Single seconds wheeled on for days as Klaus watched the officer raise his weapon. With excruciating clarity he felt his own heels striking downwards to the collected horse, her powerful loins contracting like ripcord upon contact the very same moment the pistol was level with him. With a lurch forward the air beside his shoulder compressed, near instantaneously reverberating with the crack of a gunshot. In a great beastly surge Kelpie charged ahead and the officer was forced to leap aside from her storming path. Klaus ducked low in the saddle as she broke unchecked into a gallop, hammering on the pavement and barreling for the roadblocks.
Blinded by the lashing rain and wild motion he could not identify the other blurry forms rippling towards their position. Gunshots and shouts snapped all around, echoing through the muddy street as they raced for the barricade, the reigns slipping painfully through his injured hand. There was a grunt and he saw through the corner of his eye gloved fingers stretching out and with a violent snatch grasping his coat and pulling him off balance. But with a sudden lurch the distance was closed and they tore away, airborne and rising over the poles.
Kelpie let out a horrendous scream as they crashed into the razor-wire lining the other side, stumbling her landing and nearly falling to her knees as she kicked frantically off. Like a snare the wires tightened and closed about them, tearing into the horse's legs and letting great streams of blood. Startled, Klaus fought to rein her back but in a craze she thrashed and howled, attempting to rear uselessly before losing her footing on the slick pavement. With painfully slow consciousness Klaus felt them go down, hearing the world with an instant of clarity all the voices and gunfire.
They collapsed into the razor nest, he grunted as he slammed into the pavement, searing blades cutting through his arms. With a rush air left his lungs but he immediately fought sluggishly to gain his feet, wrenching his leg free from the limp horse. With a strange moment of recognition he saw that she was dead, shot through, but he took no moment of hesitation and began to scramble panting through the entangling mess.
Focused in pain like an animal he twisted and ducked along the steel maze, hauling the supply bag with him, hearing ricochet and shout and feeling a hot burning develop along his calf. With a grateful lunge he shot out free from the trap and broke into excruciating sprint, boots faltering on slick concrete. A wild second later he was turned down a narrow alley, scrambling over broken glass and piles of debris, not thinking. The world was clear and he moved with it reflexively, vaulting with unreal strength over refuse, low and weaving and putting every meter possible between himself and his pursuers.
They continued to cry and curse and bellow behind him, but the gunshots became less frequent before halting entirely. With a backwards glance Klaus saw only the barriers he had crossed and with a sharp reflex turned down another alley to throw his pursuers off. Space contracted, there was no time to think, yet the world seemed silent but for his strained breath and pounding heart and the hammering of his boots on mud and stone. Another turn and he started to calm slightly amid the deep and muffled bones of the city still smoldering, pursuers long out of sight.
Splashing unceremoniously through a deep puddle he ducked into the gaping entrance of a building, instinctively seeking the gutted chambers toward the back. It appeared to have once been a bakery, though he saw little that resembled such a familiar establishment as he slipped past a shattered display counter, all that remained were damp charcoal smears and crooked appliances. Finding a particularly dark corner in the kitchen Klaus crouched down into it, trying to calm his breathing and suddenly feeling a spiteful pain erupt from his leg. Baited, he tenderly felt around the knee, noting the fluid that had begun to swell in the joint. Then there was another, more slick sensation. It was only then he realized he'd been hit, a bullet had grazed the back of his calf carving a bloody crescent through the skin.
The injury wasn't so grievous, but regardless it was a frightening discovery. Klaus leaned back against the tiled wall, exasperated and shaking, doing his best to calm down, fogging breath condensing on his glasses and feeling ever damper, chilled, and feverish.
He listened carefully to the outside world beyond the sloppy murmurs of the downpour. Any sign, any footstep could be hidden indeed amid the scrabbling echoes, but he detected not a sound out of place through the endless needling of the rain. With slow and deliberate movements, haltingly to listen, he then started into the supply bag for some bandaging, feeling gingerly about through the meager contents.
Just outside the kitchens in the front of the shop a crush of glass was disturbed.
