Michael Thomas - Night of the Nazi Zombies

Captain Scott considered his comments, “I don’t think leaving this place at night is a good idea. We’re going to have to leave the bridge for now, it sounds like we have an unknown number of hostiles out there. Getting killed isn’t going to help our guys. Agreed?”

Smith nodded in agreement.

The Captain went on, “Can you check the unit and make sure everyone is ready? I think we’re going to be here for some time.”

Smith stood to attention and saluted, “Sir,” then headed over to the other soldiers to check on their kit and readiness. In the centre of the room was a pile of weapons, presumably equipment captured from the enemy, though Smith was surprised at the vintage of some of them.

Chard was checking each of them as Smith approached.

“Some of the locals said there were weapons in the basement, looks like there are resistance cells in this area.”

Humphreys lifted himself up from where he’d been sitting for the last ten minutes. His wounds were feeling dull now and he was beginning to feel like he had a fever. After what he had seen happen to Martinez he had no intention of letting anybody think he was about to expire. He hobbled over to the northern aisle where the two French girls and a group of the locals were sat. On the wall he noticed a massive statue, it was of Saint Michael the Archangel. He remembered hearing all about the exploits of the angel when he’d been a small boy at school. The reason he recognised the angel was primarily down to the weapon he carried and the pose. This particular figure had always intrigued him as a boy, as he had been described as the Prince of Light, leading forces of God against the darkness of evil. This ‘viceroy of heaven’ was the kind of leadership figure any boy could look up to. Like many images of the angel, this version had Michael with a breastplate and wings hovering over the body of the slain beast. On his head he wore what looked like an ancient Greek helmet, whilst in his right hand he carried an evil looking blade. The helmet and sword looked as if they were made of metal, or maybe they were painted to look that way.

Near the altar the group of civilians from the village were arguing about something. Lance Sergeant Jones wandered over to see what all the commotion was about. It seemed that two of younger of the men were being accosted by the rest to do something. Quite what wasn’t exactly clear. Luckily the old French man was nearby, Jones beckoned him to join the group and asked if he knew what was going on. He listened to the conversation for a moment, getting an idea as to what they were discussing. He whispered to Jones.

“It seems they believe the two younger men are members of the resistance.” Jones looked a little confused, “I don’t understand, isn’t that a good thing?”

The conversation amongst the French civilians had been continuing and the old man had more to explain to Jones.

“Ah, I see, they are trying to persuade them to show them where the weapons are hidden,” he said.

The mention of weapons caught Jones’ attention, “Weapons you say?”

M. Poulain nodded and Jones moved straight up to the group. M. Poulain joined him to assist with the translation.

“What is all this about weapons?”

The group turned to him, paused for a short time and then continued talking. Jones pulled one of the loudest aside and called out even louder.

“Stop that. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but we are under siege here. If you have weapons I suggest you tell me, unless you want to get eaten like those others out there!”

The response from the group was delayed whilst M. Poulain translated. When he reached the end there were gasps. The two young men looked at each other and spoke a few words, the nearest of the two stepped towards Jones. He spoke in broken English.

“Ok, we show you guns.”

He beckoned for him to follow, leading him towards the church tower. The rest of the civilians made to follow, but Jones gave the word and two of the soldiers stepped in to keep them away. The two younger men entered the lower part of the tower and started moving the material away from the floor to reveal what looked like a hatch. One knelt down and moved his hand across the floor till he found the tiny gap where he could get a purchase. The second French man put his hand on the hatch, stopping it opening, he spoke in slow French but still not slow enough to be understood by Jones.

Captain Scott had spotted what was going on and brought M. Poulain over to see what was happening.

M. Poulain explained, “They are concerned that by showing you the cellar they will lose their secret cover in the village and won’t be able to help when the Allies make it here.”

Scott grabbed the young man that had just spoken and explained to him tersely, “Listen, we are the Allies and we are already here. We need everybody that can fight with a weapon. Those things outside are coming for us, for every single one of us.”

He pointed with his hand in an arc, tracking the group in the church.

“If there are more guns in there we need them, got it?”

Before they could answer Trent’s voice echoed down from the top of the tower. “They’re back!”

Smith shouted out loud.

“Everyone to your positions! Make sure everything is bolted down and the doors are secure. Hold your fire until the Captain gives the word. Captain Scott gave Smith a look of acknowledgement and then spoke one last time to the two young Frenchmen.

“No more time, get the weapons or get out of the way!”

The shorter of the two didn’t hesitate and forced the hatch upwards, revealing a dark expanse below the tower. Captain Scott stood up and started to move towards the centre of the church. He threw his orders out.

“Jones, follow them down and get every weapon you can. Stack them in the middle of the nave,” he pointed the space between the aisles.

Captain Scott moved from the nave and into the ground floor of the tower section so he could call up to Trent.

“How many and how long have we got?” he asked.

Trent vanished for a moment before reappearing, “They’re all around, larger numbers to the south and east, at least two, maybe three hundred, Sir.”

Scott gasped in surprise, “Two or three hundred?” He shook his head, “How long have we got?”

Trent answered immediately, “They’re slow, real slow, my grandmother could go faster, I reckon about ten minutes before they get here. Wait, I can see more, there are many more further away, probably fifteen minutes tops for them!”

A shot rang out quickly followed by another, then Trent reappeared.

“There are a few small groups a bit closer, I reckon they’re staying low or crawling, it’s pretty hard to spot them till just before they get to the wall.”

“Ok Private, keep at it, let me know if anything changes.”

Captain Scott returned to the nave where Smith met him. He’d heard the discussion and didn’t seem particularly pleased.

“So we could have three hundred plus hostiles out there, maybe even more?”

“It looks that way,” answered Captain Scott.

“Based on their numbers, and the fact that we have this position, I recommend we hold until relieved in morning.”

“How do you know we’ll be relieved in the morning, Sir?” asked a bemused Smith.

“Pretty simple, either Fritz will find us or our comrades will. If neither, then that means they’re all dead and we are already in a world of pain,” Captain Scott smiled, Smith looked less than impressed.

“On the positive side, these undead things are slow and we should be easily able to evade them once the sun is up. If we’re not reinforced by morning we’ll saddle up and make a break for the Orne River Bridge.”