Chapter 4: The Procedure is Started
October 1943, Italy
The night was a cacophony of gunfire and explosions. All he could do was run, rifle in hand, and dive into a hole. Dum Dum Dugan was right behind him.
"There's gotta be at least five mortar companies out there!" Dum Dum yelled.
"Radio B Company! Tell them we need cover!" Bucky ordered.
"That might be tough!" The private clutched his radio.
Another voice. "Sarge, behind you!"
Bucky spun, aimed, fired. "Here they come!"
"I hate these guys," he heard Dum Dum's exhausted declaration.
The German soldiers prowled through the darkness. Too many of them. Bucky held his position, picking off as many as he could.
Then a streak of lightning brightened the night, only it didn't come from the sky. It sizzled along the landscape, wiping out German and Allied soldiers alike in seconds. He'd never seen anything like it.
Suddenly, it was quiet.
"What the hell was that?" someone asked.
He had no idea. Slowly, he and his men climbed out of the hole, surveying the field. A few straggling soldiers remained, retreating, but they, too, were disintegrated by the horizontal lightning.
"That looks…new," Dum Dum remarked.
Bucky saw the lights first, then heard the groan of the engine. A tank rolled over the hill. He couldn't tell whether it was German or Allied, but as its cannon swung around and aimed for them, he realized he and his men were the next targets.
"Down!" he yelled, leaping back into the hole.
The world exploded into light and electricity.
-0- -0- -0-
Pain came next. His head pounded. His chest hurt.
"Wake up, Jimmy."
Jimmy?
A hand on his shoulder. A gentle shake. He opened his eyes to see a pale face and a red mustache. Dugan.
"There you are!" Dugan smiled. "Gave us a scare. You landed on top of me, took the brunt of it, but looks like you'll live. Thanks, by the way. You're lucky you got the edge of it, else there'd be nothing left of ya."
"Don't mention it," he croaked, then straightened and winced against the pain in his head, chest, and back.
Metal bars surrounded him. He, Dugan and a few others were trapped in a round metal cage that was barely standing room. The only light came from dim lights in the ceiling. There were several cages, filled with men. The ceiling was a metal grate.
Shit. "How many captured?"
"Well, not all from the 107th. It's hard to get a count, but at least 300 men, maybe 400. Some have been here a while, from the looks of it," Dugan answered.
"What the hell was that weapon?" He leaned forward, and Dugan gave him a helping hand to his feet.
"Never seen a damn thing like it."
His other questions were cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps. Black-clad soldiers, armed with large rifles approached. Their heads were covered by hard helmets.
They barked words in German as they unlocked the cell and ushered the men out. Bucky limped along, playing up his weakness, and caught Dugan's eye. He waited until they approached a doorway, and when one of the guards broke off to open the door, he made his move.
He spun, sending a fist into the guard's midsection behind him, and made a play for the rifle. Dugan followed through, and they scuffled. Bucky had the guard on the ground, his hands wrapped around the rifle, when something hit him hard at the base of his skull and sent him into oblivion.
-0- -0- -0-
When he came to, he was on a hard floor in a large room. "Get up!" A voice commanded in English, German accent. He looked up into a hard, chiseled face and the muzzle of a gun.
"Work, or die."
That was pretty clear. With a groan, he got to his feet. Dugan and the other men were already there, several feet away, carrying large pieces of equipment.
The asshole Germans expected him to work for them? He'd be damned if he was going to help them make weapons to kill Allied soldiers. He—
The butt of the gun smashed into the side of his face, and he tasted blood. Lights danced in his vision.
"Hey!" Dugan exclaimed. "I heard your boss talking. You need men to work. You kill him, that's one less pair of hands and you might not meet whatever precious deadline you have."
The guard glanced over his shoulder. Bucky heard the sound of something hard hitting flesh, then a thud and a curse. So much for Dugan's mouth. He wasn't called Dum Dum for nothing.
The gun cocked. Cool metal pressed against his temple. He didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until he opened them and saw the guard's sneering face above him.
