Emanations of Hate

Chapter 3

Pride may or may not be a sin, but a good argument can be made for it occasionally being a necessity. Thinking that he may be a poor excuse for a soldier and a weak man, (and maybe crazy came the dark and despairing thought from that part of our brain that seems bent on our self-destruction) Andrew Carter stood himself up with the idea that Newkirk might choose this moment to whip open the door and find him cowering and defeated on the ground.

After a few more moments he began to consider his situation. Taking a deep breath, he ordered himself to calm down. He might be a fool, he thought to himself, but he wasn't going to be a baby. Newkirk couldn't keep him locked up in here forever. Even if he had left, he'd still have nowhere to go but back to camp, and then Colonel Hogan would find out what had happened and he would make Newkirk come back here and let him out. Probably make him apologize too!

Unless Newkirk didn't go back to camp. Maybe he's not going back! Maybe he's decided to escape! That made Carter pause for a moment, then he got a hold of himself again. The Colonel and the others knew where he was. If he and Newkirk didn't come back, the guys would come looking for them. All he had to do was wait. It might be awhile, but he could wait it out. He just had to sit still; he became determined that the others would find him calm and composed.

Unless Newkirk goes back and tells them I got lost somewhere else!

No, I don't believe that. Not…not even after what he said. He couldn't stay mad that long. But an ugly doubt sprouted at the back of his mind.

What if Newkirk took the truck and escaped and the Colonel thinks I've gone with him? The guys will track the truck and won't come here!

No, the Colonel wouldn't think we'd run out on him, answered the more logical part of his brain.

What if there's only so much air in here?

Uh oh. He didn't have an answer for that one.

Suddenly the room felt very small.


Carter might have been relieved to know that Newkirk hadn't in fact been there when he had ordered the British Corporal to open the door. If Peter Newkirk had been asked when he had slid the bolt closed what his plan had been, he would have said that he only meant to play a joke on the younger man, and would have been surprised if anyone had thought any different. But the moment that that door was closed, a strange pleasure rose up in him. Unaware of Carter's pleas and unable to explain this smug and almost giddy enjoyment, he was nearly laughing as he started up the stairs.

Upon reaching the doors however, this feeling had subsided just enough to leave him feeling conflicted. The resentment that had been burning away in him for over a week began to feel different. It was still there, even stronger in a way, but if felt…alien. Two separate parts of his brain began to argue with one another. One part was just beginning to realize with disbelief the full impact of the things he had said to the man he considered one of his best friends. Horrified guilt hit him and he sat down on the steps just under the door, guilt which then fed the resentful side.

Why should you feel guilty over that little sod? How dare Carter make you feel guilty!

But it's my fault! And why did I take it out on him? He's got nothing to do with it!

Sure he does. Do you think he's any better than any of them? Besides, he's an annoying, thick-headed, pain in the arse, just like you said. What's it going to hurt him to be stuck in there for a bit? Everyone will probably be happy to be away from the irritating little bugger for a few hours - they'll finally get some peace and quiet. Why not go get a drink? Better yet, why not leave for good? You're going to catch if for sure once that damn chatterbox tells Hogan what you did, and don't think he won't either. Why not go home? Back to England, back to Mavis. She's the one who needs you. You should have been there for her. And why weren't you? Because you were stuck here with these arrogant Yanks!

He had actually pushed open one of the doors before the essential reasonableness and decency of his nature made him stop, but even though it was strong enough to keep him from leaving, it was still dominated by the anger which kept him from going back down to free Carter.

He sat at the top of the stairs for a good long while.


Convinced that Newkirk had left outright, a nudge of panic had brought another option to Carter. Despite thinking that it might be smarter to stay near the door in case Colonel Hogan and the others showed up, he decided to see if he could find another way out. The idea of managing to escape and making his way back to camp without having to beg to Newkirk was particularly appealing. He considered it a long shot, but the picture of lording it over the Brit that he couldn't get the best of Andrew Carter was enough to get him going, even compared to the thought of scrambling around in the dark and putting his hands on god-knew-what. Pass the time anyway, he considered.

