Mark Frost - The Second Objective

The woman jolted to life, scrabbling along the ground at him like a rabid dog, the cleaver in her hand, gibbering incoherently. Bernie stumbled away from her until he slammed into another door. It crashed open behind him and he fell back into a narrow room lined with shelves on either side. The woman crawled after him. He kicked the door shut with his foot; it slammed into her face and bounced off, but she kept coming. Bernie crabbed backward, pulling down shelving between them. Glass jars exploded on and around her as she advanced. The room filled with noxious smells; he didn’t want to know what was in those jars. He jumped to his feet, made his way around the shelving to the right, saw another door ahead, and threw himself at it. The door flew open. He slammed it shut and bolted it just as she drew herself up and threw her mass at the other side. The entire wall shuddered. She shrieked and hit it again, then went quiet.

Bernie looked around. He was back in the first room he’d entered. He peered through the door to the hallway. He could see the stairs. He glanced at the casement window he had broken, but didn’t think he could climb through it in time.

Bernie made a break for the stairs, and she came running out of the darkness, cutting off his angle. He tried to leap up to the third stair, caught his toe on the edge, and landed hard, facedown on the stairs. She closed in behind him, the cleaver going up in her hand. Bernie turned, whipped the shovel around, and the cleaver scraped down along its shaft, sparks flying, metal ringing on metal. He swung the shovel back the other way and struck a glancing blow to the side of her head, but she shook it off and kept after him.

Bernie pulled himself up onto the next riser, parried another blow from the cleaver, then jabbed the blade at her fleshy mass to keep her at bay. She knocked the shovel aside and brought the cleaver down again, missing Bernie’s hip by two inches, splintering the wood of the riser as he rolled out of its way.

Bernie swung the shovel again, but couldn’t put much weight behind it. The blow struck her in the ribs and she hardly seemed to notice. She pinned the handle under one arm, turned her body, and wrenched the shovel out of his hands, letting it fall. Bernie turned and crawled frantically up the stairs.

Someone stood in the open doorway at the top, silhouetted. He saw an arm point toward him, holding a pistol. Bernie threw himself flat on the stairs, turning his head away, and from the corner of his eye he saw her nightmare figure lurching up the stairs behind him, the cleaver high in the air. Then came the sharp report of the gun, twice, three, four shots, echoing harshly.

The bullets stopped the woman on the stairs, blossoms of blood spreading across her chest. She looked at Bernie in disbelief, wobbled in place, gave a soft, low groan, crumpled, and collapsed off the side of the staircase, hitting the concrete floor with a heavy crunch.

Bernie felt a hand on his shoulder. He raised his head up to look.

“Jesus Christ, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “I leave you alone for a minute, look what you get yourself into.”

“What the fuck. What the fuck.”

Von Leinsdorf continued down the stairs. He walked into the room at the end of the hall where she’d stashed the bodies. Moments later, Bernie heard another shot.

The Bridge at Amay

DECEMBER 17, 4:30 P.M.

Grannit downshifted sharply, the gearbox of the Willys grinding in protest, fishtailing the rear tires around the hairpin turns. They’d taken ten minutes to drive up the hill. Going down, they reached the river road in five.

As they accelerated toward the bridgehead, they could see the other jeep parked alongside the checkpoint. All four passengers were still in their seats. An officer in the back was talking with the sergeant in charge of the bridge.

“Don’t you want to slow down a little, Earl?” asked Carlson.

Grannit looked at him, annoyed. “Do you want to drive, Ole?”

“Just thought you’d want to come in slow so we don’t tip ’em off.”

“You want me to pull over so you can drive?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I just stop right here and you can take us in at the right speed?”

“Forget it. Sorry I asked.”

“Jesus, you’d make coffee nervous.”

Grannit hit the brakes before they made the final turn and reached the bridge emplacement ten seconds later. Grannit gave a casual wave to the sergeant as he pulled in front of the other jeep, cutting off their way forward. A captain in the passenger seat of the second jeep turned to look at them with a wave and a friendly smile.

“Everything okay, Sergeant?” asked Grannit.

“This is Captain Harlan,” said the sergeant, turning to the new arrivals. “Did I get that right, sir?”

Harlan nodded. Grannit hopped out of the jeep and saluted.

“How are you doing today?” Harlan asked Grannit, returning the salute. “Where you fellas from?”

None of the four men appeared unduly nervous. Two wore their boots without leggings, like the dead German they’d found at the crossing, and one lacked a regulation belt. Only one man wore a unit patch on his shoulder. Keeping an eye on their movements, Grannit casually moved around their jeep. He noticed that the lettering on their hood looked freshly stenciled, showing no wear and tear. Four spare jerricans were tied to the back.

“We were near Liège this morning,” said Grannit, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “Where you coming in from, sir?”

“We were in Holland yesterday, Eindhoven. Signal Corps, Third Armored. Orders to move came down in the middle of the night. It was hell just getting everybody on the road.”

Grannit tried to light a cigarette, deliberately mistiming his roll of the flint. “See any Krauts on the way down?”

“We sure didn’t. Guess the heavy stuff’s still to the east, huh? Is it really as bad as they’re saying?”

“Where you guys headed? Hey, you got a light?” asked Grannit.

Captain Harlan fished out his silver Zippo. “They said they wanted the whole outfit in Malmédy by to night. Our CO told us to divert west and head down to Bastogne. We’re looking for the turn to get us back on the highway, just stopped to ask directions-”

As the captain held out his lighter, ready to flick it on, Grannit grabbed his hand and took it from him. He pulled his.45 with the other and held it inches from the captain’s head.

“Have your driver toss the keys to my partner,” said Grannit.

On the other side of their jeep, Carlson pulled his handgun and covered the driver. The sergeant and his platoon stepped forward, training weapons on the other men in the jeep. None of them moved.

“What’s this all about? What’s the problem?” asked Harlan.

“Do it,” said Grannit.

The driver looked at his captain, who nodded, then pulled the keys from the ignition and threw them to Carlson.

“You want to think about what you’re doing, Lieutenant?” said Harlan. “Don’t make yourself any trouble-”

“Climb down, all of you. Leave the weapons. Get on the road, hands and knees.”

The men in the jeep obeyed.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret, Lieutenant,” said Harlan. “There’s obviously some kind of misunderstanding. I know tensions are running high-”

“Put your sidearm on the ground and slide it to me,” said Grannit.

Captain Harlan did as he was told. “You want to check our ID again? Our pay books, what? We already showed our trip pass to these fellas; what more do you need?”

Grannit holstered his Colt and yanked the cover off the captain’s Zippo. A small glass vial of clear liquid had been packed in next to the saturated wadding. Grannit pulled it out and took a sniff.