Christopher Reich - The Runner

He glanced at Ingrid. She was dazed and unmoving, but apparently unhurt. He remembered her ridiculous attempt at bravado, saw her grasping the wheel, tugging at it like a hellion and he grew enraged. All of this was her fault. Running a hand across the floor, he found the Browning, then turned to face her.

“I’m sorry, schatz ,” he said. “But really, I can’t have you messing up my life any further.”

Without further ado, he placed the barrel of the pistol against Ingrid’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Ejecting the cartridge, he saw he was out of bullets. Shit.

Ignoring Ingrid, Seyss tried to start the car. He turned the ignition time and time again, but after a few wounded coughs the engine died altogether. Ingrid laughed but made no move toward him. The door was frozen solid, so he pulled himself out the open window. His first steps were tentative. A sharp pain stabbed at his ankle. A sprain, nothing worse. Reaching the sidewalk, he saw Judge in full flight running up the street. He’d never make it as a sprinter, but his form wasn’t bad. And with that gun he didn’t need to win, a close second would do.

Seyss unbuttoned his jacket and began to jog up the road. The motion flooded his distended joint with blood and for a few steps, he thought he might faint. Lengthening his stride, he was pleased to feel the pain subside. A crowd of onlookers had gathered round the entrance to the store. Burnt out tanks and flak torn aircraft were old hat, but an American officer crashing a Horsch roadster into a neighborhood store… that was a novel sight. Judge met his eye, then broke off the chase and ran into the store. Idiot! He actually cared for the girl. Ingrid must have freed herself, for a half second later, Judge was back, re-upping his pursuit with a new vigor. Forty yards separated them. Putting additional weight on his weakened limb, Seyss was pleased to find it accept the exertion. He ran faster and the distance between them quickly grew.

And as he ran, he became aware of the curious stares thrown his way from the local gentry. It wasn’t usual to see an American fleeing a German. Not in Berlin at least. Turning this observation over in his mind, Seyss discovered a neat solution to his problem. A nifty way to end this ridiculous charade once and for all.

Coming to the next corner, he turned left and headed west. Eichstrasse was practically on the border of the American zone of occupation. It was just a matter of time before he came upon an American installation. The sun shone high on the yard arm and soon he was sweating, his shirt damp and his jacket tight across his shoulders. Not wanting Judge exhausted, he slowed, allowing him to gain some ground. Judge rounded the corner a second later. He had settled into a steady stride and, though perspiring heavily, looked ready to run another five kilometers. At his shoulder was Ingrid Bach. When had she turned into such an athlete?

Remembering the pistol, Seyss stoked his tempo. He heard Judge yell “stop!”, and not a second later a bullet whizzed overhead, sounding in its proximity like a drunken bumblebee. Then he saw it. A block up the road, an American flag flew from the balcony of a white stucco building — a gemeindehaus or district governmental office. He smiled at the red and white stripes curling in the soft breeze. It wasn’t a flag he’d ever wanted to salute, but it was one he had surrendered to willingly. Prisoners on the Eastern front couldn’t expect Hershey bars, Budweisers or Lucky strikes as part of their daily regime. He stumbled purposely, wanting Judge to gain a few feet and the thought came to him that he was a fisherman and that he was reeling in a big catch foot by foot. Nearing the American flag, he yelled in his loudest voice.

“Get me some help quick. Crazy Nazi bastard’s trying to kill me. Will someone get down here?”

A moment passed. No one responded and Seyss felt a chill pass through his body. It was Wednesday afternoon. Maybe like German schools, the Americans closed their doors after twelve o’ clock midweek. Just as quickly, though his fears were put to rest. The doors to the stucco building burst open and four GIs peeled down stairs, each carrying an M-1 rifle.

Judge saw the American flag and smiled. He would catch Seyss. He would explain everything to the CO and that would be that. The White Lion was finished. Just a few more steps. Tucking in his chin, he ignored the fire that had engulfed his lungs three blocks back and urged his knees higher, his legs faster. Seyss had stopped running and was waving the squad of GIs in his direction, saying something about “a crazy Nazi” and “war criminals” and “a murder”. In his overheated state, Judge couldn’t make it all out.

“I’m an American officer,” he shouted, when he was within spitting distance of the soldiers. “That man is an escaped war criminal.” But he was too out of breath to make himself understood. His ragged rebuttal sounded more like, “offzer”, “awrcrimnal”. He sounded just like the rabid Nazi Seyss claimed he was. The GIs were all around him now, and he didn’t like how they were eyeing him. Seyss stood behind them. Judge raised a hand to get a breath, staring at Seyss only ten feet away, panting “I’m an Ameri—”

A rifle butt crunched into the back of his neck and he didn’t say anything else.

The Excelsior Hotel. Seven o’clock. The bar.

Arriving at the appointed hour, Erich Seyss sauntered into the dimly lit lounge and shouldered his way through the dense, boisterous crowd. Their bubbly chatter had the relentless quality of an incoming tide, ebbing and flowing, growing ever louder. It was the sound of men and women getting drunk and not giving a damn. He took a seat at the far end of the mahogany bar and ordered a beer — a Hacker-Pschorr, thank you. Only his favorite would do tonight. If he were in Munich he’d ask for a plate of pretzels and a little mustard, too, but this was Berlin — American Berlin — so he settled for a bowl of stale peanuts.

The beer came and he took a great big draught. Eyes closed, he savored the frosty suds coasting down his throat, cooling his belly. He took a deep breath and tried to relax for a minute or two. It was an anxious time. The time between heats. The time to keep his muscles warm. The time to concentrate on the final event.

It was impossible. Too much had happened during the day. Too much was yet to come.

He’d stayed at the gemeindehaus in Wedding long enough to see a groggy Judge carted away in handcuffs and Ingrid taken into custody with him. She’d made the mistake of screaming that Judge was an American while insisting with equal vigor that Seyss was a German, a war criminal, and an assassin who wanted to kill the President, to boot. The soldiers had looked at her as if she were crazy, but a minute later, one produced a flyer bearing Judge’s photograph stating that he was wanted by the Provost Marshal for desertion and obstruction of justice. Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all. Regardless, Judge would be held in custody for a minimum of twenty-four hours. Thanks to darling Ingrid, that was all the time Seyss needed.

Finishing his beer, he slammed the mug onto the counter, snapped his fingers and made his way into the hubbub. Time to move. He was looking for a portly little American with a beer belly and goatee, a reporter named Rossi. Great, he thought, another Italian, and wondered if there were any left in Sicily. The men in the crowd were half military, half civilian, but they were all talking about the same thing: Stalin, the god damned Russians, and how they had better watch who they were pushing around.

Adopting a friendly attitude, he coasted through the throng, tapping the odd forearm and asking its owner if he’d seen Rossi around. The third man he approached fit Ingrid’s description to a tee. “I’m Hal Rossi. Who’s looking?”