William Dietrich: Blood of the Reich

Rominy seized the base of the IV pole and hurled it at their tormentor. On the bed one of Sam’s arms jerked as an IV needle pulled out, the needle and its medical tape writhing at the end of its tubing. There was an arc of blood spatter across the walls of the room, while the crimson on the floor spread like an oil slick. A phhttt as a silenced bullet went by, whapping into a wall, but the distraction of the fallen pole had worked to make the Nazi miss. Kalb reared up on one leg to take better aim. Rominy flung the bucket at her and lunged.

The German shrieked as she was peppered with droplets of Sam’s blood, slapping the bucket away. “Filth!” she roared.

Then Rominy dove into her as the German fired again, the bullet shredding air next to the American’s ear. Ursula fell hard, grunting, her gauze mask ripped away. They rolled in the blood, the German’s eyes wide with terror and hatred. A trolley and a chair crashed. They lurched upright, clawing, and wrestled against the window and its blinds. Then they slipped in blood and went down again with grunts.

“You killed my lover!” Ursula screamed.

My God, which one? Jake, or the hideous Kurt Raeder?

“He wanted your genes! Now I kill you!”

They were fighting for the gun. Another shot, somewhere into the ceiling. Would anyone ever come? Or had hospital personnel agreed to leave the corridor outside Sam’s room empty while The Fellowship struck back? How deep was the conspiracy?

The German woman was immensely strong. She was twisting her gun wrist out of Rominy’s grasp, getting ready for a final shot.

“So we’ll get your blood this way! I’ll drain you into that pail!”

Rominy’s other hand was scrabbling. It closed on a cloth and she realized it must be the anesthetic. She swung and slapped it over Ursula’s mouth.

The German writhed like a snake as Rominy clamped her nose. More shots thudded into the wallboard, each puncture puffing a geyser of powder. Ursula kicked, her yells muffled. The women twisted across the floor in demented embrace, soaked and straining.

Finally, the pistol fell with a thud. Kalb’s movements slowed, becoming feeble. Then, she stilled completely.

The monster was unconscious.

Rominy shakily stood, leaving the cloth over the German’s mouth. She scooped up the pistol, trembling but efficient, functioning now with grim determination. The pistol was an automatic with trigger, hammer, and a safety, she saw. Should she shoot? A quick execution of an impostor and murderess?

No. There was more fitting revenge.

Rominy tucked the weapon in the white belt of her bloody uniform. Who knew when some skinheads might burst through the door? She wouldn’t hesitate to fire if they did. Her days of being squeamish about firearms were over.

“This ends, now.”

She went to Sam. His arm was bleeding where the IV draining his blood had been, but he was still breathing, thank God. When would the ether wear off?

She found some gauze from the toppled trolley and bandaged his arm. Then, straining, Rominy pulled and yanked Sam to the edge of the bed. She dragged Kalb’s unconscious body and heaved her up beside him, making an unholy couple.

“It’s just for a minute, Sam,” she whispered.

She took a breath. Then, groaning as she bent, she picked up the IV stand and wheeled it to the bed. She wasn’t sure how to find a vein, so just started jabbing in Kalb’s wrist, waiting after each stab for blood to come out. When the flow started, she inserted the tubing and let it empty into the blue bucket. The receptacle began to fill with plasma, dark and thick.

“Why wouldn’t you leave me alone?”

Rominy found a bottle of anesthesia that Kalb had brought and, shielding her own face with a towel, renewed the cloth. Then she put it back on the German’s mouth, the mere fumes making her dizzy.

The German grimaced and breathed them in.

Shuddering from adrenaline, Rominy staggered to the door, unlocked it, and peered out into the corridor. It was still deserted. Staff had been ordered to stay away. She wiped her feet on the towel she’d used to shield her face from the ether and slipped out, pistol in hand.

No one. She found a gurney and wheeled it back, awkwardly rolling Sam onto the bed. He muttered, which she took to be a good sign. Then she unclipped her hospital identification bracelet and taped it back together on Ursula’s wrist, and fastened her hospital gown tag to the Nazi’s collar. It was time to disappear.

“Rominy Pickett, rest in peace.” It might buy them a little time.

The woman’s complexion had gone chalk white, her eyes staring. Was she breathing? Rominy bent close, holding her breath against the anesthetic.

No.

She felt only cold relief.

The last dribbles of blood were pooling in the plastic pail. What kind of hideous mind would still want Rominy’s blood, after all the catastrophes it had caused?

She spread the towel out by the door so it would soak up any carnage on the gurney wheels. Sam’s hospital room looked like a slaughterhouse, the floor smeared scarlet, bullet holes in walls and ceiling, furniture toppled, blinds askew.

Then she pushed Sam into the hallway and let the door close behind her. It clicked, lock fastening. She threw a sheet over her guide to hide his identity and wheeled toward the elevator. At a desk she saw a lab coat draped on the back of a chair and put it over her own bloody clothes, sticky and stiff. She still had the male street clothes for Mackenzie, and they’d fetch replacements at his “cubbyhole” at the supercollider.

He was moaning, waking up. The elevator gonged and she pushed him in, selecting a button for the basement. She pulled the pistol out and set it on the gurney near Sam’s head, in case someone tried to stop them. “Wake up, Mackenzie!” Her voice was sharp. She slapped him, hard.

He blinked. “Rominy?”

At every floor she expected the elevator to stop, and was prepared to use the gun to bluff if she needed to. But instead the conveyance sank smoothly to the basement. A blank corridor, rumbling generators, a sign with a symbol for cars. She pushed ahead, went through double doors, spied a ramp, and with a running start pushed Sam up into a courtyard where a few privileged autos were parked. The air was sharp and tangy after the hospital stink, washed clean of all corruption.

She was trembling with excitement and exhaustion. No strangers would ever take blood from her again.

Sam hoisted his head woozily. “Where are we, girl?”

“Out. Can you sit?”

“Maybe. I feel light-headed.”

“We had to leave a lot of you behind.”

He sat up, swaying. “What happened?”

She glanced up and around, most windows dark, an archway leading to the world beyond. “We chose to be brave, I guess.” She thrust the stolen clothes at him. “Put some pants on, Sam Mackenzie. We’re going home.”