Starting at the door he began to rub his uninjured hand up and down the walls. He even entertained a brief hope of hitting on a light switch, but then thought that even if he did there would be no power for it. Longingly he thought of his dropped flashlight. Newkirk could have at least thrown that in here with me. Soon reaching the first corner - the room wasn't that big and he didn't know whether to be grateful for that or not - he turned and within a few feet hit a shelf. A bunch of shelves. He ran his hand along each one.

And nearly cried out with joy! It couldn't be! A lantern! It was, and with its discovery he remembered his matches. He laughed out loud and then felt sheepish. Geez, why didn't I think of those before?

Don't get too excited now. It probably won't even work, probably been down here for years after all. But finding the lantern was the first thing that had gone right all day, a day that felt like it had already lasted about a million years and was nowhere near being over, and Carter seized on this small hope. Grabbing the matches out of his pocket, he fumbled his hands over the lantern and managed to get it lit.

Light shone out and Andrew Carter welcomed it with all the gratitude of someone who had been given sight after years of blindness. For a few moments he simply basked in the sheer comfort of its presence, and then, with the conviction of the newly hopeful he looked up at his surroundings to see…

Nothing.

Nothing of importance anyway. The room he was now in was relatively small and contained nothing more than the shelf case and a few odds and ends. Two more lanterns, a shoe that looked like it belonged to a child, and half a broken pencil were all that he spotted as he did a quick turn about the room. Must have been just a storage room, he thought to himself.

But then why would they put such a big bolt on the door?

Telling himself that it was probably because they kept something valuable in here when the place was in use and just because it wasn't here anymore didn't mean anything - like that there was another way out - and he wasn't going to get lucky twice in one night, he nevertheless started to examine the walls again. Holding up the lantern, which gave a muted, dim glow and smelt a bit funny to him, he went over every inch of the four walls. Getting no reward for his effort, he held the lantern up even higher and stared at the ceiling, even warily climbing up the first two shelves of the shelf case. He sighed. If there was a trapdoor up there he couldn't see it. Probably couldn't get up there anyway, he reflected; even at the best of times he wasn't a very good climber.

With his previous hope diminished, he began to examine the floor with indifference. Even if he found something, he'd be going in the wrong direction. Eyes to the ground, he scuffed his feet along the floor to the far end and then back again. Despondent, he felt that sinking feeling that comes with giving that last little bit of hope up, when he happened to glance at the base of the shelves.

There was a line there. It stood out a few inches from underneath the shelf case and he could barely make it out. Bending down, he set the lantern on the floor and ran his right index finger over it.

It's there! It's really there!

He let out a laugh and jumped up. Moving the lantern, he struggled to push aside the shelf case and laughed again when it swung out like a door to reveal the outline of a square cut into the floor. He felt almost giddy. I might actually do this!

Gripping with his right hand he managed to pull the hatch up a few inches, and then, despite the pain, he gave in and used both hands. The hinges squealed, but it came open. Panting slightly, Carter smiled and then grabbed the lantern and peered downwards.

Stairs!

Carter hesitated. Down won't get me out, and I really should stay in case someone comes for me. They might not think to look behind the door and I won't hear them calling if I go too far down. Biting his lip, his glance travelled back and forth between the door to the main room and the hatch. In the end, despite knowing it might not be smart, he went down. Walking the room, looking for a way out and not finding one, had left him feeling very alone. Very alone and very isolated. Even more than showing up Newkirk, or showing the guys that he could take care of himself, he simply wanted to be out of there.

He started down.


It was an extremely narrow passageway - guess that Schuler fella doesn't look anything like Schultzie, Carter smiled to himself - but shorter than the one that had brought them to the main room. Still, it was long enough to the exhausted Carter. As he slowly worked his way down a steady stream of thoughts began to run through his head.

