Chapter One
I. Der Riese Facility, near Breslau, Germany—1946
The undead moved as one—a single, roiling black mass of dead flesh, pressed together as they sought to satisfy their mindless compulsion to eat. They growled and yelped in harmony, creating a low buzzing as they staggered stiffly forward. They were pressing in from all sides—arms outstretched, rotting fingers reaching. Their heads lolled on their necks, jaws slack as they groaned and howled.
Standing on the central mainframe's raised platform, Doctor Richtofen looked out over the sea of living dead below him. His minions were quickly approaching the doctor and his, for lack of a better term, comrades. Some reached up and grabbed the platform ledge, attempting to pull themselves up and after their would-be prey.
Richtofen swung the barrel of his StG across the group of zombies closest to him, his finger on the trigger. Chunks of decaying flesh, coagulated blood, and clumps of bone flew up and splattered the platform as bullets pummeled the undead. The zombies attempting to climb the ledge fell away, but their fellows quickly moved forward to replace them.
The doctor reached for the handle of a grenade on his belt, pulled the primer, and tossed it into the mass of undead. It detonated amidst the crowd of bodies with an ear-ringing BOOM! The explosion ripped through the zombies, but as closely-packed as they were it did little damage outside of a two-yard radius. Body parts—rotten limbs and large chunks of rotten meat—flew into the crowd and hailed down on the zombies.
"Haha!" the doctor cackled, bearing his teeth in a savage grin. "Won't be getting me today, children."
Some of the undead who had been knocked down by the detonation rose again, brandishing the jagged stumps of amputated limbs up at him. Legless zombies crawled on, their backs reared at unnatural angles, propelling themselves forward on their hands.
Richtofen reveled in the slaughter; it brought him great joy to watch the blood spray up from the crowd of undead at his feet. But he was similarly impressed by the punishment the zombies could take before they were downed permanently, and the way their fellows eagerly assumed the places of the fallen with mindless determination.
Given proper guidance, they would be an unstoppable army.
But the good doctor had to remember that for the moment he was at the wrong end of their hunger-driven advance. He took another look around; another few moments and the swarm would have the four backed into the Pack-a-Punch machine. After that, there would be no hope of survival.
The other three were still at the head of the platform. If they maintained their position for much longer, the zombies would flank them. The doctor weighed his options—if he sparred too much time waiting for them, it may mean his own death. On the other hand, he would have never survived the horde up until now without them. If he wanted to continue with his plans, he may need them later.
"Quick, get to the teleporter, you fools!" Richtofen commanded. "They're going to hem us in!"
Loathe as he was to take orders from the Kraut, Dempsey knew the German was right. The zombies were filing in around them—some shuffling, others fiercely shoving their way through ranks of rotting meat to tear apart still-living flesh.
"You heard the doc," the marine said to the others. "Shake a leg!"
Takeo and Nikolai stepped up to his flank, slowing the undead advance with a shower of lead. Firing with them, Dempsey began to backpedal in the direction of the central mainframe. The throng of undead slowed, but still moved relentlessly and mindlessly forward.
Though bullets tore through them—blowing off limbs and shredding flesh—the zombies continued to advance. As the front tiers fell, their zombies behind those who had dropped stepped over their comrades' still bodies and proceeded toward the living fighters. Countless zombies dropped, but still more moved forward. It seemed as if the sea of undead was endless . . . and Tank was quickly running out of ammo.
"We have to get out of here!" Nikolai bellowed as the zombies closed the distance between them. He ejected the drum magazine from his PPSh and slammed another in its place. "Last mag!"
Tank looked back. Richtofen was already standing on the teleportation pad, unslinging the DG-2 from his back.
"Stand back!" the doctor shouted, raising the weapon and firing twice into the zombie ranks.
Arcs of electricity flew into the horde, jumping from body to body and leaving smoking husks behind. The smell of charred, rancid meat wafted toward the living. Tank resisted the urge to vomit.
A wide swath had been cut through the undead ranks, but those on the edges of the gap quickly fell into place like liquid filling in a dry spot.
Realizing now was the time, the doctor hefted his weapon and slammed the butt-end into the engage button on the teleporter's control board.
The teleporter came to life, flashing and thrumming strongly beneath their feet. The four companions continued to fire into the advancing zombies, praying the teleporter would transport them in time.
Flashes of light engulfed them even as Richtofen emptied the circuits of the Wunderwaffe. With a last surge of the teleporter's whirring engine, their surroundings fell away and a whirling vortex stretched out before them.
They were safe for now.
II. Griffin Station, the Moon
It was cold in the heart of the device, but such things mattered little to Samantha Maxis anymore. She felt safe in this place. Not as safe as she had with her father, obviously, but it was the next best thing now that her father was dead.
