K Jeter - The Kingdom of Shadows

Von Behren leaned closer to the glass. The head grip had led the way, up the shaking metal stair and across the catwalks above the stage, to the studio’s highest window; the canvas that had covered it lay crumpled at their feet. “It is dangerous, Herr von Behren -” The grip held the director’s arm, pulling him back.

He paid no heed to the warning. From this vantage point, he could see for blocks around the studio. The streets were lit red with the flames from burning buildings, broken by the quick, glaring white of artillery shells. With each nearby impact, the studio trembled, the catwalks creaking and rattling, the window glass shivering, ready to burst into razor shards. Beneath the smoke mounting to the dense clouds filling the sky, running figures were cut down by shrapnel, momentum rolling the suddenly lifeless bodies into the gutters and against the lampposts.

Inside the studio, the filming had come to a halt long ago; it had been impossible to continue beneath the thunder of the Red Army’s bombardment of the city. The actors had no longer been able to hear von Behren’s shouted instructions, the quaking floors rattling the cameras out of focus.

“We must get out of here!” The assistant director shouted into von Behren’s ear. “The shelling is getting thicker – it’ll only be a matter of minutes before the studio is hit!”

Von Behren nodded. “All right -” No more that could be done here, no reasons for staying. He turned away from the window. “Go down and tell the others. We’ll try for the shelter beyond the rail station. It’s the largest, they might still have room for -”

The words were torn from his mouth by a blinding explosion. He was knocked back against the window frame; over his shoulder, he could see the glittering pieces of glass swirling out onto the street below. He clung to the assistant director’s arm, the two of them falling onto the catwalk as it heaved and buckled, bolts tearing out of the wall.

Now the flames were inside; he could feel the heat surging through the grillwork beneath his hands. Smoke billowed around him as the head grip took his arm, raising him from his knees. “The petrol – for the generators!” The grip pointed below. The fuel had been stored at the farthest end of the building, away from the stage; it was from that direction the fire rolled across the floor. “It must have been hit straight on!”

The screaming from one of the actresses cut through the shouts of the others. At von Behren’s side, the face of the assistant director appeared, bleeding from a gash across the brow. Von Behren pushed him and the grip toward the wobbling stairs. “Get everybody out!” More smoke welled up as the painted scenery flats caught fire. “Keep them all together – don’t let anyone run away!” Coughing, he grabbed the catwalk rail and followed after the two men.

On the stage floor, the actors and crew had already rushed toward the tall sliding doors, locked against intruders. The assistant director fought through the mass of bodies, key in hand; as soon as the heavy padlock fell from the hasp, the flames behind leapt higher with the rush of air inside. The opening was pushed wider, the closest ones spilling out into the chaos of the street.

Another explosion, an artillery shell or the last of the fuel canisters igniting, bellowed through the studio. The stairs to the catwalks tore free, ripping down banks of lights as they crashed to the floor. An iron pole struck von Behren across the shoulder as he threw himself to one side.

He could still hear screaming as he got to his feet. Covering his mouth against the smoke, he saw his youngest actress standing in the middle of the stage, slapping at the flames licking up from the hem of her costume. He staggered toward her and grabbed the skirt, tearing the embroidered fabric loose at her waist and revealing the makeshift petticoats beneath. The cloth burned his wrist as he threw it aside. “Go!” He shoved her toward the others milling at the doors. One of the men at the back of the crowd looked over his shoulder, grabbed the weeping girl by the arm and pushed her ahead of himself.

“What are you doing?” Von Behren had started toward the doors and had run into his cameraman. “Get out of here!”

“No -” The cameraman shook his head as he clutched a stack of flat metal canisters tighter in his arms. “Not until I get the rest of the film out of the storage vault!”

The words were at von Behren’s tongue, to tell the other to forget about such unimportant things; he had started to reach for the canisters and send them clattering across the ash-darkened stage floor, but stopped himself. “All right, fetch them!” He shouted over the fire’s roar, the earth-heaving blows of artillery shells. “Then get out the back way and come around – don’t try to go through here -”

The cameraman was already gone, head lowered against the heat, stumbling blindly toward the other end of the studio. Von Behren lost sight of him in the smoke, then turned away, his singed palms raised to feel his way toward the doors.

He was the last to reach the outside. The glare from the buildings on fire and the continuous bombardment was bright as daylight; knife-edged shadows danced in all directions from the crew and actors’ silhouetted figures. The assistant director and the head grip had already begun to lead the crowd toward the shelter several blocks away. Von Behren’s foot caught against a corpse sprawled on the sidewalk, its face and bared chest ripped by flying pieces of metal. He knew it wasn’t one of his people; the blood had already been scorched black against the pallid flesh. He stepped over the outflung arms, spreading his own out to gather up any stragglers.

Something shrieked overhead, splitting the red-tinged clouds. A second later, the shockwave rolled over von Behren, knocking him onto his hands and knees. He scrambled to his feet and saw the studio building breaking open, a swelling column of flames mounting through the shattered roof. The walls tottered for a moment, each brick outlined by the fire within, then fell back in upon themselves, each collapsing upon the next. He stood paralyzed, unable to make out any sign of the cameraman.

“Come on -”

He looked down and saw his youngest actress tugging at his arm.

She pulled harder, straining toward the others disappearing into the smoke. “You must -”

“Yes…” He turned away from the studio’s ruins, letting himself be pulled toward the distant refuge.

He walked through the end of the world.

Beneath Pavli, the ground erupted into flame, the explosions a fist of air that battered against his heart. The high buildings crumbled toward where he cowered in the street. Night had become harrowing day, as though a fierce sun had risen behind each shattered window.

A horse ran toward him, its mane and tail on fire. The hooves struck sparks from the cobbles, the ground shaking beneath him with each hammer blow. But that was the bombs, he knew. An iron rain, as the night’s birds cried out in fear and triumph. He shielded his face, and the birds’ song beat against the inside of his skull. The horse was upon him then and he fell beneath it, seeing the red flames bannering from its neck, a flap of torn skin revealing the steaming wet muscle of its shoulder, pink-flecked foam coursing its jaw. In the mirror of the burning horse’s crazed round eye Pavli could see his face reflected…

He had come into the city from the southeast, climbing over an abandoned row of tank barriers, nothing more than broken slabs of concrete stacked haphazardly at the edge of a shallow trench. The old men and children of the Volkssturm guards had run away, leaving behind the antiquated rifles they had been given. A shop window had been broken out, the stock inside looted; all he could find was a jaw of preserves that had smashed upon the doorsill. He had picked out the glass shards and eaten, scooping up the dark berry pulp with his fingertips. The sweetness had made him dizzy for a moment, then had given him enough strength to continue on into the Berlin he no longer recognized.