#229
There are so many versions of some stories. Especially when
a prospective to the title of The Pledge is screwing with reality in Utah.
The date seemed to be April 16th 1945, though reality was
twisted a little by the previous events in creation and by that previously
mentioned very powerful young mind in Utah.
In Berlin the Nero Order had just been given. A dictator mad
with defeat only saw the failures of his people to achieve victory and set loose
plans to make all of them suffer for not achieving his goals.
In the surrounding hills near a concentration camp coded
Valhalla you find a crow like creature sitting in a tree watching events unfold
in an information gathering flight to this little planet we call Earth.
That though is a story for another time.
But also nearby, as within the same country, nearby a young
man of war had this false hope. The hope was a hope of sorts where he was
making his thoughts delusional to get through the minutes. A dream, no a wish
to change his surroundings from a place of hiding and maybe surrender to a
place of his old life. The place of his life before the war. But all of that is
fantasy and he knows all too well the facts walking nearby.
Last year he was in Budapest and also spent time near the
Austrian border in December working as an operations guard, all being the good
soldier for his country. Now the cold chill he feels off the walls and the
floors remind him of that December but also of the winters when he was younger.
He grew up in a small farming village in Germany. He does not have to think or
make wonder of questions at what they are planning to do to him because he
knows exactly what he would do if he was in their position and they in his.
He always told himself the things his peop… the things he
did…that they were acts of war. Over and over in his mind for the past hour was
that it was simply a case of orders he took and had to follow.
Orders given to him.
Lies to oneself can be the most horrid to create and believe
in.
Things we cannot take back the most damming to survive.
Put both together and that combination can be a most
damaging one to humanity.
The American soldiers who put him in here, in this metal
box, they were tired when they caught him and locked him folded up and smashed
into the box to give themselves a chance to rest. Every time they questioned
him he saw in their eyes parts of their humanity drift away. He knows that look
because he put that look into so many eyes. That look was in an innumerable set
of eyes as they passed him into the camp to never walk back out.
The American soldiers got separated from their unit. He ran
when a tank group attacked the camp where he served as an outer wall guard. He
ran for what seemed to him to be no less, could not have been no less than 4
days when he saw the mighty, the told to be undefeatable fall.
A number of Germans believed in ‘Versilles Diktat’. This
thought was one were Germans believed the peace terms dictated by the Allies
were unjust at the end of WWI. Actions given excuses for actions unforgivable
in nature.
In a way the Gods of old had been reborn to only be found
out to be as false as paper.
Running into the forest, running in the snow, running from
the horrors he had taken part in and no longer having the protection of bigger
guns or stronger arms to defend his actions, to defend his thoughts. It was as
if Angels from Heaven had come down to judge the quality of Hell and they would
not let one escape from the filth they had created.
He came into contact with this lost group of soldiers while
hiding out in the hull of what once was a farm house burned to ruins by war.
Which side it was a part of did not matter. They walked in through the back
kitchen door as he stashed his self away in a storage side door in a bathroom.
All of the soldiers were talking about the very camp he once proudly walked
outside the walls of. By members of the tank group who shut down the camp they
had gotten all the information, they knew all of what had happened there. The
experiments, the mass burials, the rituals, all were known now. As he hid in
fear from a crack in the storage area door he saw them walking, searching the
house and they talked and he saw the anger which came off their lips with each
word spoken about what they had been told.
The camp was part of The Final Solution. It contained twelve
hutted structures containing many prisoners-Jews, trade unionists, gypsies,
homosexuals, Beyond Humans before anyone knew what those were, Protestants,
Catholics, and those subjected to “protective custody.”
At the time when the tanks had arrived not one prisoner
remained living in the huts.
Now from within the farm toolbox they put him in he hears
them as they are discussing ways of killing him. Pay back is shouted, justice
is screamed, and tears are felt going down tired faces in the cold winter air
as the soldiers discuss what they have seen and what others have faced.