Boy, I wish I was back home. I wonder what the guys are doing. Probably sleeping away; don't even know I'm gone. Well, they know I'm gone but I bet they sure as heck don't know about this yet. About Newkirk locking me…But that made him think again about what Peter had said to him. Quickly he tried to shy his mind away from that thought. Stopping for a moment he felt a shudder in his chest, and after one soft sob escaped, he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth and forced himself not to think about it. Instead, he began to wonder when it was that he had begun to think of Stalag 13 as home. This lead to thoughts of his real home and all the things he wanted to do when he got back there. Things like riding his motorcycle, in daylight and with no one trying to capture me or shoot me; like going for a walk in the woods, in daylight and with no one trying to capture me or shoot me. After each item his mind chorused the same phrase. Still, in a strange way, he started to feel better as all sorts of activities danced through his brain, activities that didn't involve darkness, and creepy tunnels, and always looking over his shoulder. He was becoming lost in his thoughts when a sharp, scraping sound raced through the darkness in front of him, just outside of the light cast from his lantern.

He halted.

Just a mouse, he told himself. Just a mouse, or a rat.

He started moving again.

Coming to a landing, he saw that the stairs turned around. Carter judged that they would lead him directly under the main room. What good will that do? Wondering whether or not to turn back, he then figured it couldn't hurt to go on. Soon that brought him to another door, much like the one Newkirk had shut on him.

He really, really did not want to open that door. He didn't even want to touch it.

The air around him, which had seemed simply stagnant before, felt oppressive and heavy now. Breathing in, his lungs felt thick, as if the murky air was filling them with fluid, and his skin felt grimy and almost sticky.

You're being stupid you know, he told himself sternly.

Still he didn't reach for the door. A palpable presence seemed to emanate from it, as if the door itself was alive. Standing there, he thought he could almost feel an energy coming from it; a thrumming that hit his eardrums but didn't quite register as sound. The longer he stood there the more he thought he could feel it vibrate through him. Suddenly there was a loud murmuring sound directly behind him. Sounding like a hundred voices talking all at once, they were noisy but indistinct; he couldn't make out a word. He jumped and spun around in surprise, but as soon as he did the sound broke off abruptly, so abruptly he would have sworn it had never been there at all.

His voice faltered, "N…Newkirk?"

Silence.

"Newkirk, was that you? Are you following me?" he called out a bit louder. "You're not going to fool me Newkirk. And I'm getting pretty tired of this." Maybe I should go back up.

To what? A locked door? You go up and you'll still be trapped and then you'll just have to come back down. Before he could stop himself he reached out and slid back the cross bar and opened the door.


Inside, Carter tried to convince himself that he had been foolish for no reason, but he couldn't seem to slow down his racing heart. Then his light flickered and dimmed. He froze, paralysed, his hand gripping the lantern's handle so tightly it left an indentation on his palm.

Please don't go out. Please don't go out. I just couldn't stand it! Please, please, please don't go out! He didn't dare to breathe.

After suffering through an eternity, the light stabilized. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Then, shakily, he started looking around. What he saw surprised him to such an extent that he momentarily forgot his fear.

"An operating room?" he said out loud.

A charnel house, a voice answered, tickling his ear.

Carter let out a choked scream and whipped around, dropping the lantern which flickered wildly yet again.

"WHO SAID THAT?" he yelled. He waited and then - voice quivering - he said, "Newkirk, was that you?" A quaking hand reached out for the lantern.

"Look Newkirk, if that was you just tell me. I…I promise I won't tell the Colonel about any of this. Honestly. Just tell me if it's you."

Anger welled up in him when he was again met with silence.

"Newkirk, if I find out it's you…well, you're sure gonna know I outrank you!"

There's no one here. You're only jumpy because you're tired, that's all. There's no reason to be scared. No reason at all. He did his best to steady himself and continued on with his search.

He turned around the room once slowly, the weak light of his lantern reflecting eerily off of the white tiled walls closest to him, but doing nothing to penetrate the dark corners and far reaches of the room. Once or twice the light caught on a metal surface, and the glint of it in the corner of his eye spooked him, making him think that something was moving around behind him.

Maybe I should go back up. Hopefully the guys are looking for me by now! He realized then that he hadn't given a thought to his mission all night, and now he was so turned around he didn't know in which direction the Colonel had wanted to build his tunnel. I'll just take a quick look and then I can tell the Colonel I looked all over.