Well, technically dead.
After ordering Samantha to kill the members of Group 935—payment for their betrayal—her father had been shot down by Doctor Groph's guards right in front of her. It had been a grave mistake on their part—it only fueled her rage and hatred.
Though Maxis had died, he was not gone. His soul still haunted these halls.
Sometimes he would speak to her—whispered words, mingled with comfort and vows of revenge that were barely more than a breath of air before his presence was gone once more. She longed for the next moment she would come into contact with her father, but until then she would fulfill his final request.
For him, she had laid waste to Griffin Station. On Richtofen's orders, Doctor Schuster had been harvesting souls in an attempt to power the MPD. His grisly work had left him with hundreds of bodies, all buried unceremoniously and unmarked beneath the surface of the moon. She had easily roused these corpses from their sleep—using the powers granted to her by the Aether's energies—and unleashed them on the lunar detachment of Group 935 scientists.
Not a single soul had survived the slaughter. Now the scientists—Doctors Groph and Schuster among them—roamed the halls and labs of Griffin Station as the undead minions of Samantha Maxis.
After she had purged the lunar base, she turned her attention Earthward with all the vengeance and hate the death of her father and the unforgivable betrayal of Richtofen had given her. Her hoards had chased the doctor all over the globe now—from Japan back into the heart of the Fatherland itself.
But the doctor had allies—unwilling as they were. They had suffered at his hands—exposed to his perverted experiments. These three soldiers had not wronged her personally, but she knew that she couldn't let that get in the way of her revenge.
She wanted Richtofen dead, and because of that she could not show mercy.
The doctor and his cohorts were cannier than she had imagined. Samantha had hoped killing Richtofen would have been as simple as wiping out Griffin Station—the scientists and the guards had put up little resistance—but the doctor had created the zombies. He knew how to fight them. And he was a genius . . . however evil and twisted.
Now she spent her time here in the device, scheming with all the ancient knowledge that had been given her by this alien technology. Richtofen might be a genius, but what power did he truly have in the face of the inferno that was Samantha's hatred? How could he defend himself indefinitely against her newfound power?
She smiled to herself. She knew the doctor had escaped The Giant—but it had been a close call for him and his companions. With every encounter, he became more and more careless.
She reached out and felt for the doctor's presence, scouring all of Europe in a matter of minutes. She could not find him, but she did feel the rip in space-time that was emanating from Der Riese. So the doctor had escaped her by jumping through time . . . but even this wouldn't keep him safe for long.
She would wait for Richtofen to show himself again—which, eventually, he would. His insatiable thirst for power would outweigh his desire to lay low.
Whether she had to wait a decade or two was no matter. She would wait a century if she had too. She would have her revenge.
III. Deutsches Sol Kino, West Berlin, Germany—
between late 1967 and early 1968
Light falling on his face—pale, filtered sunlight—stirred Tank Dempsey. His eyes fluttered open. He was looking up at a high ceiling—a large, crystal chandelier hung from the center. The chandelier was ragged, neglected, and dirty. It had obviously been a long time since it had seen any care—it was missing groups of crystals, and some of the wires that held them had come undone.
He moved to sit up, but found that he couldn't on his first attempt. It felt like he'd been hit by a Jeep—his entire body ached. To make matters worse, there was something hard pressing into the small of his back.
He reached behind him to grab whatever it was. His hand wrapped around what felt like boot-leather. He looked over—the doctor was sprawled on his back beside him, cap askew and one leg under the marine. Richtofen was conscious—his curious eyes were staring into space.
Richtofen snapped out of his thought when the marine grabbed his leg. He looked over at Tank. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up, Dempsey." His heavy accent caused him to pronounce it "Dempshey," which grated on Tank's nerves. "My leg has fallen asleep. Would you be so kind as to get the hell off me, hmm?" Tank caught the edge of madness in the doctor's voice, which quickly transformed into mock-kindness on his last word.
This Kraut is all kinds of messed up.
"Why didn't you wake us up sooner?" he demanded of the doctor as he sat up.
"Oh, you know," the German said matter-of-factly, "you all looked so peaceful sleeping there. Plus you were all quiet, which is a luxury I almost never get . . ."
Tank ignored the jibe and took a look at his surroundings.
They were in the lobby of what seemed to be an abandoned theater. Dusty, broken furniture were cluttered together in a haphazard mass in one corner of the room. Broken glass, dirt, and other debris littered the floor. The high windows were broken and boarded.
But what stood out most was the tattered, red flags—each emblazoned with a bold, black swastika in the middle of a solid, white circle—that hung from the ceiling, on the walls, and draped over the banisters of the double staircase that led to the upper floor of the theater.