Message received. He had a decision to make fast. A bullet to the head or work and hope they'd manage to escape or be rescued. The bullet probably wouldn't hurt. It'd be over fast. He swallowed hard. It was one thing to know he might die, quite another to have death pressed cold and hard against his temple.
He imagined his folks receiving a telegram about his death. His mom would be devastated. His father would try to be strong. Ruth and Margaret would grieve, but he figured they'd be okay, but Becca…
Damn.
And Steve. Steve had no one. He'd already lost both parents.
"Okay." Bucky rolled over and forced himself to his feet. Then, he worked.
He worked until he couldn't work anymore. He spent the nights in the cramped cage, barely sleeping, knees against his chest because there was no space to lay down. The area smelled of urine as men peed between the bars into the walkway. The guards hosed it down every morning as the prisoners were taken to the factory floor.
Time passed in a blur. At least a couple of weeks, by his count. He lived in a perpetual state of pain, hunger, and fatigue. Hygiene was minimal. They got a hose down and shave once a week. Men that were too weak or sick to work got dragged away. He never saw them again. His chest never healed. It was on fire. He coughed his way through the factory labor, tried to stifle them at night so the others could rest.
They swapped men around the various cells, putting different races and divisions together. It was their way of making sure no one got too close to one another, no group had time to plan an effective uprising. They seemed to pick men they hoped would antagonize one another. It was an effective strategy. By the end of each day, the men were too tired to plan much of anything. In the mornings, they were frustrated, sleep-deprived, grumpy and usually bickering or throwing punches.
Several times, he had to pull rank and order men within earshot to stand down. If they were in the U.S. army and below him in rank, they usually listened to him. Usually.
After one particularly grueling 18 hour-day, they shoved a kid in the cell with him, Dugan, and Gabe. The kid was all legs and arms, tall and lanky, with blue eyes that reminded him of Steve. He collapsed on the floor with a groan, bent at an uncomfortable angle, his legs pressed against Dugan and one arm hanging through the bars.
"Hey, kid." Bucky gave into a cough and shifted on his butt. "What's your name?"
"Private Simmons. Paulie, Sir." The kid lifted his head and blinked at Bucky.
Hell, there were tears in those brown eyes. Don't do that, kid. "Where you from, Paulie?"
"Hoboken, New Jersey."
Bucky gave an exaggerated huff. "Jersey? Really? You gotta be kiddin' me. The army'll take anyone these days."
The kid shifted and groaned, his face a mask of pain, but there was a glint of fire in his eyes. "There ain't nothing soft about Jersey. If you weren't a Sarge, I'd deck ya."
"You can't even lift your head, much less your arms. If you can manage to get your scrawny Jersey ass up and take a swing at me, I'll give you a freebie."
Paulie's lips twitched upward. "Where you from?"
"Brooklyn," he said proudly.
"Fuckin' New Yorker, huh?"
"Yep."
"Too bad you don't know what a real sub tastes like."
Bucky grinned. "You don't even know what a proper sandwich is called."
Paulie was silent, and Bucky figured he passed out, but sometime later, his weak voice broke through the hum of hushed conversations from the surrounding cages.
"Sarge?"
"Yeah, Private?"
"You think we have any chance of making it outta here? I got a girl back home. Married just before I shipped out. She's staying with my folks."
"Yeah, there's a chance you'll see her again," Bucky said and shot Dum Dum a look that told him to hold whatever retort was on his tongue. Now wasn't the time for a smart remark. Dum Dum gave a curt nod and leaned his head against the bars.
"The tables will turn, and when they do, the Germans won't know what hit'em," Dugan said.
"It'll be okay, Paulie," Bucky said. He was lying. Their odds of escape were slim. A rescue mission would be too risky. He knew Colonel Phillips well enough to know the man wouldn't risk good men on a suicide mission.
"I'd cut off a pinky for a sub right now," Paulie said, "piled high with all the fixins, extra cheese."
Bucky's stomach grumbled at the thought. Yeah, kid, me, too.
"God, I wanna go home," Paulie sighed, and his voice broke. He turned his face into the bars and wrapped his arms around his midsection.
