Wow I haven't uploaded in what seems ages...
To be honest, I was surprised that no one has done a Wolfenstein X COD Zombies crossover before. So I wrote one myself.
Disclaimer
I do not own any of the characters of names affiliated with Bethesda or Treyarch, yada yada yada.
Due to the nature of this story, it will contain constant references to Nazism and their war crimes. Nazism and all other extremist groups are bad etc etc. (This is my trigger warning XD.) If you find anything wrong e.g. spelling, historically or something that is not canon, (but hey this is an AU so that shouldn't apply), feel free to leave a comment. Thanks. Enjoy the story. It starts from Chapter 8 (Camp Belica) of Wolfenstein: The New Order.
Slowly the prisoners began to form lines as they were called to inspection. These 'inspections' were common during the last two decades and would often last for hours, but now, as most of the prisoners could no longer stand for more than a few minutes, the inspections ceased. So when an inspection was called, everyone expected the worst. Blazkowicz watched as two high-ranking Nazis began to stroll towards the group. They appeared to be deeply engrossed in a conversation that Blazkowicz could not understand. He recognised one of the pair. The one who only ever seemed to display anger. The one they called The Knife. Blazkowicz tensed and shifted his weight from one foot to another.
The other man, Blazkowicz did not know. A wide grin was spread across his thin lips. He looked like a contrast to the other, but Blazkowicz knew they were the same.
Behind him, Blazkowicz heard "not him" muttered in fear. Without moving, Blazkowicz murmured "who" largely to himself. His reply was a hoarse whisper, "The Butcher." He knew their names now, The Butcher and The Knife, it almost seemed fitting.
The Butcher began to lead The Knife along the rows of prisoners. Every now and again he would stop, point at a prisoner and state "diese hier". The Knife would nod in agreement. When he eventually reached, Blazkowicz, the Butcher stopped. He studied the prisoner and Blazkowicz did the same. He could see the insanity shining in the German's acid green eyes. Insanity and lust.
"Ein schönes Exemplar." The German breathed in wonder. Slowly he reached out brushed his fingers over the scars that lined the side of his head. It took all of Blazkowicz's will to resist the urge to punch the Nazi square in the face.
"Er ist einer von Frau Engel."
"Ich will ihn noch in Block 6."
"Nein. Ich kann das nicht."
"Auch für die Frauen?"
"Fein. Aber Sie wissen, Wie Frau Engel, wenn ihr es getötet wird."
"Mach dir keine Sorgen Sie selbst." The Butcher's voice was laced with morbid intent. The Knife was jealousy aware of the power that his rank held over Frau Engel.
Blazkowicz suddenly became aware of what exactly was going on. A sickening feeling began to rise in the back of his throat as it dawned on him that both the Knife and the Butcher were trading prisoners like children would with cards on a playground.
When the German finally moved on from Blazkowicz, he released a breath that he hadn't realised that he was holding. The prisoners watched in silent horror as the Butcher continued his inspection and when he was finished, he returned back to the Knife.
"Alles gut?"
"Natürlich."
Both men nodded to the surrounding camp guards. Blazkowicz tensed as a guard grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged him over to Block 5. This was a setback he didn't want. Set Roth was now back in the other Block. Blazkowicz would have to find a way back over there.
In total there were seven of them. Blazkowicz managed a glimpse behind him. About eight or nine prisoners were being dragged towards Block 6. All were female.
The walk from Block 5 to Block 6 was short. It was now that Blazkowicz realised that all of the prisoners that the Butcher had chosen were all of a similar build to him. When they finally reached Block 6, Blazkowicz suddenly felt a feeling of dread wash over him. Through the electric fence, he noticed that this area of the camp was deathly quiet. No one was stood outside, casually leaning against the high concrete walls. No one was sat in the brief amount of shade that the wooden shack provided, of which they were forced to live in. They were all inside. Blazkowicz watched in silence as the gate was opened. The guard threw him into the block. He fell to his knees, the hard dirt ripping through the kneecaps of his clothing. He stumbled to his feet and wordlessly followed the others towards the small wooden hut.
