Blood War (The Bloodeaters Trilogy Book 1)

  Blood War

  Kevin Rees

  Blood War

  By Kevin Rees

  Book 1 in The Bloodeaters Trilogy

  Copyright © Kevin Rees 2014. All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  Cover design and formatting by JD Smith Design

  For Carol, as all my books shall be.

  “All mankind is divided into three classes: those that are immovable, those that are moveable, and those that move.”

  Benjamin Franklin

  “Death is better than slavery.”

  Harriet Ann Jacobs

  “I think we’re going to move from Homo sapiens into Homo evolutis: … a hominid that takes direct and deliberate control over the evolution of his species, her species and other species.”

  Juan Enriquez

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Camp 7 - Bialowieza Forest, Poland, 1944.

  Why can’t I just walk out of here and go home?

  It was a question that occupied Uwe Lodz’s every waking moment and intruded into his unquiet dreams. Still Uwe kept asking even when the answer lay in all directions around him and the obvious logic of his predicament didn’t dissuade him from his obsession. His suffering was made even more unbearable when he found he had been rostered onto the night watch again. He hated the tower. The hours dragged as slowly as boulders crossing a desert, while the biting cold chewed unmercifully on his bones. Those hardships he endured with some hot coffee and whispered curses that got him through the physical discomfort. It did nothing to dispatch the torture his mind exacted on him. He spent the solitary hours weaving hate and anger like eggs in a bowl until in the end there was no separation.

  Uwe ached with a physical pain when thinking of his family. It was inhumane. He should be with them instead of standing in a wooden box staring out into a black void. His wife had written him scented letters every week, but only two had found their way into this godforsaken camp in the last year. Then last month, all the mail stopped, leaving him desperately searching his memory to find a picture of her, and of little Lukas he could hold onto. Now even that small comfort was being worn away as he struggled to get a clear image of their faces. The memories that did come were out of focus and distant, while some had slipped quietly away like dead relatives after a long absence from life.

  Damn this war, he cursed inwardly. I will lose my sanity if this takes much longer for us to admit we are beaten. Damn Hitler, and damn that weasel Himmler!

  The few remaining guards were placing bets on who would find them first. The Russians were making swift advances from the east, crushing the retreating Wehrmacht as they went. The Americans were pushing in from two directions, sending everything they had to try and get to the spoils first. One of the men in Uwe’s hut gloomily assessed they may never be found given how deep in the forest they were. There were no roads or well-trodden paths to lead the enemy in, only a tortuous fifteen-mile trek through densely packed trees before any sign of the camp was visible. Even with the few horses requisitioned by their commanding officer it took almost two days to re-supply; that’s if the winter rains didn’t turn the only passable trail into a quagmire. From the air the camp was invisible to anyone, unless the luck of their gods was with them. It was entirely cocooned by nature and surrounded by hundred-year-old, giant oaks, and other ancient trees. The SS were heavily invested in the camp, measured by the amount of blood spilled in their ruthless determination to keep it one of the greatest secrets of the war.

  The men and women drafted to the camp were the finest minds Germany possessed. Their value to the Americans and Russians was incalculable. If Berlin fell and the Fuhrer was captured, they would need all these scientists and engineers to re-build a stronger, mightier Germany. The SS were already drawing up secret plans for a new war fought with advanced weapons. These new weapons, Uwe was told, would include bombs so powerful they could decimate cities and bring nations to their knees. Finally, the world would submit and pledge allegiance to the new Fourth Reich.

  ‘Schieße!’ Uwe needed a piss and the bucket was already full with a layer of ice barring any further deposit. Something else to curse, he thought. The last watch didn’t even think of poor Lodz stuck in this tower for nine, long hours. Lazy bastards.

  Uwe pulled over an ammunition box and stood on it. It was just high enough for him to urinate over the wall of the tower. He fumbled urgently with the buttons of his trousers and reached inside, wishing immediately he had warmed his hands. A strong stream arced over the wooden panels, sending clouds of cabbage-smelling steam up into the frigid air. Uwe pushed on his bladder to finish the job quickly, not wanting a frostbitten penis to fuel the amusement of his comrades. Around him, the four towers creaked and groaned together as if they too were tired of the Polish winter. Uwe stood with his eyes half-closed listening to the timber sing and felt the wooden structure sway slightly.

  Even when pissing Uwe was alert, and it was an unfamiliar sound in the trees that caused him to freeze with his penis still held tenderly in his hand. He listened hard for it again as the last dribbles of urine soaked onto his leg. Uwe swore and quickly stuffed the freezing member back inside the damp trousers. His hands moved quickly up the buttons of his flies while he squinted out at the moonlit trees standing rigid like gigantic monoliths. He ran through a catalogue of familiar sounds he’d heard around the camp, trying to gauge what it could be. Then the noise came again over to his left. Uwe’s breath enveloped his head in a cloud as he sensed eyes watching him. He stepped slowly off the ammunition box, keeping his eyes fixed to the spot where the sound came from. He felt some relief when the slim wooden barrier stood between him and whatever was out there. Uwe reached out his hand and found further reassurance from the smooth wood of his weapon. It must be animals, he reasoned. A deer, or a boar maybe?