Bucky wasn't surprised when the guards came for Paulie. Bucky was probably next on their list. He couldn't do much, but maybe he could buy Paulie some time.
"Hey." He grabbed a metal bar and pulled himself to his feet as two guards lifted Paulie. They ignored Bucky, so he careened forward into them. Maybe he'd piss them off enough to take him.
He got a baton to the left cheek that put all the lights out.
-0- -0- -0-
The next day, he was back on the floor, head pounding, chest tight and angry. Every other breath was a cough that felt like a knife slicing his lungs. When his legs gave out, the guy Bucky learned was Colonel Lohmer was all over him. A baton to the ribs. A boot to his groin.
And, damn, did that hurt like a son of a bitch!
Bucky was a mass of pain. He heard Dugan's voice, angry and loud. The dummy was going to get himself killed. Rolling onto his stomach, Bucky forced himself to his feet. The room spun. Dugan was at his side, holding him up. Somehow, Bucky managed to keep working.
Just before the end of the shift, a chain broke. A pile of junk equipment carried by the crane fell on Lohmer, turning him into a puddle of flesh and blood. There was chaos, and Bucky barely managed to keep his feet beneath him as they were shoved back into their cells.
"We took care of him, Jimmy," Dum Dum said. "They can't prove anything, but they're reducing our rations for a week."
Bucky wheezed heavily, but he still managed to glare at Dum Dum. "Stop calling me Jimmy." Only his folks and his sisters called him Jimmy, and if he thought about them right now, he'd break. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Call me Barnes…or Bucky…or," he coughed, and it was bright, hot agony all over, "…Sarge," he gasped.
And, thank you, but you shouldn't have done that, Dum Dum. He was a gonner either way, and the men were already working on rations that were barely a step above starvation. They couldn't afford to get any less.
An image of his mother's face coalesced in his mind, and he tried to push it away, but it was there, almost as if she were right in front of him. Then her voice, full of love, trembling, "Oh, my little Jimmy. Stay safe. Come back home."
The heat of tears stung his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids closed. Sorry, Mom.
Dugan laughed. "Okay, Barnes, whatever you say."
When they came for him, Dugan put up a fight.
"Stand down," Bucky barked, coughed, then he met those stern, pained, angry eyes, and managed a smile. "Thanks."
The guards dragged him down the hallway, through the doorway, along a long corridor, and into another room. It was dark. The walls were red brick. Dr. Zola stood near a worktable in front of a large map, a twisted smile on his pudgy, round face. Bucky gazed at the map on the back wall, studying the location markers, hoping to commit them to memory. A black-clad guard stood at attention against the wall.
On the table in the center of the room was Paulie Simmons, bare-chested and limp. His chest was still and his head rolled toward Bucky. His eyes stared lifelessly ahead. A dried line of blood ran from his nose. Hanging above him was a medieval-looking device with three sharp protrusions that looked like the horror child of a needle and a drill bit.
"Sergeant Barnes, right?" Zola was in front of him. "Today is your lucky day. You will be granted a chance at life. At greatness…if you survive."
"Go to hell," Bucky wheezed. "I'm not telling you anything. Might as well just kill me now."
"Don't worry. I won't ask you any questions about your silly allied strategies. That is not why you are here today. Today, you will help advance science."
The guard against the wall moved to the table, unstrapped Paulie, and rolled him off the table. His body hit the floor hard, a pile of lifeless flesh.
Goddamnit! He felt the tears welling, tried to push them back, but a couple escaped, plopping onto the hard floor as the guards dragged him to the table.
They lifted him, dropped him on it and fastened the straps across his body.
"I hear you have pneumonia and cracked or broken ribs." Zola stood over him, a needle in his hand filled with blue liquid. "As I said, today you are lucky. You have a chance at recovery.
Bucky steeled himself against whatever was to come, falling back on his training. Name, rank, and serial number. "James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038." His eyes followed the needle as it came down toward him. "What the hell is that?"
Zola merely smirked as he plunged the tip of the needle into the jugular vein of Bucky's neck. The liquid carved a path of fire into his chest.