He took a couple of steps forward and then stopped again, suddenly determined that there was no way he was going any further, not even for Colonel Hogan.

It was the smell. There was the faintest lingering scent of chemicals, a sort of harsh antiseptic smell, but it was the smell that was underlying it that brought him to such an abrupt halt. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew that he didn't like it. It was something a good hospital wouldn't want to smell like. Iron? Meat?

"Blood. Flesh," said an implacable voice and a cold hand moved up Carter's spine and grabbed hold of his neck. His heart seized in his chest, a primal and terrifying panic gripping him as it seemed to refuse to start beating again.

All around him were things he knew shouldn't be there. That couldn't possibly be there.

"NNUUUNNHHHH!" Carter half moaned and half screamed as he broke free and dashed for the door. Tearing out of the operating room and towards the stairs he could hear laughing. His breath came in huge, hitching gasps as he tried to race up the stairs as fast as he could. The feeling of icy fingers grabbing at his ankles, right through his boots, made him stumble and bark his shin. Letting out a panicked whimper, he frantically scrambled back up. He felt tiny brushes against his skin, cold and sticky like cobwebs, pulling at him. Swinging his lantern around him with a wild, convulsive desperation, he tried to keep them away as he ran. Unaware that he was sobbing, he shot through the hatchway of the supply room and rushed the door.


Boredom was what finally drove Peter Newkirk back down the stairs. Sick of the indecision between taking off for once and all and returning to Stalag 13, he reluctantly listened to common sense and came to the conclusion that if he was going to go he would have to tell Colonel Hogan first. Otherwise Hogan would have him up for desertion and he wouldn't even get out of Germany. Which meant that, for tonight at least, he would have to go back to camp. And to do that he would have to bring Carter back with him.

And that meant that things were not going to be pleasant for him tonight.

So he had procrastinated, despite knowing that the longer he left that mug locked in there the worse things were going to be. Finally though, he had got tired of sitting there, not to mention a cold bum from sitting on the stone step. Deciding that it was time to face the music, he was still angry and resentful enough to be rebellious and he began to look forward to the inevitable confrontation. Just let them try and start up with me!

On the other hand, he realized he'd be working from a better position if he didn't leave Carter here. So he started down the stairs, basically indifferent to Carter's reaction to it all, and thinking far more on the argument facing him once they got back to camp.

At the bottom of the stairs he was met with a terrific hammering sound coming from the door he had closed on Carter. Instinctively he started running towards the door to free his friend, his previous anger evaporating. From the sound, Newkirk realized Carter was banging against the doors with both of his fists. The daft bugger is using his bad wrist. He must really want out. Then he realized something else: Bloody hell, he's screaming!

Carter wasn't just screaming, he was shrieking. "NEWKIRK! LET ME OUT! PPLLLEEASSE LET ME OUT! GOD, GOD PPLLLEEASSE LET ME OUT!"

"Carter, what is it? What's wrong?" he shouted.

"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!"

The English corporal had never heard his friend like this. Fear seized him as he grabbed hold of the cross bar and tried to pull it open.

"CARTER! CARTER! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" Damnit, it's stuck!

"NEWKIRK PLEASE! DAMNIT PLEASE! PLEASE LET ME OUT!"

Carter's swearing made Newkirk pull at the bar frantically. Andrew never swears! Why the hell won't this blasted thing OPEN? Everything took on a frustratingly desperate quality, like in a nightmare when you can't run from whatever hideous thing you know is chasing you.

Or you can't get out of somewhere, thought a stricken Newkirk.

Guilt frustrated him even more. He kept pulling even though his hands were being ripped raw. Furious, he pounded his fists against the door. Damnit! Damnit! Why can't I get this open? I can't believe I trapped him in there!


On the other side Carter was still screaming and flailing the lantern around as he tried to keep…those things away. The light went out, but in his terror he barely registered it. All he knew was that he had to get away. They pushed and pulled at him, playing with him, taunting him. They threw him at the door, knocking him nearly senseless.

"CARTER! What are you doing? Don't try to break the door down! You'll hurt yourself!" Newkirk shouted from outside.