It was the smell that hit him first. The smell of blood and rot.
It took a moment for Blazkowicz's eyes to adjust to the limited light within the hut. He blinked rapidly. Bile rose to the back of his throat as the world around him came into focus. It was like being in the Medical Camp back in the war. He heard one of the men behind him give hoarse scream. All around them were bodies, bodies that had their arms missing, bodies that were missing their legs, bodies that were missing facial parts… eyes, ears. Bodies, all of the bodies stained a deep crimson. And somehow they were all moving.
"What… what is this?" Blazkowicz whispered.
"It's-it's the Butcher. We're his now." A man behind him began to shake. "No. That fence is better than this. I will not become his toy." Blazkowicz grabbed the man by the collar of his uniform.
"No. You will not give in to these Nazi scum." Blazkowicz hissed through his teeth. "We will stand up and fight."
"The war's over. Everyone knows that. We lost." The man began to pull himself away from Blazkowicz. "And now they can do whatever the fuck they want to us." The man, it seemed, had an odd resemblance to Private Wyatt, back when they had first met, in the cockpit of a B-17. And Blazkowicz did the exact same thing the moment they met, he slapped him round the face. The man in front of Blazkowicz blinked rapidly, as if he could not understand what had just happened.
"You're in shock." Blazkowicz uttered to the man. "You need to calm down. Deep breath, count to five, exhale." And with that, Blazkowicz entered the small wooden hut, followed by the others.
When Blazkowicz woke up the next morning, he was not surprised to find that someone had killed themselves on the electric fence. Only disappointed. And he felt worse when he found out that it was the prisoner who had panicked when he had first entered the new block. Blazkowicz sat dejectedly on the wooden slats that formed a 'bed', trying to think up what to do next. He was too busy dreaming, that he didn't notice when a young girl, no more than sixteen, came and sat next to him.
Large chunks of her long blonde hair was missing, as if it had been ripped from its roots. There were deep cuts along her face, all seemingly strategically placed, as if she was some perverted form of art.
"I believe in what you said yesterday." The girl's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to pull Blazkowicz from his thoughts. Her voice, Blazkowicz realised, was hoarse from hours of screaming and crying.
"They're playing with fire, letting these murderers live freely." The girl continued. They're ticking time bombs. Any day now, one of these murderers could turn on the Commanders."
"Well surely that's a good thing?" Blazkowicz inquired.
"You have been fortunate to have not met the Butcher like we have, but you must know that he is different to the rest of them."
"What do you mean?"
"The thing about the Butcher is he only goes for one type, unlike the rest."
"What do you mean by type?" The girl sighed.
"Blond hair, blue eyes." That explained a lot, nearly everyone in the Block matched that description.
"But shouldn't he be doing the opposite?"
"The man is a maniac. It's most likely some kind of insane envy. He is by far the worst, and Frau Engel has no restraint over him. He gets away with almost anything."
"That's why so many of you are hurt."
The girl nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Tabitha."
"Well, I'm Blazkowicz, and I'm gonna help you and the rest of this block." The girl frowned, almost tearful.
"He will hurt you, Mr Blazkowicz."
Gently Blazkowicz clasped her hand.
"I was trained to hunt Nazis."
They came during the dead of night, but yet everyone instinctively woke up. When they realised what was happening, the prisoners began to push each other in front of them, as if offering one another to the guards. But instead the guards appeared to be searching for something in particular and it did not take long for them to find it. The two guards, dressed in their pitch black, almost robotic-like uniform grabbed Blazkowicz by his arms and hauled him out of the hut and into the darkness of the night.
Blazkowicz knew what was to happen, but yet he did not struggle.
He was lead through a maze of white tiled corridors that smelt strongly of disinfectant.
It was only when Blazkowicz saw the heavily bloodstained metal slab, did he begin to struggle. He tried to pull himself away, but the guards grip was like iron and their armoured uniforms protected them from any blows that Blazkowicz could inflict. The two guards were also stronger than the American and appeared to have had experience in this situation. The pair lifted Blazkowicz onto the slab and quickly began fastening leather restraints around Blazkowicz's arms, legs and head as if his struggles meant nothing.