It felt like his insides were being incinerated. He gritted his teeth and clamped down on the scream building in his throat. The room suddenly felt stifling. His body became soaked instantly, sweat pooling on his chest, neck, and armpits.
Mercifully, he passed out.
-0- -0- -0-
Something pulled him from the darkness. He opened his eyelids a slit to an assault of bright light, inches from his face, and promptly slammed his lids closed again.
"Sergeant Barnes, welcome back." Zola's voice carried an undercurrent of excitement that gave Bucky the creeps.
"James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038," he recited.
"You are special, Sergeant. You are the only subject to have survived this far into the procedure."
There was a soft squeaking of something above him, then a couple of clicks. His heart picked up speed, bucking like a wild colt inside his chest. He didn't know what the machine with the three menacing protrusions did, but he very much did not want to find out. He kept his eyelids squeezed against the painful light, focused on the string of words he knew so well, and tried not to think about where on his body that machine would be used.
"James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038."
"Bear with me, Sergeant, through a bit more testing before we proceed to the next phase," Zola said, his tone maddeningly conversational.
At what point during Zola's testing did Paulie Simmons die?
Bucky's sleeves were rolled up beneath the straps, and metal wrapped around them. Something was pressed against his temples, one on each side. Hands gripped the side of his jaw firmly and shoved a hard thing in his mouth. He tried to turn away, to spit it out, but the hands held him tight, and a band slipped around his head, holding the object in place. It touched the back of his throat, and he fought against gagging.
This was not good…so very, very not good. This was happening, and there was nothing he could do but try to ride it out with enough dignity to make his folks proud.
"James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038." He tried to keep his voice steady as the machine hummed to life. He could feel its vibration through the thing in his mouth.
Then every nerve in his body shrieked, blasting a wail from his throat even with the thing pressed against the soft tissue. He faded in and out. Sometimes he wasn't sure whether he was actually screaming or merely dreaming that he was. He couldn't tell how much time passed. It was dark and then it wasn't. Light cascaded into the room from the paneled windows. German words floated around him, spoken in hard, clipped tones. He smelled urine and blood. His own?
Forcing his eyes open, shapes coalesced into men, towering around him. Guards. A round face wearing round glasses. Zola. The scientist.
The machine had been returned to its waiting position. It looked almost sentient, as if it were studying him.
Hurried footsteps echoed. Then a tall man appeared. Bucky recognized his angular face and rigid posture. Schmidt. The head honcho.
That couldn't be good.
Schmidt peered down at him as if studying a dying insect.
"We are close to success," Zola said, and Schmidt looked over at the scientist, one eyebrow tilting upward. "As you can see," Zola continued, "this subject has survived. We are attempting to stimulate cellular growth. Erskine used Vita Rays, which are difficult to generate. However, with the power derived from the artifact, I believe success is merely a matter of time. The wavelength must be precise. A couple more days, and I should have the modifications needed to accelerate the process."
Process? Growth? What the hell were they trying to do to him? Bucky twisted his right arm slowly, hoping to wiggle enough give into the straps to slip his limb free. He had to be subtle about it to avoid detection.
Fortunately, Schmidt had turned his steely gaze to Erskine. The scientist walked to a table against the far wall, and Schmidt followed. They hovered over sheets of paper. Two guards stood at attention—one near the doorway, and the other a few feet behind Schmidt.
The straps were tight, restricting his chest. He sucked in a deep breath to force resistance against the bindings, and—
Holy shit. He could breathe without pain, without coughing. Maybe the doctor was testing a new drug—like that miracle cure they were calling penicillin that made the news last year. If it wasn't for the deep pit of hunger in his stomach and the throbbing in his head, he'd actually feel pretty good.
Is that what they were doing? Researching battlefield medicines to give them an edge in the war? Testing experimental drugs designed to treat wounded soldiers and send them back to the frontlines quickly?
"I look forward to your progress, Doctor," Schmidt said, walking toward the door and giving Bucky another glance.
Bucky stilled his arm and did his best to appear too dazed to pay attention.
