Twilight of the Dead Read online

  "God in heaven. You're planning to do it now?" he whispered out the corner of his mouth.

  "When are we going to get another chance like this?" Gunther replied quietly.

  "Don't. Please, don't! You'll get us both killed. I was the one who got you a posting to this bunker. They'll realise I must have known what you were planning to do."

  "We don't have a choice anymore," Gunther said, his voice surprisingly calm.

  Karl undid the clasp on his own holster. "Do this and I'll shoot you myself," he promised.

  "That's your choice."

  "I mean it!"

  Gunther's eyes slid sideways to look at Karl, then past him to the Führer. Hitler had paused to talk with one of the other sentries, but he would be level with the conspirators in thirty seconds' time, perhaps less.

  "Do what you feel you must. That's what I'm doing," Gunther said.

  Hitler moved straight past the next three guards, including Karl, and stopped opposite Gunther. The Führer smiled at him. "Stiefel, isn't it?"

  "Y-Yes, my Führer," Gunther replied, visibly startled that Hitler knew him by name. The assassin's hand lingered beside his pistol, its purpose forgotten for the moment.

  "Don't look so surprised. I had my secretary bring me the files of all the sentries so I could select the best of them. You were a Panzer driver, yes?"

  Gunther nodded uncertainly.

  "You became a Panzergrenadier near the end of 1941, but your file is missing the pages that explain why you made that change."

  "I..." By now Goebbels was standing behind the Führer, his piercing black eyes fixed on the trembling sentry. "Our Panzer was disabled in a battle, but the crew survived. All five of us joined the Panzergrenadiers as a way of keeping ourselves at the front."

  "You hear that?" Hitler asked Goebbels, twisting round to look at the Reichsminister. "If only we'd had more brave warriors like them!" He turned back to face Gunther, a glint in his eye. "And what happened to your comrades? Are they still fighting the good fight?"

  "We lost two of them at Stalingrad, and another at Kursk, but my commander is on sentry duty out in the Vorbunker." Günsche whispered in Goebbels's ear and the Reichsminister stepped forward, clearing his throat to get Hitler's attention.

  "Forgive me for interrupting you, my Führer, but there are pressing matters that require your presence elsewhere," Goebbels said, his voice an oily, sibilant hiss.

  Hitler frowned but nodded nevertheless. "Very well. Good to meet you, Stiefel."

  Gunther saluted the Führer, using the movement to mask his hand sliding the pistol from its holster. As Goebbels and Hitler turned away, Gunther took a step after them, raising his weapon to fire at the Führer's back.

  "This is for Helmut, Martin and Will!" he exclaimed.

  A single shot split the air, the sound magnified over and over again by the concrete walls, floor and ceiling. The body slumped down onto the rug, a pool of blood rapidly spreading outwards from beneath the collapsed victim.

  For a second nobody spoke, a stunned silence replacing the dying echoes of the gunshot. Then everyone in the outer conference room was shouting and screaming, a cacophony of voices battling to be heard above each other. Orders were bellowed and countermanded just as loudly, while several of the sentries ran for help. Within seconds they were replaced by new arrivals as doors were flung open and people spilled into the already chaotic space. It took another gunshot, this time fired point blank at the dying man, to bring silence to the anarchy. The crowd of sentries, generals and secretarial staff drew back, opening a space around the body on the floor.

  Gunther was sprawled awkwardly on the diamond-patterned rug, his pistol lying unfired nearby, just beyond his grasp. Karl stood over the mortally wounded man, a curl of smoke escaping from the barrel of his pistol. The smell of cordite was strong in the air, giving an acrid taste to each and every breath. Hitler was stood opposite Karl, with Gunther's twitching body between them.

  "Why?" the Führer asked, befuddlement in his voice.

  "He was trying to assassinate you," Karl replied in a blank monotone.

  "That much was obvious," Goebbels snapped. "The Führer asked why."

  "I think he blamed you for the loss of comrades; the deaths of his friends," Karl said. "He seemed perfectly rational when I first met him in Rumania last October. But after his former commander was reassigned to the Vorbunker, Stiefel started mumbling dark threats under his breath. I was about to report his behaviour when we were summoned here."