Klaus felt his whole body drain as he froze, half-panicked, trying desperately to form any thought. Another instant and he was up crouching, a severe limp dragging himself low and carefully below counter-height, searching through the blasted wooden cupboards for anything. A steel glint revealed a small promise. Klaus picked out the long serrated knife from splintered wood, gripping it tightly. He paused, hearing still again slow shuffling and uncertain as to what to do, as to any odds or possibilities. Compulsively he was moving again, a maimed beggar in the dark, stealing against a wall and hiding in wait, breath ragged and shallow, hair sodden and dripping. Flattened near the buckled cooling racks he held himself short, peering tensely through obscured lenses, not a single thought passing through his mind. Time seemed to stretch forever as he waited in space, in the dripping grayness of that kitchen, poised on the edge of an abyss.
A footstep, a shodden foot in the doorway and he sprung, rushing forward with all the ferocity of entrapment at his heels. Registering a gun too late, a hand – his hand – a knife driving for the other's chest and glancing uselessly against mounds of winter fabric. With a vicious heave the man slammed bodily into Klaus, shoving him back, grappling for the knife. Painfully twisted under the onslaught he felt his knee start to give way as it bore the weight of the attack. In a stilted and desperate struggle he lashed out and dragged the officer down with him, pitted muscle for muscle. They hit the mud and tile unevenly, the iron grip on the knife loosening just perceptibly. With a wrench and half second later he was looking on into an expression of shock, the man twitching and coughing and smearing the blood which poured from his gaping throat.
Klaus shivered in the kitchen, watching him, slowly remembering the rest of the world and the aching rain. Carefully he picked himself up, pocketing the dropped pistol and ammunition from the dying man, pausing to try and form any thought or action beyond clouded senses. He staggered, his head swimming under the weight of the dark and cold kitchen, the presence of the man and the blood and the yawning maw of his situation. The uncertainty however lasted only moment, and with automatic and nearly uncritical actions he gathered the supply bag and hobbled to peer cautiously out into the storefront. It appeared as though the fight had gone by unnoticed, though there were sure to be more police around. Quietly he shambled low out of the kitchens, wary of the windows and street, only aware that he could no longer stay in the bakery.
The avenue remained empty save for dust and debris and wells formed from the downpour. Furtively he slipped across the road to another building blasted unholy, his leg paining him ferociously and his injured hand stinging from the other man's blood. It was with a bizarre and reeling determination he moved, nearly side-long in exasperated and mindless effort, no concept of hope or planning. Just the endless cascade of actions, falling rhythmically into one another like the relentless beating of the rain. Slogging ankle-deep through water Klaus mounted the stairway to a townhouse, drawing himself heavily up with his good hand along the railing.
An instant later and he found himself thrown backwards with a brutal force and a flash in his vision. His world upended, his leg hyperextended, a gasp and a flail emitted as he saw in slow motion his attacker presented before succumbing to a tidal pull. In an explosion of muck he crashed into the deep puddle of the street, completely disoriented and writhing in the mess, all possibilities forgotten. Spitting up water and unable to see he fought weakly against a grapple, nearly vomiting from a savage blow to the gut. Thrown over he felt his hands restrained concretely in front of him before being dragged roughly onto drier pavement. With blinded silt-laden eyes he searched about for any target to strike, struggling to right himself with cuffed hands. This invited a kick that sent him sprawling on his back, coughing through the pain. Klaus curled, gasping silently as a fish, heart pounding relentlessly.
"Hey! I got him!" a winded and weary voice called from somewhere overhead before two groping hands started to move about his person searchingly, finally locating the pistol and removing it.
Moments continued to hurtle by, Klaus writhing in the mud as footsteps sounded through the downpour. Another kick laid him flat and he then settled back compliantly, ceasing his struggle and attempting to regain his breath. Klaus then squinted, trying to make out his assailant. Only blurry shapes came through stinging vision, the form of one man and several others approaching.
"Good work." one of them said.
"He came out of the bakery over there, that Amsel was clearing."
"Amsel come out?"
"No."
Two of the men went off into the bakery and Klaus rested, doing his best to collect himself through the pain now raging in his body, feeling hot and stressed despite the freezing earth. After a short period there was a call.
"Amsel's dead, sir."