Once content that the prisoner wasn't going anywhere, one of the guards left the room, the other stood and watched.
Blazkowicz knew where the guard had gone; to fetch the man, the Butcher of Block 6. And sure enough, Blazkowicz could hear the faint click of jackboots echoing down the hall. He tensed and pulled against the restraints, in one last ditch attempt. The guard watched motionlessly.
Blazkowicz was panicking. He had to free himself, he had to get away so he could finish this Nazi and put an end to their regime of terror, but as the sound grew louder, all of that seemed impossible.
The door opened.
The two guards left.
The door closed. He was alone with the Butcher.
"Guten Abend." The Nazi smiled. Blazkowicz made no response, but the German ignored this.
"Bevor ich beginne, möchte ich Ihren Namen wissen." Once again Blazkowicz lay motionless.
"Durch mich zu ignorieren, werden Sie nur es selbst verschlimmern."
"Oder vielleicht, man kann mich nicht verstehen." The German paced around the room, fiddling with the knife in his hands.
"Vielleicht…" The German muttered to himself and then switched languages. "Vhat is your name?"
Blazkowicz made no response, but it was clear he had understood the question. Blazkowicz was prepared to answer none of the Nazi's questions, no matter what he did to him, but then he thought better of it, after all, it may not just be him who would get punished.
"William Blazkowicz."
"Blazkowicz, is zat a Polish name?"
"I'm no Polack. I'm American."
The German's eyes appeared to light up and the morbin grin drew wider.
"It has been so very long since I have had an American subject." The German drooled.
Wrong answer.
"So tell me Blazkowicz, vhat division vhere you in?"
"Division?"
"Ja, I have only ever met Marines. Zhey are supposed to be your best, are zhey not? But yet I found zhem zo easy to break." The German broke eye contact, glancing at the door. "Pity." Blazkowicz flinched, there seemed to be genuine remorse in the Nazi's voice. The more the German kept talking, the more reasons he gave Blazkowicz for wanting to kill him. Nevertheless, his talking was buying Blazkowicz more time.
"Rangers."
"Rangers? Well zhat is new. You see I have always been fascinated by you Americans und your way of life. It seems zo haphazard und chaotic. I'm vas thinking about writing a book."
"A book?"
"Ja, a book from all the information I have gathered."
"Gathered from where?"
A glazed look appeared in the German's eye as he giggled. Blazkowicz immediately knew the answer to the question.
The look of insanity remained on the German's face as he rose from his chair and neared the slab that bound Blazkowicz. The German caressed the knife in his hand. With no further conversation, the German trailed the knife along Blazkowicz's chest, ripping through his clothing and revealing his bare torso. The American tensed, but made no sound. Tears began to well up in his eyes as the knife continued its journey along Blazkowicz's body. He watched as the German stared longingly at the blood that began to run down his sides. Without even thinking the German brought his knife up to his lips and licked it clean. A soft moan escaped the Nazi, who shuddered in delight at the metallic taste. Blazkowicz watched in silence, unsure how to process what the Nazi had just done. Upon noticing the look of confusion on the American's face, the German brought the knife to the side of Blazkowicz's stomach.
"Blood iz ze most wunderbar zhing in ze vorld, ja?"
"You're messed up." The German smiled and sunk the knife into his body. Blazkowicz growled in pain. The Nazi retracted the knife. Blazkowicz was now watching the German's every move. Hunger shone in the German's eyes as he slowly reached out and dipped his fingers into the wound. Blazkowicz hissed in pain, but continued to watch as the German licked his gloved hands clean. Slowly, The Butcher reached for Blazkowicz's head and gently ran his thumb over the scars that adorned the side of Blazkowicz's head. With every stroke, the American flinched and a small trail of blood was left behind.
"Such vondeful scars you have, Blazkowicz."
"There's a piece of shrapnel two inches long in there, and you think is wonderful?" The German moved in closer.