  Gunther tried to say something, but all that came from his mouth was a weak, wet gurgle. Karl reacted by kicking Gunther in the head, his heavy boot knocking him senseless.

  The Führer arched an eyebrow at the prostrate figure staining the rug with blood. "Get this carcass out of here. No more newcomers are to be allowed into the bunker, under any circumstances. We must keep our ranks pure and safe from the infiltration of madmen." He pointed at Karl while glaring at the other sentries.

  "I, your leader, would be dead now but for the quick thinking of your comrade. Remember that, and re-examine your own actions! You, too, may be called to account, sooner than you think."

  Hitler stomped out of the conference room, leaving his underlings to clean up the mess. Goebbels hurried after his master while Günsche did his best to restore order. The shocked secretaries were sent back to work and the guards that had flooded into the conference room were ordered to return to their duties elsewhere. The remaining men were given a dressing down for their failure to stop Gunther in time.

  Only Karl was immune from this chastisement. He crouched down on one knee, leaning forward to whisper into the dying man's right ear. "I'm sorry, but you left me no choice."

  Gunther stirred, a bloodshot eye swivelling in its socket to stare at Karl. Lips moved soundlessly for several seconds, until slowly, painfully, a single word slipped from them.

  "Why?"

  Karl glanced about, but nobody was paying him any attention for the moment. "My master wants this war to continue for as long as humanly possible. The greater the chaos and carnage here in Europe, the easier his ultimate, inevitable triumph shall be. Even a few extra hours of fighting makes a world of difference as it gives him time to put his pawns into place."

  "Who?"

  "The Lord Constanta, of course," Karl replied, scolding Gunther as if the dying man was a simple-minded child who was unable to grasp the obvious. "I'm one of his thralls. I have been ever since I first met him in Stalingrad, two and a half years ago. I pledged my allegiance to him then and nothing I've seen or experienced in this war has made me regret that decision. He left me in his dungeon at Sighisoara, knowing your squad of German soldiers would find me and take me in. You didn't honestly believe finding Helmut Richter's brother could be a coincidence, did you?"

  Gunther tried to spit a curse at Karl but the words died in his mouth.

  "There, there... Don't fight it. Let death claim you, as it will claim most of mankind soon. The vampyr will feast on the souls of this city. Then, when the Allies are proclaiming victory in Europe, the undead shall rise up and unleash their blood war upon the continent."

  Gunther was not listening. His eyelids fluttered closed as a last, rasping breath escaped from his lungs. Then he moved no more, the last of his lifeblood ebbing away into the rug. Günsche came and stood over the dead man, folding his arms.

  "Is he...?"

  "Dead. Yes, quite dead," Karl said, standing upright.

  "Did he say anything?"

  "He asked for forgiveness."

  Günsche snorted derisively. "Not much chance of that. Goebbels has forbidden any mention or official record of what happened here. All those who witnessed the incident have been sworn to silence. That includes you, I'm afraid."

  "Why be afraid? I was only doing my duty."

  "You deserve a medal for what you did."

  Karl smiled. "It was all in the service of my commander."

  "You entered the bunker with this man and two o
ther Panzergrenadiers; two brothers. They're still in the Vorbunker. Did they know of what Stiefel was planning?" Günsche asked.

  "I doubt it. As I told the Reichsminister, Gunther only began making threats after Ralf and Hans were reassigned yesterday." Karl frowned. "Perhaps it would be best if I told them what happened to their comrade? I could determine whether or not they're a danger to the Führer..."

  Günsche nodded. "They can help you dispose of the traitor's body; that should be a good test of their loyalty. If they show any signs of sympathising with this scum, shoot them."

  Karl saluted crisply before making his way out to the front bunker. He found Hans and Ralf dozing fitfully beneath the tables in the dining room, along with several other sentries. Karl woke the pair and led them back towards the Führerbunker, talking in a low, calm voice.

  "Whatever you do, don't react in any way to what I'm about to tell you," he began. "We're being watched; you two especially. Your actions in the next few minutes will determine whether or not we get out of here alive. Do you understand?"

  Ralf simply nodded, but Hans wanted more information. "This is about Gunther, isn't it? What happened to him, Karl?"