There was a long pause as the rain continued its endless procession. An audible sigh. Out of the corner of his eyes Klaus just caught a glimpse of another foot come careening into his side, snagging a rib and with a shock surely breaking it. He gasped through clenched teeth and fought the staggering need to retch, head spinning.
"You fucker!" came a cold cry and a harsh bark, "Get him out of here!"
Roughly he was then hauled by the shoulders and forced to stand upright, though his injured knee failed immediately, useless. Jerking forward he limped, half dragged along by two men towards some unknown destination in a bleary world. He felt cold and pained, not knowing what was to happen. Yet at the same time there was a pronounced absence of panic within him. No slithering fear wrapping itself around every chord and crevice. Instead he was possessed by a profound feeling of emptiness, untethered and completely hollow. Death was coming sure as the rain and it no longer seemed necessary to ponder the particulars of his fate. Resigned he only struggled to move, neither aiding or resisting his captors.
Quietly he regretted not being more careful, but for some reason this outcome seemed entirely reasonable if not inevitable, there was no greater consciousness beyond coldness. He had, at the very least, fulfilled his obligations and had gotten Monika to safety. Any other success truly was gratuitous.
After an agonizing distance the silence of the misty backstreets gradually gave way to a general clamor of vehicles and horses and men. They neared a staging area for the military and after another long march passed into a building which appeared to be a private residency. The floors creaked as the three men moved along the hallways, silent, then through a door down into the cellar. The atmosphere radiated the chill and damp, and the busy street outside faded to eerie silence with each sinking step.
Klaus was seated in a chair, his hands cuffed behind him to it. Gratefully he rested his leg and watched the unsure images of the two men remount the stairs and disappear above. There he waited, for a protracted period it seemed, straining his ears for any sound from the outside world though none were offered but for the vacant echo of emptiness. There, seated and injured, he felt his mind start to wander. From wound to wound to the dirt on the floor. It was odd that they had chosen not to simply execute him, after the distance and the struggle and the nature of his crimes. It would seem then, that they wanted information. A confession maybe? Though that could just as easily be fabricated in the paperwork.
After some time the quiet solemnity of the basement of was disturbed, the cellar door swinging open and several officers descending the steps. Klaus continued to rest, head down, half bracing for whatever was to come. In the mire of pain and weariness images flitted across his mind like evening swallows. The warmth of summer sunlight etched against the dark conifers of the forest, endless rows of vines and the hillsides and the baking of the hard earth beneath them, people milling about at the market. Places he had wandered and the sights, the sounds and smells that remained. He sighed, drifting away and wondering, tired. Whatever came after death it would be a relief. It was hard to believe sometimes, that anything could be so sweet as the life he had already lived. Yet even the promise of peace and rest, in annihilation, was enough to be a comfort.
"Klaus von Gersdorff," came a voice from elsewhere, unfamiliar, "I don't have much time to waste on you, so let me be clear. You are a murderer, a traitor, and have resisted arrest. Do you deny any of this?"
"No." Klaus replied, still not lifting his head to look at the man who addressed him.
"Then you are aware of how we will deal with you. There will be no clemency. However," there was a pause, "we also know that you did not act alone. Your surgical assistants have already been brought to justice, but there were others. To this end we may be of assistance to one other. Do you understand me?"
Klaus did not answer, wrenched out of quiet apathy with a pang of icy regret. The assistants were not informed about what was occurring, not entirely. The risk of exposure had been too great, though he wished he could have gained their willing consent. Nadel had in fact fled the operating room during his last surgery. The only other option though, actually aiding the State through their facilities, was equally unconscionable no matter how difficult it would have been for some of them to realize.
"Mr. von Gersdorff, either you provide this information voluntarily or we will extract it from you." The man continued, "I'm sure you realize what we are bargaining here, and it is more than you deserve. Treachery is a serious enough offense, but now I have to inform the family of the agent you murdered earlier – a man devoted to public service – that he will not be coming home today." Again, there was a lengthy pause, "What will I tell Mrs. von Gersdorff when we are finished here, I wonder?"
Klaus snapped his head up, staring at his interrogator.
Oh my god.
The man – one of medium build, well-proportioned, and dressed in plainclothes as the rest of the officers – gave a dry chuckle. "Ah, so I see that's enough to bring you to attention. Yes, we have apprehended her. And your actions here will determine much of how we proceed."