"I could take it out for you." The German continued to trace his hands over the scars, but with a firmer gesture. "Think of the screams and the cries of agony it would cause." Richtofen moaned.
"No!" Blazkowicz yelled as he pulled against his restraints, only causing the German to burst into a fit of laughter. "Get away from me, you freak."
"But my dear Blazkowicz, I am a qualified doctor and it would not take long."
"I don't fucking care, I don't fucking care what you do to me as long as you don't go near my fucking brain."
"Zhat sounds like a bargain to me."
"Call it whatever you want."
"Vell in zhat case, if I can't go near your head, zhen I vill have to take your spleen." The German uttered in mock disappointment.
"Wait, what?"
"Oh do not worry, I have done zhis procedure many times, on subjects both living and dead, but whether zhey survive is another story." The German giggled sheepishly before bringing his knife up to Blazkowicz's chest. He dragged the blade along the skin, leaving a wake of red. Blazkowicz had been trying his hardest not to give the satisfaction of letting the German hear his screams, but it was becoming more and more difficult. A hoarse noise escaped from his throat.
It did not take long for series of deep cuts to cover the majority of Blazkowicz's torso.
The German stared in wonder. He appeared mesmerised. The sight of the red liquid welling up from Blazkowicz's skin was mouthwatering. The German licked his lips. Blazkowicz flinched as he once again noticed the look of hunger in the German's eyes, hunger and lust.
He could not restrain himself any longer. The German climbed on top of the operating table, on top of Blazkowicz. Not liking where this was going. Blazkowicz began to pull as his restraints, shifting his weight to try and get the Nazi off him, but instead the German grabbed Blazkowicz's arms and pinned him down. The German was now lying on top of Blazkowicz. He was used to having people lie on top of him, but they were always women. Slowly, the Nazi lowered his head and trailed his tongue along the bleeding cuts on Blazkowicz's chest. A moan of arousal escaped the German as the blood filled his mouth.
"Get the fuck off me."
"Nein." The German breathed. "Not vhen I have only just begun." The Nazi reached for his knife and moved closer to Blazkowicz's face. They were right on top of each other. Slowly and deliberately, the German trailed the knife along Blazkowicz's left cheek. He hissed at the pain. The German and the American were face to face. Blazkowicz tried to turn his head away, but the German grabbed his head and held him down. The German shifted out of Blazkowicz's view. He felt something warm and wet trail over the wound, causing it to sting. A continuation of moans told him that the German was licking the wound. He felt the German's tongue probe the wound to release more blood. Blazkowicz tried to shake the Nazi off him, but the other held him fast.
Moaning forced the German to withdraw from the wound. Blazkowicz could feel the Nazi's ragged breath against his neck. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, panting. Blazkowicz felt something hard against his crotch. He flinched in disgust when he realised it was the Nazi's own. He tried to squirm and writhe in order to get the orgasming German off him. The American's wriggling drew the German's attention back to his subject. He drew closer, as if to kiss him on the neck. He could feel the German's breath, smell it. Blazkowicz gagged, It smelt like rotting corpses. He could feel him licking the crook of his neck. Suddenly, thoughts of a different kind of torture entered Blazkowicz's mind.
Blazkowicz screamed. A searing pain shot through the crook of Blazkowicz's neck. He had expected the Nazi to stab him, cut him, hit him, but never did he expect him to bite him. He could feel the skin giving way to muscle as the German's teeth sunk into his flesh. The German began to moan as the metallic liquid filled his mouth. His grip on the American slackened and Blazkowicz felt blood begin to run down his shoulder.
The German sat up, the wound still bleeding. Blood was running down the German's chin. His blood. This and the pure look of insanity, caused panic to wash over Blazkowicz.
"Oh, I just want to drain your blood and bathe in it!" The German groaned as he trailed his hands over the American's body.
"You're fucked up!" Blazkowicz shouted.
"Why zhank you!" The German smiled as he dismounted the table. Blazkowicz eased and breathed a sigh of relief that the loony was now no longer on top of him.
He watched in the corner of his eye as the German placed the knife on the table beside him and picked up a large glass beaker containing a clear liquid.