Three of the five soldiers were very young. In appearance
before they landed in the country they now find themselves in they would have
looked not a day over 18 but now they had aged in the weeks they had spent
fighting in this war. The other two soldiers were older and stood for the most
part outside the house and would ever so often bark out an order to the younger
ones so they must have been of higher rank. That at least was his thinking.
‘What is your rank?’ asked one of the soldiers.
‘I…I…’
‘Who cares what his rank is. I just want a name. I need a
name so we can call out the demons you people are!’
‘My name is Deltaish Sermon.’
One of the older soldiers burst through the front door of
the house. He rushed over to where Deltaish was sitting in the metal box and
slapped him on the side of his head with the pistol that was still in his hand.
Then he shoved Deltaish back into the box and shut the lid and began firing off
rounds all around the box.
Deltaish just laid in the box feeling the blood slide down
his face from the gun handle striking the side of his head. He was afraid to
move an inch and could barely breathe with the fear filling up within his whole
body.
For minutes that seemed like hours all Deltaish could hear
outside of the box were footsteps shuffling around. Then a loud shouting voice
rang out from the almost deadish quite, ‘Go ahead and kill him if you want to!
I have killed probably more than a hundred men since touching ground from our
jump in so one more will not haunt my dreams any more than the rest but he’s a
prisoner and we are not an executioner squad!’
‘I can be,’ Was barely heard coming from outside the box.
The lid flew open and three pairs of hands grabbed Deltaish
and pulled him from the box and began to drag him outside the house where they
threw him down the front steps of the farmhouse.
He looked up from his position of looking down at the ground
to see the three young soldiers staring down at him. He could also see back
into the house where the older soldiers now where sitting on the metal box
lighting cigarettes.
He turned away from them and gave a slight glance towards
the forest that was nearby the farmhouse. He asked himself questions of whether
he had the strength to run and if he did was that what they wanted, to shoot
him as he ran?
Was it what he wanted?
In a way he thought
about it just to make it easier for them.
From behind he could hear footsteps slowly coming down the
houses wooden front steps and then boots began kicking him. At first he tried
to at least shield his face but after a few to the ribs he no longer had the
strength to raise his arms and just laid there on the ground as they continued
to kick him for over 20 minutes.
He was gasping for air from the beating when one of the
soldiers spoke to the other two, ‘Pick him up. I want to get this over with
because I’m starting to get sick from just being around him.’
Two of them picked Deltaish up by his arms. The force of
them doing so cracked already damaged ribs. One of the young soldiers pulled
his Army issued rifle from his shoulder where it was hanging by an overused
thinned out strap and pushed it up to be right in front of this German soldiers
face and aimed his sights right between the blue eyes of a soldier and another
soldier pulled the trigger of his gun.
The death was in war.
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The sale of this book without its cover….well, is, sort of,
impossible since it really doesn’t have a cover but let us go through the legal
spray out anyways. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be
aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Hands up
to you who have books like this in your collection? Now that I put my hand down
we can continue with the credits and copyright and legal and stuff that people
just don’t ever pay attention to unless it is pumping their own horn.
An Original Publication of System* Publishing,
a Tin Universe book published by System*Publishing, a
division of System*Productions, Melbourne, Florida. This book is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead or living dead, is entirely and very much
so in the coincidental.
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2015, Brian
C. Williams, System*Productions. Tin Universe Daily, and
all related titles, characters, and elements are trademarks of System*Productions.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever. While unauthorized reproduction is sometimes
needed, please remember us writers types are for the most part a poor lot just
in search of a ways to tell our stories and enough money to add to our Doctor
Who collections….well, at least that fits me. For more information on Tin Universe Daily, the artists who
contributed to this book, and Tin Universe contact System*Productions at
hangofwednesday@gmail.com
Written by Brian C. Williams
Edited by Brian
C. Williams
Any Additional
Photography by Stainless Photography
Cover Digital Work by 74 Images