Klaus's mind started to race, above all things with wild despair. How could this have happened? They had flown away, they should have crossed the border easily into France and beyond the front lines. Hirth was an exceptional pilot, or so he had said. With such a small fabric aircraft, low to the earth, they should have been able to slip by. What had happened? Engine trouble? Were they shot down?
This was it. It was over, he had failed in the only thing he needed to accomplish. His only desire left in the world thwarted. She was not safe. She would be killed, just as he would. Klaus looked up at the man, whose eyes met his own unflinchingly. He couldn't believe it. It simply couldn't be.
"How?" he asked through a thick voice.
"How?" the man responded.
"How did you capture my wife?"
"I'm sure you can understand, Mr. von Gersdorff, information of that sort is not something I can divulge to you." The man continued, pulling over a chair for himself before being seated, facing Klaus.
Klaus watched the man, carefully, before responding, "If I'm dead anyway, what difference does it make?"
"Exactly, Mr. von Gersdorff. It makes no difference in this scenario, and I choose to follow protocol rather than break it." There was a pause, "However, before we neutralize you there is the matter of your accomplices." He looked somewhat empathetic, "I need this information and to resort to more forceful interrogative techniques in this situation would be unfortunate. For you, for me. For your wife, if you understand me."
"I understand you."
"Good."
"I want to see her."
The man gave another mirthless smile, close to a grimace, "That's out of the question. I'm not here to offer conditions to the likes of you."
"I don't believe you have her." Klaus responded, setting his jaw and glaring. In truth though, he didn't quite know what to think. The one hold he had, the one certainty upon which he had relied was now called into question. It felt as though the very earth beneath him had started to slip.
"Are you really in the position to make those kinds of gambles? Over her well-being?" the man replied, with slight ire, "Let me be perfectly clear with you, if you do not cooperate her fate will be match yours exactly. Do you really want to be responsible for that?"
In the depths of the cellar a sound from the outside world then penetrated, impugning the cold detachment in the subterranean chamber. It took the form of a crazed and ominous rumble, which tremored through the paved floor and set the hairs on the back of Klaus's neck to stiffen in visceral understanding.
The door to the cellar flew open, a voice calling down, "Sir! They've detonated the bridge!"
Instantly the man rose to his feet, "Ready the cars and get him upstairs." he ordered before mounting the steps quickly and disappearing above.
Klaus was uncuffed from the chair roughly then, by the other men, and hauled to his feet. Exhausted after all the effort in the day he could barely stand under his own power, his knee was stiff and had swollen severely, though the bleeding in his calf finally seemed to have stopped.
Upstairs there was chaos all around, papers being gathered and some others burned in wastebaskets and officers at various intervals moving quickly. They passed into the street, where Klaus could hear the revving and heavy rumble of equipment on the move. In front of them two black cars parked on the curb among others, waiting. Into the back of one he was unceremoniously shoved and sat, handcuffed and at gunpoint, doing his best to rest against the stress and uncertainty. The rain had started to slacken off in the time he had been in the basement, however long that had lasted. The streets glistened in a dull manner, deep puddles reflecting a gray and lifeless sky. Various men, all dressed inconspicuously in a uniform kind of way, were coming and going between a few houses on the avenue, moving luggage and piling them into cars. It was a bizarre sort of operation, almost practiced, preformed with muted actions and hushed voices.
The whole scenario was unusual, Klaus reflected. He didn't quite know, not exactly, but it seemed that the officer had been lying about Monika. Even then, was it because the man was a bad interrogator? Or were his personal hopes clouding his judgment? For if they truly had her, then he would have no choice but to divulge all he could in the bleak promise that she would be spared his fate, though in all likelihood she would be put to death regardless. It was also strange that there was no mention of Hirth, who in fleeing would have clearly implicated himself in their subterfuge. How could they have missed him in their investigation? Perhaps it was sheer luck.
So if Hirth had in fact escaped investigation, then naming him and his assistants would jeopardize them all. But if he refused to cooperate, they might resort to torturing Monika for information in addition to killing her.
