Emanations of Hate
Chapter 11
Shutting himself up in his quarters after roll call, Hogan's temper was still boiling even now, hours after the confrontation with his men. That fact alone did nothing but add to his irritation. He liked to think that he was an even-tempered man, and considering the strain and never-ending pressure of running an underground organization right under the Nazi's noses, this was undoubtedly a reasonably fair statement. Sure, his temper erupted from time to time, but never in front of the Germans. That took control. Which in turn meant that his men generally took the brunt of whatever brief flare-ups there were. But they were usually just a few sharp comments; which the guys - he hoped - understood weren't really directed towards them. They had to. They knew what it was like, being stuck in this cesspool for so long with no end in sight. They knew what it was like putting their lives on the line. And they understood - as best as they could - what it was like to be responsible for all of the rest of the prisoners in camp. It showed in the way each of them had come to him and volunteered to help with some of the daily grind involved in making sure that over a thousand men were provided for. They couldn't really know what it was like of course, but the fact that they had each made that offer meant that they realized that it was a heavy burden. They must know what the frustration was like. Hell, it got to them too; they fought and bickered amongst themselves often enough.
But he had never been so truly furious at his men before. At Kinch especially. And whatever anger there had been at any of them had never lasted this long before. He had always been in control. Always. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and tried to rid himself of the bitter and frayed-at-the-edges sense of aggravation he was feeling. It didn't work. With a sudden growl, he grabbed the coffee pot off of his table and hurled it against the wall as hard as he could.
Breathing heavily with the force of his outburst, he stared down and cursed himself. Tiny receiver parts lay scattered on the floor. Fabulous. Why don't you go rip the microphone out of Klink's office, or take a bat to the radio? Hell, why stop there? Why not set off the nitro in Carter's lab? He kicked at the leg of his bunk, feeling embarrassed and peeved at throwing a childish tantrum, but completely unable to stop it. He thrust his arm across his shelf and knocked his few books to the ground. He tore the blanket from his bunk and whipped it across the room. He pulled the hidden maps down from off the wall and only with an extraordinarily painful effort, kept himself from ripping them to pieces. Instead, he tore up the next week's duty roster and all of his supply requests to the Red Cross. It just seemed to fuel his rage further. He seized his chair and swung it up high over his head and then smashed it to pieces against the floor.
A horrified gasp came from the doorway.
"GET THE HELL OUT!" he roared.
Chest heaving, his back to the door, he could still sense that the presence hadn't moved.
"I TOLD YOU TO GET THE HELL OUT!" he bellowed and turned to confront an open-mouthed Schultz standing there, paralyzed with amazement.
"Get out of here Schultz!" he ordered angrily.
"Colonel Hogan? What is it? What has happened?" Schultz was nearly breathless with shock.
"That son of a bitch Klink cancelled the baseball game and we're out of DAMN COCOA!" With that, he shoved the big man out of the doorway and then slammed the door in his face.
A very perplexed Schultz left. Clearly the Nazis had underestimated the Americans' love of baseball, but he had had no idea that depriving them of cocoa could have such an effect.
Dumb. Very dumb. Sure, that was only Schultz, but even he could give you a rough time, you idiot, Hogan cursed himself again. He knew he had to get himself under control, but his anger refused to dissipate. He kicked at his bunk, all the more savagely because it was so futile. He desperately needed to punch something, but instead, breathing heavily, he surveyed the mess around him and then began to pick things up. Strangely, he didn't even stop to consider how odd it was that no one else had heard the commotion and come to see what was wrong.
He had cleaned up most of it as best as he could when he bent down to gather up the shredded supply requests. Squatting there, balanced on the balls of his feet, picking up the tiny bits of paper, he felt someone place their hands on his back and push him forward so that he landed flat on his face. He twisted around with his fists clenched, sheer rage igniting like a spark hitting a gasoline spill, ready to deck whichever idiot with a death-wish had been so damned stupid.
There was no one there.
He stormed out into the main room, even knowing he had heard no one go out of his office. The barracks were empty. He stared at the main door and the tunnel entrance, both noiseless and still.
I couldn't have imagined it, could I?
Unsure, he went back to his office and once more bent down to pick up the mess there, this time throwing quick glances over his shoulder and listening intently for some sound of his men. At a tiny creak, he whipped his head around - but it was nothing. He turned his gaze back to the debris on the floor, reaching for the last of it.
A hand smacked the back of his head.
Twisting around and leaping to his feet, he again saw no one. He raced into the other room, hoping to catch the culprit, but once more there was nothing but an empty barracks. God Almighty, what in the hell is going on? Am I losing my mind?
After a quick look around inside, and a short walk around the outside of the barracks, he decided that his mind was playing tricks on him. All that had happened was that he had lost his balance. Probably because I'm more exhausted than I thought. Trying to convince himself that he had imagined everything, he went back to his quarters to lay down.
