For all my wonderful, patient readers: a nice, great big long chapter

Emantions of Hate

Chapter 15

For the rest of their lives, the true horrors of that night would not diminish, but only grow, as they played out over and over again in their nightmares. New images would appear each time, as things that were impossible to absorb while the events happened, would re-emerge, becoming an indelible part of the terrible whole.

The momentary blindness faded from their eyes, but the whiteness did not. The background behind the appalling tableau positively gleamed, even shone, with a cold, sterile light - making every nuance glaringly present, a startling full-colour obscenity against a backwash of preternatural white. The silver of metal surfaces, the black of Schuler's boots, the sallow flesh tones of Schuler and his assistants, the blood… Every single detail stood out as sharply as the edge of the scalpel that the phantom image of Schuler held in his hand.

Including those of the victims.

The images came in flashes, each lasting only a few minutes and yet an eternity. Later, in the hours and days immediately following the events, the images would be disjointed and surreal, blurred together by panic and the need for action during a crisis. But while it happened, they experienced no sense of time and therefore no hope that the horror before them might eventually come to an end. In their minds, there was no remembrance of the events that had lead them here, or thoughts of what would happen afterwards. They found themselves forced to be witnesses, and only witnesses.

The experiments started.


He didn't know where he was. There were terrible sounds all around him. Someone, someone he thought he should know, was screaming, almost on the verge of hysteria.

He opened his eyes.

It was dark.

The screaming continued; was it him?

It had been, he felt, but then he thought that he had passed out. A few more moments went by and the screaming turned into a raw, gulping cry. Once his eyes adjusted and he could see a bit more, he saw that the crying was coming from Lebeau. It took a few minutes more for his mind to register who Lebeau was and that he should do something to help him. Weakly he crawled over to the small Frenchman and put his arm around him, not only to stop Lebeau's trembling, but his own.

He could see a bit further now. The room was different. Only the tiled floor remained as a testament to what this place had once been. Otherwise it was empty except for his men. Wilson had his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He was weeping, but Hogan could see him taking deep breaths in order to get himself under control. He looked over to see Kinch on his hands and knees, moaning and praying; as he watched, Kinch's back suddenly hunched and he vomited. Baker and Olsen seemed to be just coming out of unconsciousness, but Foster was the most worrying - he had pulled himself into a huddled ball, his eyes wide and staring out at nothing. Hogan had seen men lost in that overwhelming blankness before. He hoped that it was only a temporary sort of shell-shock, but the ones he had seen mostly did not come back.

He turned Lebeau over to a slightly steadier Kinch, and went over to Foster. As he did he was shocked to see Newkirk heaped bonelessly a few feet away. Glancing around frantically, he suddenly realized that he could not see Carter or Dietrich Heidemann. Signalling Wilson to come to Foster instead, he went over to Newkirk.

And that's when he saw the ravaged, bloody remains in the corner.

A memory seeped through the foggy, paralyzed jumble in his brain. Something had happened. Something after the little one with the…but his horrified mind quickly darted away from that. Instead, he had a vision of Andrew, dark blood pumping from his nose, ripping the restraints away from Schuler and then grabbing him and driving him into the wall. From the look of gibbering fear on Schuler's face, Hogan believed that the man was already half-way to losing his mind, possessing only just enough sanity to understand what Townsend was going to do to him. And, as he had watched Carter's hand reach out and place itself on Schuler's chest, Hogan had known too.

His left side. His heart.

A pounding rhythm had reverberated throughout the entire room. As Townsend had flexed Carter's hand over Schuler's heart - if such a man had a heart - the throbbing grew louder, faster, more insistent. A keening, wailing dissonance had started up in the background, but had not overpowered that dreadful, horrifying beat. Hogan almost thought that it was all happening again as the memory of the sound grew quicker, driving its way through his skull. Hogan's gorge spasmed involuntarily as he remembered Carter's fingers being made to slowly dig their way through Schuler's flesh and into his chest, sinking further and further in.

Schuler's head had thumped and rattled, thrashing wildly as he convulsed against the wall. Blood had poured out of his nose and mouth as well as his chest and soon Townsend's arms - Carter's arms - were garishly bathed in a thick and viscous fountain of scarlet. And then, as Schuler's back had arched painfully and he had given one last massive shudder, blood so dark that it was almost black had burst with tremendous force out of his chest and drenched both himself and his killer.