Klaus sighed, leaning further into the seat. It was so difficult to ascertain the truth. How could they have possibly gotten Monika and not Hirth? Or not know about Hirth? Perhaps he was dead already and they had resorted to Monika for information. His stomach dropped.
Perhaps she was already dead.
He frowned, closing his eyes. It was too much, an overwhelming sense of sorrow and failure began to worm its way insipidly through his gut. It was all useless. All the pain and fear. He might as well have spent his final moments with her instead of separating them, if they were in fact fated to die so clearly with everyone else. Instead of running and scrambling and losing himself in all the chaos. It was madness. Klaus continued to watch the packing of various paraphernalia – radio units, typewriters, reams of paperwork – continue to be piled in various vehicles.
How could they have hoped for anything else?
Several more officers then climbed into the car and after only a few moments they started away, moving quickly through the desecrated streets against the rising flow of military personnel. A strange sense of doom seemed to permeate the air and hang upon every face. It was not a reeling echo of self-pity or fear, but something else. A kind of acceptance, a surety of annihilation. There was no way out, all avenues were closed now.
He wondered why they didn't just shoot him. What point could this investigation possibly have, when the enemy armies were so clearly about to cross the Rhine? They would roll unhindered to Berlin, the regime would fall, yet like a beheaded chicken the mechanisms of the State would continue to spasm in these final days, cart blanche executions and all. No mercy, senselessly pursuing some bizarre idea of justice. It was stupid. It was pointless. All the time better spent preparing for the days to come after the war. The heavy reparations. The protracted famines, subjugation and dissolution.
Klaus sighed, watching the car ahead peel away the boiling mists which still lay heavy on the roads. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind long and filthy channels amid the ruts and stones. They bounced along, causing him to wince in pain amid so many afflictions. His body could not take much more abuse, that final run had rendered his leg useless. His fractured rib made breathing an ordeal and his hand was at risk for an infection. It was a miracle he had not taken ill yet, though it was surely coming.
Bracing his elbows against the seat Klaus shifted slightly to take some stress off of his ribs. Outside the battered remains of Karlsruhe eventually gave way to the forested hills of the countryside. Had this been any other situation, had he been in better physical condition, there might be an opportunity to escape. But as of now he wouldn't make it ten meters before being shot. He doubted he'd be able to walk at all in a few hours with so much inflammation in his knee.
Then even if he could escape, where would he go? If they had captured Monika it was pointless to try – a fact they were probably entirely aware of. It was paralyzing, this question. But if they didn't actually hold her, the longer he remained captive the further and further east he would travel, injured, all the closer to execution. Was self-preservation worth the effort and agony it would bring him? Could he do it even if that meant her suffering?
Klaus sighed. The ride had thus far been silent, the other men in the car contemplative and set. He found it curious that they did not speak, though his presence might be the reason why. They were all about his age, dressed discretely as their profession dictated, and bore the same expression of haggard weariness about them. The one in the back seat with him, holding the pistol, kept glancing out the window warily. As they rose up into the hills the mists gave way, offering an uninhibited view of the destruction behind them.
It was a saddening and maddening revelation, as smoke climbed churlishly from the wreckage and the fog. Towers and houses, charred and torn like a rotten scab, piercing through at odd intervals. It was awesome to even consider that souls still crawled amid the ruined heaps, worthlessly, stretching their existence into a broken promise. Klaus was loathe to imagine what had happened to Stuttgart, what he should see there in the light of day. Though perhaps the thought was not as offensive now as it was in the past. Reality had been difficult, yet overwhelmingly consistent of late.
But the remains of Karlsruhe were not apparently what had interested the officer with the gun, for he continued to peer with concern behind them, squinting his eyes past the devastation. After a few moments he finally spoke, pointing back.
"Look, those are the planes!" he with a regretful kind of excitement, "The ones with the strange engines."
The officer in the front passenger seat bent around to take a look out the small window. Sure enough the faint marks of large aircraft could just be seen in the distance, uncommonly massive with an odd tail that came to the shape of a T. "What about them again?" the officer asked disinterestedly, turning back around.
"They scream," the other replied, still looking behind them, "It's a weird noise, I don't know how to describe it. They can move faster and farther. I heard one can make it from Sydney to Istanbul without refueling."