  "Keep walking and I'll tell you. He tried to assassinate the Führer but another one of the sentries intervened, shooting Gunther."

  "How is he?" Hans persisted. "Is he-"

  "He's dead," Ralf interjected, his voice a dull monotone. "Do they suspect us too?"

  "They're not sure," Karl admitted. "You're to help me get rid of Gunther's body outside. That'll be our chance to get away from here." By now the trio had entered the Führerbunker and were pushing their way through the crowded guardroom.

  "How is the Führer?" Ralf asked quietly. "Will we see him?"

  Karl shook his head. "He's surrounded by generals. He's too well guarded now."

  "Then we've failed," Hans mumbled. "We had our chance and Gunther paid the price."

  "Keep it together," Ralf said coldly. "Otherwise we'll end up the same way as him."

  The three men marched into the conference room where a coarse grey blanket had been thrown carelessly across the body on the floor. Günsche was waiting for them, his eyes watching the trio intently, his fingers lingering on the handle of his pistol. Beyond him a door stood ajar, allowing Goebbels to observe what was happening.

  Günsche pointed at the body. "Your comrade, Stiefel, has been executed for treason. You three are to take his body outside and get rid of it. Dig him an unmarked grave; he deserves no recognition for his disloyalty. Understand?"

  The Panzergrenadiers saluted crisply, barking their response in unison. Günsche stood aside, giving access to Gunther's body. They rolled his corpse inside the blanket, Hans taking charge of the head while Ralf grabbed his dead friend's feet. The brothers lifted Gunther up and took him back out through the Führerbunker into the Vorbunker. Karl went ahead of them, clearing a path. The trio continued onwards, going from the Vorbunker up the winding staircase that rose to ground level. The three men emerged into the open air to find it was late afternoon, the setting sun blearily visible beyond the clouds of smoke and fumes from the battered city around them.

  It was only four days since Ralf, Hans and Karl had gone down into the bunker, but the devastation brought upon Berlin in that short time was remarkable. The centre of the city was now clearly within range of Stalin's Organs, as a barrage of nearby explosions amply testified. The trio crouched low as they ran for cover, the Vollmer brothers still carrying the body of their dead comrade. No sooner had the threesome reached the nearest shelter than an artillery shell exploded behind them, gouging a mighty hole in the ground behind the Reich Chancellery while throwing masses of earth and concrete into the air. This debris rained down hard on the area, showering the guards by the bunker entrance and forcing them back inside.

  Ralf saw the sentries retreating and dropped Gunther's legs. "Now's our chance!"

  Hans hung on to the corpse's shoulders. "We can't just leave him here!"

  "We don't have a choice," Karl argued. "If we don't go now, Goebbels will send men out to bring us back or hunt us down."

  "But what about Gunther?"

  Ralf went to his brother, slipping an arm round his shoulders. "He's gone. That's not him anymore; it's what is left of him. He wouldn't want us dying to bury him, would he?"

  Hans clung on to the dead man a moment longer before letting the body slip from his grasp. "No. No, he wouldn't."

  Karl had already run to the far end of the building they were sheltering against and was peering round the corner.

  "It's all clear! Come on!"

  Ralf and Hans sprinted after him, leaving the remains of their comrade on the ground, swaddled in a bloodstained blanket. As the brothers reached the corner, the whistle of another incoming shell cut through the air. Moments later it exploded on the spot where they'd been standing, blowing a hole in the side of the building. When the dust and debris cleared, there was nothing left of Gunther's body.

  Hans was first up on his feet, urging the others to quickly follow him. "Come on! Let's go!"

  NINE

  It was May Day when I first heard of Adolf Hitler's death. The battle for Berlin was still raging at the time, the fighting nowhere fiercer than inside the Reichstag. Capturing that mighty building was the perfect symbol for a Red Army victory over the Axis forces. All possible efforts were concentrated upon raising the red banner atop the Reichstag by the 1st of May, a key day in the history of communism.

  So important was this goal that SMERSH ordered Gorgo to disband our deep knife unit on April 29th, freeing Mariya, the Borjigin brothers and I to join the assault on the Reichstag planned for the next day. The surly Rumanian was irritated by having to surrender our command but he pretended otherwise, sneering at us as we prepared to leave.