Great. Still in Kraut-country.
Takeo and Nikolai lay on the ground near him. No, not just the ground. He realized now they were all on a pulsing, semi-transparent disk that was ringed by a metal frame. Another teleporter. But what was it doing here in the middle of a German theater?
The others were finally coming to—Nikolai sat up, rubbing his head, and Takeo raised to his knees. The latter clutched his stomach, looking particularly green.
"Where the hell are we?" Tank finally demanded.
Richtofen was still lying on his back, rubbing his chin. He was looking up at the teleporter's control board. It sprouted from the frame on a metal pole, snaked with wires, and stood about waist-height.
Nikolai groaned. "A better question is—"
"When are we?" the doctor wondered, interrupting the Russian.
Nikolai looked outraged. "No! Where the hell is my vodka?!"
Richtofen's eyes brightened and he raised his index finger in realization. "Of course!" He sprang to his feet and grasped the edges of the control board. There was a small display in one corner. He looked at it for a few moments before looking around at his allies. "The DG-Two must have overloaded the teleporter, ripping space-time . . . back-tracing us across the future! How wunderbar!"
Takeo then retched violently, leaning on the ground. His hand hit a glass bottle, sending it rolling through the dirt across the tile floor.
"Ahh!" Nikolai said with satisfaction, stopping the bottle with his boot and scooping it up. "There is my vodka! Thank you, Takeo."
Takeo merely vomited again.
"Oh, come on, Tak," Tank said impatiently, looking down at his prostrate comrade with some disgust. "Suck it up and walk it off."
Takeo scowled up at Tank, but he wiped his mouth and rose shakily to his feet.
"This is most intriguing!" Richtofen exclaimed, still at the control board. "The chronometer is still functioning, though it does seem to be a bit off. We've been dropped some twenty-some years in the future. Around late nineteen-sixty-seven. The DG-Two is capable of more than I ever dreamed! Haha!" He cackled with maniacal glee.
"Wait a second, Doc," Tank said. "You said the teleporter 'back-traced' us across the future. How can we go back to the future?"
Something flitted across the doctor's face then—something unreadable. But Tank was sure Richtofen knew more than he was letting on when he answered.
"It would take too much time to explain it to the likes of you, Dempsey," the doctor snapped. I shall have to dumb it down for you when I have the time. For now, suffice it to say that we are neither where nor when we were. Fortunately for us I know what this place is—und I know where and when we are! That should give you some hope, jaaa?"
"Well then what is this place?!" Nikolai asked, swigging from his bottle of vodka. "Where are we?"
"We are in Berlin, dear Nikolai," Richtofen answered. He reached up to rub his temples. "Exactly where, I am not certain, for I have only visited this place once before." He looked around, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand. "This is the theater where Doctor Maxis would have presented the teleporter to the German High Command—on the western side of the city, I believe. It's linked directly to the central mainframe in Der Riese. Maxis was never successful, of course."
The doctor smiled malevolently to himself. It was, of course, because of him that Maxis had not lived long enough to achieve his goals.
"I'm surprised it remained unmolested for so long. . ." the doctor continued, stepping over to an old wooden lectern that was piled high with documents. Richtofen began to sift through these, scanning the pages. "These are from Group Nine-three-five! Theories on the teleportation process. Treatises on the Wunderwaffe projects. Even the speech Maxis would have given! All in all, documents meant to be kept secret . . . here in the middle of Berlin! They should have been retrieved or destroyed long ago. This may speak ill of the fate of Nine-three-five. Although it is most fortuitous for us these papers are still here. Wunderbar!"
"Well that's all well and great," Tank said, cutting off the doctor's speculation. Richtofen shot him a look of annoyance. "But what does it mean for us? We're not from this time. What are we supposed to do? Where do we go? What about the freak-bags?"
"Be nice to the minions," Richtofen chided. The American could be so insensitive when it came to the doctor's patients. "As for what we are supposed to do, there is a lot of Nine-three-five technology here. If the condition of the teleporter is any indication, it may very well still be functional!"
The doctor walked off into the corner of the lobby. He muttered low, conversing with the voices that always whispered inside his head.
"Perhaps I can use it to get us back to our own time?"
But what if you stayed here and controlled the minions?!
"Well we could stay here, ja. But what if by this time the minions have been eradicated?"
Think of the advanced technology of this time! Science—and weaponry! We could recreate the experiments—improve them! There would be much bloodshed!
"Ja! But we just must be careful proceeding from this point. Samantha will have had years to brood by now . . ."
She may have power, but she remains a child—sheltered in the device—naïve and scared. We will take care of her.
"Oh, what joy!" The doctor laughed manically.