Michael Thomas: Night of the Nazi Zombies

“What was that?” asked François.

Pierre continued looking backwards, whispering to François, “I don’t know, I think we…”

He was cut off by another shriek followed by inhuman groans and noises that sounded like nothing the two men had ever heard. They looked at each other, paused and then both jumped up and ran. Without even looking backwards the men covered the ground quickly.

A distance away the two girls sat quietly along the tree line, this was the agreed waiting place for the small group. Behind them were thick trees, so thick that no light penetrated the closely spaced tree trunks. In front of them was an open field, a space large enough to land an aircraft, perhaps many aircraft. The lane on one side and low hedgerows on the other two sides bordered the field. Madeleine sat on top of the box that contained the torches. Adrienne however was much too restless to sit and wait. She stood at the edge of the trees, scanning the horizon for any sign of Pierre and François.

“Did you see that?” asked Adrienne as she pointed towards the trees.

“No,” said a bored Madeleine.

* * *

Steiner had the worst headache he could remember in years. His vision was blurred; he couldn’t feel his legs and the world seemed to be spinning around him. Lifting his hand to his face he opened one eye, trying to force it open. It was still the middle of the night and with no lighting there was almost nothing to see. There was one thing though; he could hear a strange groaning, almost wailing sound. Rolling over, Steiner grasped the side of the crashed tank and pulled himself up into a sitting position. He retched as the excessive alcohol drunk earlier almost made him vomit. He managed to hold it down but it didn’t stop the dreadful feeling he had in his stomach and head. He shook his head so he could see a little more clearly. There were shapes a short distance away. It may have been people, the sky or just sweat dripping from his brow. He strained his eyes to try and work out what was going on. It wasn’t enough though; the alcohol was doing its job!

Steiner thought for a while, remembering one of his previous drinking exploits whilst fighting in Stalingrad. It was incredible he’d managed to survive that one, most of his friends hadn’t. One thing he could remember though was a comment made by his commanding officer back in ’42 that one of the best hangover cures on the Eastern Front was to find more alcohol!

He waved his arm around, trying to find his drink. At this point he would be better off drowning himself in more of that vile wine he’d found. Anything was better than being awake in this foul place. Instead of finding the wine though he found a boot. Shaking his head again he looked down at his feet.

“Two boots…not mine then,” he babbled to himself.

He looked back down at the boot, spotting something hidden inside it. Without thinking he pulled it out with his free hand. A bloody, half eaten foot dropped out in front of him.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he shouted.

Steiner jumped up, way too quickly for somebody in his alcohol induced state. The ground spun around him, he instantly lost his balance and stumbled to the side, tripping over something and just moments later found himself back on the ground. His arm now jarred with pain from the fall and his head was still pounding. The groaning and howling sounds returned, this time they seemed much closer. A quick burst of adrenalin, fired by fear and the feeling of exposure due to being out in the open, cleared his head for a little while. Rubbing his eyes, he shook his head to finally allow him to get an idea as to what was happening.

Steiner’s first intelligible view of his immediate surroundings shocked him. Even more than some of the carnage he’d seen at the Tractor Factory in Russia. The shape of the crashed tank was clear, as were the bodies near and on it. What made it much worse though were the odd shapes that looked like a crowd of people in the lane. He tried counting them in his head whilst also trying to decide who they could possibly be.

“Thirteen, at least thirteen,” he muttered.

He reached down to his holster, finding his Luger P08 pistol still there. He withdrew the 9mm automatic and scanned the area for anymore of the mysterious people. More shadows were visible, especially in the field behind the tank. It seemed whoever they were they had been drawn to the sound of the crash.

Steiner stood and called out to them, “Halt! I am Steiner, of the German Army. Explain yourselves.”

The crowd seemed unmoved by his question, though a number from the lane started to move towards him at a slow pace. Steiner was undeterred.

“I will not ask again. Speak to me!” he ordered.

Remembering the signal kit that was fitted to the outer stowage case on the tank he ripped out the lid and pulled out a signal gun. It looked like an oversized revolver but with one large chamber that fires a single powerful shot. Cocking the gun and pointing it in the air he paused for a moment, still no response. He pulled the trigger. With a bang the flare flew up in a straight line before exploding in a bright flash, instantly illuminating the crash scene to him. The flare then proceeded to drop to the ground, still burning. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that the light would reveal. All around him were people, each in ragged, filthy clothing and all moving slowly towards him. Directly in front was one with a snapped ankle and next to him was another, holding the torn flesh of what looked like a leg. In the middle of the group were what looked like Wehrmacht soldiers, or at least people wearing the distinctive Type 42 helmets, worn by so many in the military.

“Soldier, what are you doing?” he called to the nearest man.

The response was the last thing Steiner expected. The closest group of people shambled right up to him whilst as the same time another man appeared at his side. The person was so silent he hadn’t even noticed their approach. The first thing Steiner became aware of was the stench. He recoiled from it, the stink filling his nostrils and giving him an immediate flashback to some of the most violent and bloody battles of the Eastern Front. He took one step back but they kept moving towards him.

“Get back!” he shouted, moving back towards the tank.

Still they pressed forwards, now advancing on three sides. Steiner, now out of space, lifted himself up onto the tank. As he climbed one of them reached for his foot. As he kicked them away another grabbed for him. The person groaned, bearing his teeth to him. Steiner was dumbfounded.

“What the hell!” he shouted.

Pointing the Luger to the sky he squeezed off a round. The loud crack of the bullet echoed through the night. In the faint moonlight dozens of faces turned towards Steiner. If nothing else he’d got their attention. He recognised one of the faces, squinting he thought it looked like the driver of the tank. Pulling out a shell for the signal pistol he fired another shot directly above him. With a crack the sky lit up and Steiner could finally see his comrade. It was the driver but not as he remembered, because this time his decapitated head was being carried by one of the savages. With a sickening sound the foul thing seemed to be eating the raw flesh of the man he’d spoken to what must have been just an hour before.

Falling back onto the tank he pointed his luger at the horde and squeezed the trigger. One shot followed another until he had emptied the eight round magazine. His chest was pounding as adrenalin kicked in, finally pushing him and heightening his senses. The group now surrounded the tank on the sides and rear, only the front of the tank seemed clear. Lifting himself up, Steiner reached the turret. The crowd was now starting to lift themselves up onto the sides of the tank. Steiner had no idea what was going on but one thing he did know was this was bad…very bad.