As Schmidt's footsteps echoed down the hall, one of the guards left, leaving Zola and another guard in the room with him. Zola peered down at him, a jagged smile on his round face as he grabbed the device above the table and swung it into position above Bucky's head.
"We're beginning trial number six on subject number twenty-seven. Make a note." Zola looked up at the guard, who nodded and moved to the table.
Twenty-seven subjects? Oh, Christ. He said a quick, silent prayer for each of them, then focused on the rest of Zola's words. Trial number six? That round-faced asshole's count was way off. There had only been two times he'd used whatever the hell it was that sent Bucky into—
Zola unraveled two lines from the menacing machine, slid them onto two of the projections, and pressed the other ends onto Bucky's chest. Microneedles penetrated his skin, feeling like rough sandpaper. Bucky sucked in a steadying breath. Zola flicked a switch on the control panel next to the table, and every thought Bucky had was driven away by sizzling agony.
He came back to himself with the drone of German words—Zola's voice—floating through the air. The room was dark. His skin tingled, and that was the only sensation that registered to his brain. Without it, he couldn't even be sure his body was still there. He didn't feel his heart beating, or the breath going in and out of his lungs. He couldn't feel his hands or his feet. It was as though the connection between his body and brain—except for that maddening tingle—was broken.
A low sound rumbled in his ears. Was that a groan? Did it come from him?
"Sergeant Barnes, you survived the initial procedure, and you are doing remarkably well through the trials." Zola was suddenly leaning over the table. "I believe a few more trials will yield success. You are to be the new Fist of Hydra. Say it."
Bucky twisted his arm beneath the restraints. Loosen these straps, and I'll show you my fist. He wasn't going to let some smug mad scientist break him. He was a Brooklyn kid, and that's how he was going out. "Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 325—"
Another flip of a switch turned his insides to fire.
He opened his eyes to rays of light streaming above him. It was day…or were those lights from outside? How much time had he lost? He didn't know.
God, he was hungry. His mouth felt like cotton. He'd kill for a sip of water.
His head lolled to the side as he took in the room. Zola was seated at the table, scribbling furiously on a notebook. Bucky scanned the room. Where were the guards?
His heart picked up a frantic rhythm. He saw no signs of anyone other than Zola. Bucky twisted his right arm, slowly, back and forth, working the straps the best he could. If he could get enough slack to slide his arm—
Zola shifted, and Bucky closed his eyes. A chair scraped across the floor. Footsteps approached. A squeak from above told him Zola was adjusting the equipment above the table.
Bucky's mouth went dry. He wasn't sure he could make it through another round. A weight pressed on his right side, and Bucky cracked his eyelids open just enough to make out Zola leaning over him.
And there, in a holster beneath the jacket, was the cool metal of a small firearm pressing against Bucky's forearm. It was out of reach, unless he could bend his elbow just enough-
"Zurück, Doktor!" a booming voice commanded.
Bucky wrapped his hand around the handle as a black-clad guard appeared, yanking Zola away from the table. The gun was still clutched in Bucky's hand, and he swiveled his wrist, aimed the best he could, and fired.
The guard dropped and Zola ran from the room. This was the only chance he'd ever get, and he wasn't going to waste it. He clutched the gun, peering down at the straps, and aimed the barrel at one of the connection points, then fired.
The room filled with guards and their batons. He hears Zola yell "Stop!" just as the end of a stick slammed into his temple and sent the room spinning. He clung to consciousness—barely—as the gun was yanked from his grip and straps tightened, pressing into his flesh and stealing his breath.
"You fool! You could have killed him!" Zola barked.
An angry retort in German, and a brief argument ensued. Something hard jabbed unexpectedly into his right side, and the air rushed from his lungs. Zola's face was inches from his own, twisted and angry.
"You will use that boldness in service of Hydra, I promise you."
Bucky held Zola's gaze and recited his name, rank, and serial number just before another flick of the switch robbed him of rational thought. His body revolted, the back of his head thudding against the table, and the scream that tore from his throat left a wake of pain.
When it finally, blessedly, stopped, he languished on the table, limp, sure that there were thousands of tiny needles stabbing him all over.