"You... giving up... already, kraut?" But the German's evil smile told the American otherwise. The German poured the contents of the beaker over Blazkowicz's chest. He tensed, the liquid smelt like benzin. At first he didn't feel anything, other than being wet. Then he felt it. It felt as if his skin was on fire or a thousand hot needles were being stabbed into his wounds. Tears welled up in Blazkowicz's eyes, but he wouldn't let the German see them. He yelled in pain, and by instinct he tried to cover over his open wounds, but the restraints stopped him. He tried desperately to breathe, but his whole body stung. The fumes from the liquid made him nauseous.
Beside him, he could hear the German laughing uncontrollably as he screamed in agony.
Blazkowicz did not know how he lay there crying out in pain as the German laughed. Everything seemed incoherent know. He opened his eyes and stared at his grotesque inflamed skin as it leaked a watery red. His vision began to blur, his hearing gone, replaced by a buzzing. Blazkowicz felt like he was falling, unable to distinguish between illusion and reality. A sudden jolt of pain made Blazkowicz scream his way back to the room. He watched in horror as the German buried the tip of a knife into the left side of his abdomen. The knife sunk deeper and Blazkowicz screamed louder. Content with the cut that he had made, the German discarded his knife and plunged his hand into wound.
A wave of nausea overcame Blazkowicz as he felt the German's hand inside his body. Blazkowicz wretched and gagged, but vomited nothing.
Satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, the German reached for his knife and cut free the organ.
Blazkowicz's vision was blurring. He looked up one final time to see the German cradling a small dark red organ in his hands as he continued his demented laughing, before finally losing consciousness. The German watched as Blazkowicz's body went limp.
He could feel someone pulling him to his feet. The sudden rush of standing up caused his vision to fade completely for a moment, before slowly flickering back. He could see the two black silhouettes of the guards that dragged him. He felt the dirt floor of the camp before he saw it. The dirt was cool and soothing. He didn't want to move. He couldn't move.
Blazkowicz swayed as he embraced the escape that was unconscious.
The prisoners of Block 6 waited a few moments before finally approaching Blazkowicz, and when they did a few of them gagged in horror as they began to take in his wounds. They stared at Blazkowicz like a piece of art, the latest masterpiece by the Butcher.
"Why is he still alive?"
"Not why, how."
"Do you think he will make it?"
"I'm not sure." The other prisoners began to gather around Blazkowicz, like ritualistic display, all muttering questions or remarks about his condition.
Slowly and carefully they carried Blazkowicz into the wooden shack and laid him on one of the beds of wooden slats. They began to bind his bleeding wounds with the ripped sleeves and legs of their prison uniforms. This was not the first time they had done this and they all knew that it would not be the last.
They worked in silence. No words could describe his injuries.
A man hissed in pain, clutching his hand. His fingers were red and blistering.
"There is acid in his wounds."
The prisoners looked around at each other frantically. Water was rationed. One cup three times a day. Most of the prisoners had already drunk their meager ration. Together though, they were able to pool together about half a cup of water. They dipped the fabric that was their uniforms into the cup, hoping that it may dilute the acid. But as they bound the wounds, they became increasingly aware of how deep some of the cuts were and of a large incision on Blazkowicz's lower abdomen.
"He's taken his spleen." The words need not be uttered. They had all seen that tell tale stitching of the wound before and it only meant one thing.
"We are going to need medical supplies if he is to live." The lonely voice of one of the prisoners hung in the air for a minute or two of silence.
"Go and get Set Roth."
When Blazkowicz came to, his whole body ached. His vision was blurry. His eyes would not focus, so he closed them again. He could feel bile rising to the back of his mouth. He wretched a bright yellow.
"Get him some water." The voice he heard sounded distorted, drowned out by the buzzing of his incoherent mind. He felt a cool liquid slide down the back of his mouth and then throat, washing away the taste of vomit.
"Blazkowicz?" He gingerly turned his head towards the speaker.
"Set Roth?"
"Ah, so you do know me." He gave a ghost of a smile.