  The tree line had been cut back two-hundred-and-fifty metres all around the perimeter, giving little cover to anyone foolhardy enough to launch an assault. The camp was built in the centre of the cleared area with high guard-towers at each compass point. The towers were joined together on all sides by twenty interwoven strands of razor wire that curved inwards at the top to make escape very hard for those thinking of trying. At ten metre intervals along the top strand, orange markers had been placed to help the guards range their weapons to the correct distance.

&n
bsp; The construction of the camp had been completed in three weeks by hundreds of Polish slave workers. The centre was cleared first, allowing the SS to move their key scientists and engineers in from German-occupied areas of Europe. The labour force cut down swathes of trees, turning the timber into building materials for new huts that replaced the worn tents erected as temporary accommodation. The Poles toiled for eighteen hours a day and were treated poorly for their efforts. Many suspected when they were no longer needed it was going to end badly for them. A secret the SS wanted kept meant everyone involved with the camp would be a liability.

  The guard towers had a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of view and overlapping kill zones. Stakes had been sunk into the ground with orange ribbon like those on the fence to help the gunners accurately navigate the distance up to the tree line. Himmler himself came to inspect it, praising the commandant for his efficiency. For his entertainment the guards were ordered to put on a show by firing close to live targets picked at random from the assistants and minor engineers brought with the scientists. It was also a subtle demonstration of the futility of escape, and a reminder of their loyalty to Germany.

  The machine gunners were told to miss by inches. Everyone did. Although a ricochet did kill one promising young chemical engineer, much to the amusement of Himmler. He wanted to inspect the body and have a picture taken with his gun pointing at the dead boy as if he had killed him personally. All the guards thought he was such a little shit.

  Uwe pulled the stock of the gun tightly into his shoulder as the trees in front of him began to shake violently. ‘Just an owl hunting,’ he repeated to himself. On many nights, just like tonight, he had stood looking out of his frozen box and come close to shitting himself as a ghostly white face glided silently out of the darkness straight towards him.

  Uwe sucked in his breath again as another noise rode the still night air. This time it sounded like something much bigger was shuffling in the clearing. His hand shot to the switch on his searchlight. Uwe pointed the powerful beam at the trees praying he would see an animal. The guard in the east tower must have heard it too as his light began tracking to the same spot. They began to merge their lights on one group of trees. Uwe had to force himself to breathe slowly. He was relived Jens had heard the sound as well. He was one of the best soldiers Uwe had served with, and a very accurate gunner. If the enemy were creeping towards the camp they would rain hell down on them. Jens started to sweep the perimeter to the right, signalling with his light for Uwe to go left. Seconds later, Uwe heard the familiar click-clack of well-oiled metal being primed on the MG42 in Jens’s tower. It was rapidly followed by a five-second burst of gunfire. Tracers lit the path of the lethal hail of bullets, blasting holes in the darkness like angry fireflies. Then, dead silence again. Uwe scanned the area with his light.

  Oberst Glöckner ran out of his billet, immaculate as ever, with his pistol drawn and a look of incandescent rage on his face. He had ordered firing kept to a minimum to avoid compromising their existence.

  ‘Fuchs, how many are out there?’ he demanded, as he ran to the tower. ‘Answer me, man!’

  Uwe cocked his weapon and swung it round to cover the fire zone with Jens. Between them, they were formidable and could hold off an attack for as long as there was ammunition. He glanced to his right and made out the silhouette of tower. He’d heard Glöckner shouting up to Jens and wondered why his friend hadn’t replied. Something wasn’t right. Uwe began to feel a familiar tingling in his scalp, which rapidly spread through his body like a destructive cancer. He gripped his weapon tightly to stave off the shake beginning to affect his hands. Come on, man, he screamed to himself, trying to wrestle control back from the fear. Uwe came off the gun and shook his hands hard before placing the stock firmly back against his shoulder. This wasn’t the panic of an impending attack, it was something much older, a truth buried deep in the minds of all children and then lost over time. Uwe was facing that truth again — there really was something terrible in the dark.

  He glanced quickly over at the other tower again. It was backlit by the creamy light of the moon illuminating the roof and guard area. Why didn’t he see Jens? The gun he should have pressed tightly to his shoulder with his finger on the trigger was pointing towards the heavens. It was unthinkable for his friend to abandon his post and leave his gun. And why had he not answered Glöckner, who was still bellowing like an arrogant ape?

  ‘Herr Oberst,’ Uwe shouted down to Glöckner, ‘it’s Lodz. I think something has happened to Fuchs. I can’t see him. His weapon looks unmanned, sir.’

  He heard Glöckner run up the steps of the tower, cursing and shouting threats of a firing squad.