"Bullshit. There's no way they could still carry cargo."
"Hey, that's just what I heard," the man replied, "and who knows if it's true? But you know what they've been saying, and I haven't seen a single one of our planes in the sky for over a week now."
"Our planes are where they need to be." the driver said flatly.
The officer with the pistol continued to watch the aircraft, which hung eerily in the air. They seemed to be fixed in place as great and strange omens. "I think they're going to fly over us," he said after a while, somewhat nervously.
From the front seat the other man turned around again, more urgently. After a short while it became apparent there were eleven of the aircraft in formation, though they still hung with little apparent motion some ways distance. Then, with a quiet kind of horror those figures started to bloom, exploding in breadth and girth. They were of monstrous proportions, with two massive engines and great drooping wings unlike anything Klaus had seen before.
And the noise they produced was tremendous, setting shocks of cold down his spine and the hot sickness of intuitive panic in his gut. What started as a low whine quickly erupted into a cascading screech which reverberated through the air with obscene indiscretion. It felt as though their ears would split, the sound was so permeating with an echo and a roar.
In an instant the great aircraft had passed over them, the thunder in their wake rolling and quaking. Everything seemed to buzz in the trail of the retreating planes with a kind of electric energy. Klaus watched the other men in the car, who had gone pale and muted.
"Heaven and earth…" the driver muttered, absently, stooping low to follow the planes until they were lost amid the trees.
"See, that's what I was talking about," the officer with the pistol said, "it's completely unreal, those things. And you see those engines? No propellers." There was a pause, "What kind of aircraft doesn't need propellers?"
To that none of the other officers responded, frozen in reflective silence. It was a fair enough question, truly, though the appearance of the planes had more been deeply unsettling. This Klaus understood sure enough.
The car in front of them then pulled over to the side of the road and their driver followed suit. It was a few minutes before anything happened, they simply waited there amid the dark and towering trees, engines humming and exhaust pipes smoking. Then a few men got out of the front car, moving towards the boot. Inside there was a portable radio, which one operated as the other lit a cigarette. After a while the passenger side officer then got out and walked over to join the men, discussing something.
Klaus watched them uneasily. He had no idea where they were going, but the appearance of those aircraft – whatever they were – seemed to be a fateful sign.
Minutes went by, the perhaps one half an hour before the man on the radio was finished. There was a quick discussion between the three before the passenger side officer returned to their car. Instead of resuming his position in the front seat however, he came to the rear door.
"Alright Mr. von Gersdorff, it's time to get out of the car."
Klaus looked up at the man, time suddenly slowing to tremulous seconds. He could hardly stand and was half dragged from the vehicle before he was finally freed, open on the ground, hands still bound before him. The officers stood around, a few pulling casually on cigarettes.
"Given present circumstances the decision has been reached to close this investigation." one of the men said, though Klaus could no longer understand who. The road seemed endless, it could have stretched forever. Its surface was infinitely imprecise, ragged and coarse. A contradiction to how slick it actually felt. How smooth it could really be.
With a slight push he and the officer with the pistol then started away from that road. He staggered under his own weight, over the soft pine cushion beneath his feet. The air was chilled, freezing it seemed though spring should not have been so very far away. Snow still lay thick in shaded areas, though it was sickly and pock-marked from pummeling rain and the slow degrade of time. The sky above was too bright for an overcast day, with dark trees arching away like the bars of a cage. Everything was still and taut, like it could crack the instant should something dare to pluck it. Like a single shout could blast away bark, could blow the needles into the air.
Nothing was to be heard though but for the cold crunch, the lolling idle and exhaust, his own breath. Fading in and out.
Another push and his leg twitched and buckled in pain, and he was upon his knees. Settled on the cold and soft forest ground, damp seeping in from the earth. He thought he could feel, just outside the edge of consciousness, a humming sensation. A low trembling in the forest floor as if the roots themselves held some sort of vast rhythm. It seemed to slip away as soon as it was grasped, as a thought locked in a dream.
And not a sound in the air but for the cold breathing. Not a sound. With colors bright and etched as rust.