  "Don't worry," he taunted, "we'll meet again soon enough. Once victory is declared my thralls will hunt you down, no matter where you try to hide in the ruins of this accursed city. They have your scent in their nostrils now; you can never hope to escape them." Gorgo had his thralls confiscate our submachine guns, leaving us with only pistols and daggers. "Scum like you don't deserve such weapons," he said.

  "How are we supposed to defend ourselves, let alone fight in a battle?" I demanded.

  "Use your imagination," the Rumanian replied. "There are plenty of dead German soldiers rotting in the streets of Berlin. Steal what you need from them."

  Both the Mongolians spat on the ground in front of Gorgo, while Mariya shouted obscenities at him as he stalked away. I kept my own counsel, preferring not to have the vampyr know my thoughts. He had murdered my best friend, slaughtering Eisenstein in front of me, and rejoiced in his triumph. There would be a reckoning between Gorgo and me before either of us departed the German capital. But if I had my way, it was the Rumanian who would die that day.

  Gorgo and his company of thralls vanished into the fog of war that constantly choked the air in central Berlin. Once the Rumanian and his charges were gone, the four of us made our own way towards the Reichstag. Each of us accumulated fresh weapons as we moved through the city, ripping MP38 machine pistols from the lifeless hands of corpses, breaking fingers stiffened by rigor mortis when necessary. Finding ammunition for the weapons was much harder. Most of the enemy soldiers had fought to their last bullet before dying. But the four of us had all accumulated full clips by the time we reached what was left of the Reichstag.

  Finding the grey, shell-shocked building was not difficult; all we had to do was walk to where the battle for Berlin was loudest and deadliest. The closer we got, the worse visibility became. Soon we were stumbling forward, clambering over burnt-out, bullet-riddled cars and piles of shattered masonry. When we reached the Red Army's forward positions, I could see our comrades were within a few hundred metres of their target. But crossing that short distance was costing hundreds of lives, and conquering the interior would mean days of brutal combat.

  Heavy artillery and tank fire bombarded t
he Reichstag, driving its defenders back from the windows on upper floors. But still the Germans clung on, supported by their own artillery fire from the nearest Flaktürme. Back and forth raged fire from each side's heavy guns, leaving our ground troops waiting impotently outside the Reichstag, unable to advance.

  By late afternoon on April 30th the smoke and dust created by the bombardment was so thick that dusk fell early in that part of the city. When our riflemen finally tried to storm the building, they discovered all the ground floor windows and doors had been bricked up or barricaded. Heavy guns were brought forward to blast a way in, and at last we were able to pour inside the main hall.

  Then the fighting began in earnest, a devastating melee of brutal, close-quarters combat. The Germans threw Panzerfausts and grenades down at us from stone balconies, while other enemy soldiers retreated to the basement, threatening to sandwich us between them and the forces massed overhead.

  Fires were soon raging through the interior of the building and smoke from these blazes choked the great hall, providing our troops with some camouflage from the enemy. The four of us were part of a dozen riflemen and women that fought their way up to the Reichstag's second floor, only to be pinned down by a German machine gun emplacement. For more than an hour we clung together, those at the edges getting picked off by the enemy, one by one.

  When our dozen had shrunk to five, I asked the grizzled veteran leading us what we should do. Levshin scowled at me, his back pressed firmly against a tall stone pillar which sheltered him from the machine gun fire peppering our position.

  "We need somebody brave enough - or stupid enough - to charge that machine gun. Unless it's taken out soon, we'll be dead before help arrives."

  I nodded, satisfied that his grim assessment matched my own. I pulled two stick grenades from my waist belt, both of them taken from the corpses of fallen German soldiers in the main hall. I rose to a crouch, looking for the best way forward from our exposed position. The area around us was a flat, empty expanse of marble, offering no protection from the merciless aim of the machine gunner. They were beyond throwing distance from where we'd been forced to take shelter. Somebody needed to cover seven or eight metres, running directly towards the enemy emplacement, before throwing the stick grenades at the Germans with precision and accuracy.