused, trying to discern the paratrooper’s rank but found none. A tag on the front of his fatigues read “Grayson”, ‘Grayson, right?’

The young paratrooper still didn’t respond, but he inclined his head a fraction, which Jones took as a yes.

Jones wrestled with his words for a moment before eventually, he gave up. ‘Grayson… what the hell happened here?’

Grayson blinked, and slowly turned his head, surveying the carnage on display all around the municipality. His gaze finally fell on the mound of bodies he’d ambushed Jones from; it was comprised mostly of paratroopers. Jones wondered what was going through the young man’s head as he took in the terrible sight of his comrades, his brothers, bloodied and dead and stacked on top of each other like a dread molehill.

Finally he removed, or tore his eyes from the mound of dead and looked back at Jones. His green eyes were hollow and empty, and did not focus even as he opened his mouth to speak.

‘We fought,’ he said, his voice a rasping whisper.

Silence reigned for a few minutes before Jones asked a lieutenant to radio for a medevac chopper. It was perfectly possible that there were still others alive in Chorin, perhaps hidden amongst the dead like Grayson. Before the lieutenant left, Jones asked Grayson, ‘Look, Grayson; is there anywhere we might find more of you? Survivors? Was there a fall-back position? Somewhere you’d go if holding the village proved impossible?’

‘No,’ Grayson said. When Jones asked the kid to elaborate, he got nothing but more silence.

Jones tried the question twice more before he gave up. He sighed heavily and motioned for Meyer to bring Grayson along with them, and when they stepped outside the abbey, he was grateful to hear that a medevac chopper was already airborne and close by, returning from another run, and that they would be at Chorin inside the next twenty minutes. Jones turned back to Grayson to let him know the good news and found him stood in front of the corpse of the witch.

Grayson made no sound or movement, simply standing, his eyes locked on the slack, deathly face of the witch. Jones took a few steps closer and then felt a stabbing pain in his heart as he noticed the name on the witch’s tag.

Grayson.

Now he realised, and he almost slapped himself for not realising sooner. The dead witch and this broken boy possessed a remarkably similar facial structure, sure, but it was the eyes that confirmed it. They were perfect mirror images even now. A morbid part of Jones marvelled at how much they looked alike even now; both were glazed and sightless and unfocussed.

‘Ah shit boy,’ he sighed. ‘I’m… fuck, I’m sorry.’

Grayson gave no indication as to whether or not he’d heard the Captain’s condolences. When he turned, his expression was even more forlorn and hopeless, if that were even possible.

A sudden squawk in Jones’ ear made him hitch his breath in surprise and he cursed his jittery nerves. This place was bad, and the sooner he and his were out of it the better. He cast Grayson a sideways glance. The kid was damaged that was certain, and Jones could scarcely imagine what the paratrooper must be feeling. It was pretty likely that he’d need years of therapy to repair what had been done to him here, and even then Jones somehow doubted it would be enough.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, pushing his shock to one side.

‘We’ve spotted the choppers sir; estimate they’ll be here in minutes.’

The medevac team. Good.

‘Appreciate the heads up soldier. Keep those eyes peeled though; last thing we want is for Ivan to sneak up on us,’ especially here of all places, he thought.

The medevac chopper touched down just outside Chorin, well away from the horror within. Jones noticed several groaning, wounded soldiers already inside the chopper as he helped Grayson on board. He gave the young man a comforting nod, but the poor guy seemed almost entirely oblivious to the world around him, and in the end, Jones watched the British trooper’s morose expression grow steadily more distant as the chopper flew with all haste back towards allied lines and a waiting hospital; and hopefully someone who could help Grayson sort out what remained of his mind.

***

Jones closed his mouth. The suit said nothing for a few moments, then, slowly, he stood up. ‘That about squares with your written report,’ he said, nodding. ‘I think we can wrap this up. Thank you for your time Captain Jones, I know it was… inconvenient.’ With that, he turned to leave but Jones stopped him.

‘If I may sir?’ Jones asked. The suit turned to regard him, an eyebrow cocked over those stupid shades he wore.

‘That kid, Grayson… I looked him up at a few allied medical facilities, you know, just to make sure he was doing alright but I couldn’t find him. Did he get out okay? Is he getting help?’

The suit regarded him for a moment and Jones swore he saw that stony expression soften for a moment. Then it was back again, and this time even harder.

‘Corporal Connor Grayson died on the flight back home Captain,’ he answered. The words knifed through Jones like blades of ice.

‘But…’ the Captain started, struck stupid by the information, ‘he… I–’

The suit sighed. He removed his shades with one hand to reveal a set of piercing, icy blue eyes which fitted Jones with a stare that seemed almost human.

‘The medevac team reported that Corporal Grayson started showing signs of severe internal bleeding minutes into the flight. He passed out and died shortly after. I’m sorry.’

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jones said shaking his head, still reeling. ‘He seemed… well not even close to fine but he definitely wasn’t dying.’

The suit sighed again. ‘From your description, it seems that Corporal Grayson was in a state of such shock that he perhaps didn’t know or didn’t care that he was suffering. It happens, as I’m sure you’re aware Captain Jones. Again, I’m sorry.’ He regarded the young officer for a moment. ‘We’re done here Captain. Thank you for your cooperation.’ And with that, the suit turned and exited the room, leaving Lieutenant Jones alone with his thoughts.