So that was it, it was the end. As though a great second hand had come unceremoniously to a halt. Somewhere on the side of the road away from Karlsruhe. Amid a cold winter forest.
Pained, Klaus closed his eyes, bracing. Outside his vision he could sense the hand of the officer rise and level, in a vast span of time. What could there be in a last moment, other than a flicker soon extinguished. He thought of her in a flash more feeling than memory. Everything that they had held in so many years too few.
It was enough for him.
In that moment where there could never be more.
But then there was a moment where he couldn't quite remember what was happening, but he could be certain then there was a shout. There were gunshots behind him. Klaus turned to look around back at the road with surprise to see his executioner running towards the other officers, they were taking cover by the cars.
Without hesitation and lunging up on his good leg Klaus moved towards deeper into the forest, half hopping as useless as it was, overcome with a wild flash of hope. Recovered from a hair's breadth of death. Hands still cuffed he struggled to balance himself and to stifle a coarse and unexpected smile. It seemed like an endless distance, but ahead he was certain there was a drop in the terrain and perhaps a hope of concealment within. Time was agonizing yet splendid as he limped along, closing the final few meters to the edge of the slope. Klaus then started down, gratefully, half sliding on the needles slick with frost leading into the small gulley. There at the bottom then he lay himself down carefully beneath a thicket and remained, on a cold patch of snow, breathing heavily and absently watching it rise into the sky. He stilled himself and listened, exhausted from his efforts and deeply bothered by his wounds, yet alive all the same.
Distantly now, above the sounds of a nearby stream, the firefight still continued, echoing abruptly through the trees. There were men shouting to each other loud and hoarsely in what sounded like English. Then with a shock and a shudder there was an explosion, and just like that it was over. The gunfire ceased, and the muffling silence of the forest seemed to descend again to blanket everything in hushed tones.
Klaus sighed, fighting a creeping smile and rising hope. There could be little doubt as to the outcome of the fight. What was more, it would appear that the area would come under control of the enemy forces. It couldn't have been better luck, it was a godsend. After a little medical attention he'd simply have to make his way to Paris, without fear of capture or imprisonment or execution.
He had done it.
Klaus didn't quite know what to feel then, or what exactly he was feeling. It was a strong, very nearly overwhelming sense of relief mixed with a robust kind of bitterness, even resentment for the exhaustion and the injury and the weight of his experience. Yet it was pleasant all the same, like the warmth of the sun after a long and harsh winter, a sweet permission to relax. He felt as though he could fall asleep in that thicket, and finally rest.
But the snow was cold and the forest barren, and with a little reluctance he picked himself back up. It was difficult, looking upon that slope again, to imagine how he would climb with the condition his knee was in. Klaus stood there for a moment, considering his options.
Then, almost as if on cue, a man appeared at the edge of the gulley.
And Klaus immediately recognized him, it was unmistakable.
The man was an Australian.
Note:
1/7/13
Hello, long time no sass. Very sincerely, there has been no update because things have been insane. May was spent moving and unpacking my household not once, but twice and frantically rehashing plans/finances due to an ever-present familial monkey wrench which hurls itself into the most carefully laid agendas at every given opportunity.
I've been in Germany since early June, part of the time visiting a now very good friend who I met through a review on this same story almost a year ago, part of the time bicycling like a hobo. Right now is the hobo part. So while I have been working on an update, it's been via old-fashioned pen and paper, in the evenings, after 8+ hours of cycling over terrain which is more often than not, steep. Not a whole lot has been getting done, but regardless I hope to type/post it in the next couple of weeks, which is when solid internet access should happen.
Later, when I return from the Alps (where I am headed now) back to relative civilization I fully expect to spend much more time writing, since there will be little else to do than harassing my friend with repetitive jokes about her face (es ist eine Schlampe, sollste du dies lesen).
So that's about it. Also, I feel obligated to throw this out there. If you're interested in something like fresh air, a rockin bod, meeting new people, challenges, extended trips abroad, and not spending a whole lot of money - bicycle touring might be for you! Yours truly discovered bicycle touring from a friend in college, which lead to a solo cross-continental tour complete with life-changing experiences and personal growth. So, I'm always trying to get other people into it. Kind of like a travel-hack, it is. Message me if you want to know more.
That's all.