  Uwe reached over his gun to aim the searchlight onto the eerie black trees that had changed from being a natural camouflage from the enemy to an inescapable barrier. He heard several of the guards below cocking weapons, and the voice of the cook trying to reassure the horses, who began to pace nervously and snort. Young Rolf appeared in the tower, white-faced and silent. He began opening ammunition boxes and draped himself in long belts of bullets. Somehow, Uwe felt, having this boy with him took away some of the dread, but it did nothing to take away the feeling he was not going to see his wife and child again.

  Then suddenly out of the dark, a single bubbling scream reached Uwe through the freezing air. It came from Jens’s tower, and it nearly caused Uwe’s finger to reflexively press down on the trigger. It sounded as if a man was gargling in falsetto. Then the scream was abruptly cut off. In that moment, Uwe knew Glöckner was dead, and so was his friend. He turned to Rolf who stood immobile with a belt of ammunition half around his neck. The look on the boy’s face was as terrifying as the scream. It took all the discipline Uwe had left to ignore him and swing the machine gun around to cover the tower. As he stared down the barrel, something fluttered in the still air with the sound of dry leaves being crunched underfoot. His finger curled around the trigger, putting on slight pressure as he tensed for the recoil. The silent wait ended as something grey caught the edge of the tower and glistened in the moonlight. Uwe’s finger completed the action. The gun erupted, making a sound like ripping cloth as his bullets tore the grey object into pieces. Rolf leant over, preparing to load another belt. Uwe could feel the reassuring weight of the boy’s body press on his shoulder as he prepared to feed the gun. Uwe fired short, controlled bursts into the tower, which splintered and started to smoke as his tracers brought their searing heat to the wood. Uwe stopped, waiting for Rolf to reload. Instead of bullets, a spurt of liquid hit the hot barrel as if Rolf had thrown a cup of water onto it. Uwe tried to make sense of the sound and the unusual smell curling around his tower. He tensed, waiting and sighting down the gun, horribly aware that the pressure of the boy’s body had left him. Then more liquid began to flow down his cheek and onto his coat. Uwe knew whatever had happened to Rolf was about to happen to him. Fear turned a key, locking every muscle in his body. Uwe saw with exquisite clarity that his last moments would be spent in this tower, surrounded by a forest that had come alive with something evil.

  When his death came, Uwe didn’t feel anything other than a spreading coldness, greater than he had ever experienced in this godforsaken place. He didn’t even feel the deep, penetrating entry just below his left shoulder blade. The gift death gave him was the sound of his wife and child’s laughter filling his ears until it began to mix with screams coming from below. Then wonderfully, everything became silent and he could see their faces clearly as if they were standing in front of him. Uwe saw his wife Elsa, with her golden freckles and corn-blue eyes mirrored in his beautiful son Lukas. He smiled. At least, he thought he was smiling, as everything was numb. Even the intense cold had left his body. In Uwe’s final moments a part of his brain that hadn’t received the message to die was focussing on something curious. A bloody hand was sticking out of his chest with strips of his shredded heart embedded in long, ragged fingernails that looked, to the dying man, like a spear made of flesh. His br
ain assured him he laughed at the absurdity, until a voice that sounded like his wife told him to let go. He was happy to, and began sinking into a dark hole with a small white dot at end. As darkness encircled him, Uwe was very thankful there wasn’t any pain.

  1

  London - 2019

  The cosmic truth was this. There came a point in everyone’s life — even in Mother Theresa’s or Gandhi’s — when they asked themselves the fundamental question: what was the fucking point of living? Maybe Gandhi and MT hadn’t quite phrased it like that, but Eddie Keagan had reached a place where the question wouldn’t go away and was humping his leg for attention.

  He squatted, searching his rucksack for cigarettes and a lighter. He found a crumpled pack with squashed tips peeking out on his first sweep. Screw them all, he thought, they could wait. He badly craved a cigarette before going through the “Pavlovian” glass doors with their continual “swish-swash” every time someone walked within ten feet of the sensor. It didn’t matter that the cigarette was just his excuse to delay the inevitable. He didn’t care if the nicotine promised a nice, neat shave of about five minutes off his life. When you felt like shit all the time death was fast becoming a plus. Eddie balanced the rucksack on one of the suppository-shaped concrete bollards lining the entrance. On it, an eloquent one-word street poem was spray painted in vibrant red declaring the service inside was “SHIT”, with an arrow pointing to the door. He couldn’t argue with its eloquence and went back to his bag.

  Eddie continued to poke around, finding only the socks he’d carefully packed with their sordid little secrets. The socks were as comforting as a lifejacket in a storm and just about holding his head above water. He let his hand linger on the thick wool with a touch that was almost caressing in its gentleness and in return received a soothing reassurance. Five of the socks contained miniature bottles of vodka with two good slugs apiece. The sixth had mouthwash in it, the strongest he could buy and guaranteed to take the roof of your mouth off if you didn’t spit after thirty-seconds. It was overkill — Eddie knew — and most probably the mouthwash was more noticeable than the vodka.