"I was supposed to rescue you, not the other way around."
"Don't worry, that still may be accomplished, but first you must recover."
Blazkowicz ignored Set and tried to sit up. For the first time Blazkowicz examined his wounds.
"He took a shine to you." Set said bitterly. Blazkowicz groaned.
"He took out one of my organs."
"Your spleen." Blazkowicz stared at the stitched wound. "It means he doesn't want to kill you, or won't intentionally anyway."
"That's reassuring."
"Although it is most peculiar." Set moved in closer.
"What is?"
"You wounds are healing quickly."
Blazkowicz said nothing, his body still ached.
"He injected you with something, do you know what it was?"
"I don't remember any needles."
Set frowned.
"He is not supposed to be experimenting if General Strasse or Frau Engel knew-"
"What?"
"The Butcher is not who you think he is Blazkowicz, but you will find out soon enough. But first you must rest, and I must find a battery."
The one they called The Knife lay dead on the ground. A pool of red leaking from his stomach where a knife herein lay. Blazkowicz pulled the knife from the body and signalled for the other prisoners to follow him. Around them lights flashed red and sirens deafened them as they made their way to Herr Faust, and to Set Roth.
Blazkowicz had a vague idea of how to get to his destination, but as the white tiles once again lined the walls, his heart sunk. He had been here before, and so had the others. These rooms belonged to the Butcher. Blazkowicz slowed and cautiously checked each room. Whilst he didn't find the Butcher, what he saw made bile rise to the back of his throat. Of the four small rooms he checked, three held operating tables, stained red. Blazkowicz entered one of the rooms. Strapped to the table was a body. He watched as the terrified, mutilated being took it last shallow breaths before becoming still. Blazkowicz swallowed and left the room with a new sense of purpose. He was going to skin that Nazi alive.
The last room was a storage room. It held medical supplies and other increments for healing. None of which, Blazkowicz imagined, had ever been used for what they were intended.
Blazkowicz took bandages and lotions and dispersed them amongst the others.
"Look what we have here, Irene will be pleased." Behind him was an officer Blazkowicz did not know, but the others seemed to recognise. He thought, perhaps, that he had maybe seen this officer with Frau Engel when he first entered the camp. Blazkowicz scowled as he raised his knife at the officer's luger. The officer smiled, ready to shoot, but Blazkowicz was not the only one armed.
A prisoner moved from behind the German and held him hostage, a knife against his neck. Blazkowicz edged closer so he could finish the Nazi and take his much needed pistol.
"Uh oh, has Herr Vinkle got himself in a situation?" The voice giggled childishly as he nonchalantly slipped his bowie knife into the back of the prisoner holding the officer hostage. He has seemingly appeared from nowhere. Everyone shifted away from the crazed Doctor. Winkle stepped aside from the fallen prisoner. He straightened his cap before aiming his luger at the prisoners. Winkle and the Butcher stood side by side as the band of prisoners divided, revealing their leader.
"Vell look vhat we have here." The German smiled as Blazkowicz came into view. The American stared at the Butcher. His stained leather apron tied over his black uniform, his bowie knife in his hand.
"Oh I don't know if I will have time to torture you all" He spoke to blade in his hands. He caressed it lovingly, smearing the blood over his finger tips.
"Your going to hell, psycho!" Blazkowicz yelled as anger and fury flashed across his face. The German merely laughed.
"Such defiance! It will be a pleasure to break you, William Blazkowicz." The look of hunger shone in the German's eyes and Blazkowicz knew that he must act. He charged at the German, his own knife aimed at the German's throat, but the German deflected it with his much larger bowie knife. Blazkowicz shouted in pain and shock, his hand had got caught between the two blades. A deep cut ran over the back of his right hand. Blazkowicz dropped the knife and held his wounded hand. It was bleeding heavily. The German threw back his head and began his twisted laughter. The other glanced between their wounded leader and the insane being the blocked their way to freedom.
Winkle merely watched, wanting no part of this saga.