The more he repeated to himself that it had all been in his mind, the more he believed it. He had been tired; certainly he had been worked up. It was only natural that he'd make a mistake. I just need a break like everyone else, that's all. This reminded him of the conversation he had had with Kinch, Baker and Lebeau. Part of him felt that he owed them an apology for his tone - after all, he could see how they could have leaped to conclusions - yet he also felt a peevish and pig-headed determination to let them apologize to him. Wasn't he himself proving that it was possible to remain rational? Putting his feet up and placing his hands behind his head, he laid back on his bunk. Beyond that, he felt oddly unable to think. Closing his eyes, he slowly drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke, it was to the sound of voices in his room. From the dim light, he judged he had been asleep hours, but his watch said that only thirty-five minutes or so had passed. Shouldn't be dark this early, he thought, not at this time of year. He glanced out the window. Clouding up out there, Klink's storm must be finally coming. But where had those voices come from? There was no one in his quarters. Had the guys come back? A quick look told him no. He shrugged it off. Must have been dreaming. The guys are probably hiding out in the tunnels, avoiding me. He couldn't blame them.
Still…it was like there was an itch at the back of his head. A slight feeling of alarm. He wandered into the main room of the barracks. Maybe I should go find them.
Then his world was turned upside down.
He stood there, in an empty room, and heard footsteps made by no one echo across the wooden floor of the barracks. There was no denying it, no explaining it. His mind wantedto deny it, wanted to refuse even the idea, but -
Then, as he stared, objects all over the room started to move. All sorts of his men's few belongings were thrown, dropped, picked up, examined, hidden; a plastic model of Brooklyn Bridge that Olsen's girlfriend had sent him was made to slide across the table. It seemed like a crowd of unruly children had been let loose in the barracks, children who were curiously exploring their surroundings and getting their sticky, little hands on everything.
Yet his eyes saw no one.
They noticed him. The voices started - a loud cacophony of whispering. It was as if a crowd of people were having hundreds of different conversations all around him, but pitched at such a volume that he just missed being able to make them out. And he got the feeling that they were talking about him.
The disembodied conversations went on as if his discomfort was of no importance. They jeered at him, all the while dancing around him. They started pinching and pulling at his skin and clothes while they giggled. A few times he'd single out a tone or laugh in front of him, only to feel it breathing on the base of his spine a quarter of a second later. He'd spin around, trying to catch it, but his hands would grab at nothing and the whole exercise left him disorientated and furious with frustration.
Others poked and prodded at him, examining him and discussing him as if he were an object with no thoughts of his own. It was an extremely disturbing feeling. Then they seemed to turn from him, though it was hard to tell since he couldn't see them. And as the invisible intruders went back to exploring their surroundings and playing with his men's possessions, he felt as if he had suddenly become unreal, insubstantial. They existed, he didn't - he was the dream and whatever world they were seeing was the real one.
And that was an even worse feeling.
For Pete's sake, that's ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself. Klink's probably just let those Gestapo bastards put something in the water. Real or imaginary, the best thing to do is to order them to leave. Force them out of your head.
Despite feeling very foolish, he raised his voice. "I don't care who you are, GET OUT OF HERE NOW!"
The voices stopped, but he did not find that reassuring. He had the bizarre feeling that they had all stopped to stare at him, now that he had forced them to be aware of his presence as something more than a punching bag. A minute later they started up again, speaking more quickly and excitedly. He told himself he was being paranoid, but he had no doubt that they were speaking about him, discussing and analyzing his outburst. Mocking laughter suddenly erupted from the vicinity of Lebeau's bunk and he whirled around at the sound. He spun around again at the clatter of fifteen tin cups falling to the floor and then looked up as the entire barracks rattled and shook as if caught in a sudden mighty gust of wind.
"Colonel Hogan," said a wonderfully normal voice from the door behind him, "I brought you some - "
A half a dozen packs of playing cards exploded above him, the cards fluttering in the air and falling to the ground like fat snowflakes.
"What is it Schultz?" Colonel Hogan asked. "I'm kind of in the middle of something right now."
"I…I…I…"
Laughter rang out like a machine gun burst and Schultz cried out in panic. Colonel Hogan started to ask him again, but it was too late. Schultz had tossed what he had been carrying at Hogan's chest and tore off away from Barracks 2 as fast as he could go.
Hogan stared down at what Schultz had brought him. A tin of cocoa? Why in Heaven's name would he give me that?
But he had bigger problems. With a rumble, the whole barracks seemed to lurch and Hogan was knocked off his feet. I'm getting extremely tired of this! Pulling himself up, he then saw something that knocked the breath out of his body like a punch in the gut.
A thick shower of loose dirt was falling from the ceiling. It seemed to be coming from nowhere; just appearing into thin air above him and raining down like a landslide onto the table. Sprays of it bounced off the table and hit him in the face. Sinking back onto Carter's bed, he was then hit by dirt falling from the underside of Newkirk's bunk. Looking around like a man in shell shock, he saw that the dirt was coming from the underside of every upper bunk.
His heart leaped into his throat; he could have choked on it. The fellas!
He raced for the tunnel entrance, desperately sweeping off the pile of dirt that had built up on top of it. He pounded on the trigger that opened it and jumped down, too frantic with worry to use the ladder.
He had to get to his men.
Author's greetings:
I have to admit, I wasn't going to update today. But hey - a story about the supernatural? How could I not post a chapter on 6/6/6? Thanks once again to everyone for all the great reviews and encouragement! I promise, the next chapter will be longer.