Newkirk! Newkirk's here! Completely irrational, he didn't remember shouting for him just a few seconds ago. He tried to yell back, but instead he was slammed against the door once more.

A cold sensation went up his extremities, so frigid it burned, causing his muscles to cramp and the skin to pull. His stomach knotted and it became harder and harder to breathe; each breath only reaching his throat and then being expelled back out. Then, suddenly, it was like he had been hit with a wave, so hard and quick that he felt a surge of indignation, as if he had taken an unexpected smack to the face. His knees buckled and a knife-thrust of pain shot through his cranium. Abruptly, the whole building seemed to shudder with one massive shift as if an earthquake had hit, and then everything was silent. He slumped to the ground.

He thought he could still hear Peter, very far away, pounding at the door and shouting for him to answer, but it was unimportant now. Slowly the noise and light swam away and his consciousness retreated as his memories were encroached upon.


Newkirk had heard the thumps against the door. Logically, it was Carter trying to break down the door with his shoulder, but the picture that came to him was of Carter being thrown against the door. No, it must be Carter. He yelled at him to stop it but there was no answer. WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THERE?

All of a sudden he was knocked off his feet as a large tremor shook the place, to be replaced with an eerie quiet.

"What the bleeding 'ell was that?" he demanded of no one.

He jumped up and yelled for Carter. When he received no response, he grabbed hold of the bolt and pulled with all his might, and was nearly off his feet again when it slid open without a hitch. Rushing in, he found Carter sprawled on the floor.

"Carter?" He shook the unconscious man by the shoulder. "C'mon Carter, what is it?" Bewildered, he looked around. There was no one in there but the two of them.

"Bloody 'ell Carter! Is this a joke? Is this some bleedin' joke?" Furious, the Englishman regarded the prone figure and noticed that he still wasn't stirring. He shook Carter again.

"Look, fine, I'm sorry alright. Is that what you're waiting to 'ear?" Concerned at still seeing no movement from Carter, anger turned to worry. He looked around nervously. Did I miss something?

"What'd you do Andrew? Get spooked and then knock yourself out trying to break down the door?" he teased, but he sounded very unconvincing to himself. He patted Carter on the shoulder, "C'mon now mate, joke's over. Time to wake up."

This time he was rewarded with a low moan.

"That's it. C'mon now, wake up. I want to get back to camp and get a few minutes sleep before roll call."

A slurred voice said something incomprehensible.

"Didn't quite catch that. You want to run it by me again?" Newkirk joked as he grabbed Carter by his upper arm and pulled him up to a sitting position. Apparently Carter did not want to run it by him again; he was staring fixedly at the wall.

"Giving me the silent treatment are you?" Helping the other man to his feet, he let out a resigned sigh, but one that also managed to sound extremely put upon. "I suppose you've a right to. But you had me right brassed off you know." Further thoughts about his own behaviour came to him, ones that he didn't particularly want to dwell on. It was easier to think it was Carter's fault. He tried to convince himself that he had just become a little more annoyed than usual. Perhaps he had done something a little bit mean in return, a little more than was called for, but nothing that was unforgivable. "If it makes you feel better," he continued, "I am sorry. I shouldn't have locked you in here."

Carter turned his head to look at him. In the weak beam from Newkirk's flashlight the young tech sergeant appeared pale and clammy, but smiling. Newkirk's brow furrowed and he paused, inwardly pulling back from his friend. Carter's expression was wrong. The usually amenable countenance was composed, even controlled, and the smile appeared triumphant.

With a horrifying thump, Carter suddenly had Newkirk by the throat and had slammed him against the wall. Sickening pain reverberated out from Peter's spine and the back of his skull before he could even comprehend that Carter had moved. Flabbergasted, Newkirk saw that Carter had pinned him against the wall and half a foot off the floor with only one hand - his sprained left one. Choking, his blood thundering in his ears, he barely heard the cold and efficient voice that finally responded to his apology.

"I shouldn't worry about it too much Corporal. It's quite alright. Really, in fact, it was better this way."

The last thing Peter Newkirk remembered seeing before he lost consciousness was what was standing behind Carter.

He didn't hear himself begin to scream.