He was caught off guard. Lost in his twisted happiness, he did not expect any retaliation. The other prisoners lunged at him and dragged the Butcher to one of the operating tables. Winkle deserted before the others could get to him. They bound the Butcher's head, legs and arms. The German's grin still remained, even as Blazkowicz entered the cell, his hand bandaged and in his left hand the knife.
"Me and you are gonna have some fun, Doctor." Blazkowicz brought the knife up to the German's torso.
"Oh, I bet ve are." The German giggled. Annoyed by this response, Blazkowicz began to hack and slash, only to be met with high-pitched laughter. Angered, the American continued and the laughter began to morph to into moans. Blazkowicz smiled, thinking that finally he had got to the German. But then he froze, it wasn't that kind of moaning.
"Oh it hurts zo gut." The German panted as he moaned once again. Blazkowicz grabbed the jaw of the German and held his knife over his eye.
"You fucking loony. What's wrong with you?!" Blazkowicz yelled in disgust. The German began to giggle.
"Blazkowicz leave him, we do not have time." The prisoners tried to pull the American away.
"I'm gonna make this Kraut scream if it's the last thing I do!" He brought the knife down hard on the German's torso and began to drag it over his body.
The German stopped laughing.
For a moment there was a look of pain and shock… and then nothing. He looked at the ceiling with blank eyes. Blazkowicz became certain that he had killed the officer and checked his pulse. But the officer was still breathing and a rapid pulse could be felt. Blazkowicz looked at him. He looked distant. Annoyed that this was an act, Blazkowicz trailed the knife along the German's cheek bone. The cut was deep and Blazkowicz could feel the knife trail across bone, but yet the German made no noise. He did not flinch.
"Blazkowicz, he's gone." This time the prisoners did manage to pull Blazkowicz away. He looked back over his shoulder before leaving the Butcher's complex.
"To use his words, 'broken'."
They could see Herr Faust and inside the robot sat Set Roth. Bullets and missiles rained down on the Nazis as he defended his position. Only there was one problem.
Between Set Roth and the prisoners stood a band of soldiers … and Frau Engel. She began to shout German and the soldiers opened fire. Only a few of the prisoners made it to cover. The rest were slaughtered. The soldiers began to move closer, but what they did not realise was that Herr Faust stood behind them. A rapid fire of bullets took out most of the soldiers. Those who did not move fast enough were thrown sideways by the robot, or merely squashed as they froze in shock. Engel stared in disbelief. She shot at the robot, only for her bullets to be deflected. Herr Faust grabbed the female officer by the face. There was a sickening crack as he writhed and squirmed. The robot threw her several feet, where she did not move.
Content that there were no more Germans, Blazkowicz ran over to Set were he mounted the ghastly robot.
From there on, Blazkowicz lay down covering fire as the prisoners made there way to the garage and entered the many transports.
With the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the escape felt like it had only taken seconds. Blazkowicz looked over his shoulder as he left the camp. Immediately, Blazkowicz raised his pistol at the target that was following him. Behind him was the Butcher. His uniform in tatters, blood seeping into his shirt. The cut below his eye was bleeding profusely, as red streamed down his cheek and neck. He stood there motionlessly as he watched Blazkowicz take aim. The permanent grin had been wiped from his face. Instead there was a blank expression, one that Blazkowicz could not understand. Blazkowicz expected the German to call for backup, now that he had found the escapees, but he did not. He just watched with some kind of faint interest.
"What's he doing?"
"I don't know." Blazkowicz lowered the pistol. "I don't think he knows either." Blazkowicz stared at the floor of the truck as it slowly began to accelerate. "Someone fucked him up real good. And we pushed him overboard." Blazkowicz looked at the others. "We all know the Nazis's policy for insanity."
"He'll be dead by tomorrow."
Blazkowicz nodded.
So I gave up on writing my dialog in German as you will later on see. If you want me to change this, let me know, but I know someone's gonna be like "why they speaking English if they're in Berlin?" Also I started writing this, before The New Colossus came out so things may change or don't make sense etc. I may end up re-uploading this when I do finish the story. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, feel free to leave a comment. Enjoy the rest of your day. :3