When it had been clear Schuler was dead, Townsend had stepped back. With no emotion on his face, he had dropped the corpse to the floor and turned. In his hand he had held -

"Schuler's heart."

Hogan jumped at this sudden interruption and whipped around to face Kinch.

"Yes." He was suddenly overtaken by a crippling stab of grief for Carter - their Carter.

Kinch sighed. Hogan saw him swallow several times, and noticed the way he kept compulsively wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. "Where do you think he is now?" he asked, meaning Townsend.

"I don't know."

"He told Dietrich that he would let Carter go once Schuler was dead."

"Hmm." Hogan's non-committal answer suggested that they would be foolish to rely on Townsend's word. Wilson, after a quick look at the others, had come over to join them and was bent over Newkirk, taking his pulse.

Hogan glanced at the others. Baker and Olsen were awake, and as Hogan watched, Foster seemed to be responding to Lebeau's prodding. Hogan couldn't help but smile a little at that. If there's one thing that takes Lebeau's mind off of his own phobia, it's someone else needing him.

"How is Newkirk?" Hogan asked the medic.

"He's breathing. I don't feel any broken bones, and I can't be sure, but I don't think that there's any internal damage." Wilson was brief and to the point, "The biggest worry is shock. His skin is cool and his breathing is a little too shallow for my liking."

"What can we do?"

"Take off your coats. We need to keep him warm. We also need to elevate his feet." To this end, Wilson removed his own coat, folded it, and placed it under Newkirk's legs. He then covered the Englishman with Hogan's and Kinch's coats.

"Can we move him?"

"I'd rather not," he began, but then looked around, "but then I don't suppose help will be coming here anytime soon." He put the back of his hand to Newkirk's face. "Can we give it ten minutes?" he asked.

Hogan nodded reluctantly. "Ten minutes, no more." He and Kinch went to help the others.

"How much longer before Dodd starts evacuating the camp?" Kinch asked, after pulling Hogan discreetly aside.

Hogan rubbed his eyes and then squinted at his watch. "Roughly three hours. That is, if this is still the same night as we left, which right now I'm finding very hard to believe."

"I know what you mean. It was only this morning, well yesterday morning now, that Baker and Lebeau and I were trapped in the tunnel's guest quarters, but it feels like another lifetime. Another lifetime and a million years ago."

Hogan paused, and in the feeble light Kinch saw a look of regret and embarrassment on his CO's face. "Kinch, I'm sorry…" he started.

"I know sir. But don't worry about it right now. Not while we're all still in the middle of this whole mess. Besides, I don't think it was all you. I mean, I can hardly believe it now, but I was beginning to doubt your leadership for awhile there. I have to say Colonel, that I wouldn't have dreamed of doing that if my thoughts had been my own. Townsend was playing us against one another so that we wouldn't be paying attention to him. I don't think anyone should be held accountable for his behaviour in those conditions, and as far as I'm concerned Colonel, we're square."

Hogan smiled and slapped his adjutant lightly on the shoulder. "Thanks Kinch," he said quietly, but sincerely.

In the meantime, Lebeau had gotten Foster on his feet, and Baker and Olsen had done their best to fashion a stretcher for Newkirk by tying some of their coats together. After Wilson gave Newkirk's pulse another quick check, they placed him gently on it and started to work their way out.


It was a slow and awkward procession that carried the unconscious man up to the outside world. Emerging from the tunnel, and despite the driving gale, they stared into the sky as if they had never seen it before. They had forgotten the storm, had almost forgotten even the real world itself, and yet time and nature had gone on, not knowing or caring about what had happened to them.

Hogan figured that it would take them about an hour to get back to camp, maybe more because of the bad weather, and decided that that gave them a little under two hours to search for Carter. He also decided to send Wilson and Newkirk back to the truck, and ordered Baker to go with them. This did not make the junior radio man happy and he was about to object when Hogan forestalled him.

"Look Baker, I don't have time to argue with you. If it were up to me, we'd all be looking, but Wilson will be tending to Newkirk and he'll need a lookout. And it's not like he can carry Peter there by himself anyway. Now get going!"

Baker knew better than to disobey an order. He nodded in agreement and picked up one end of the make-shift litter. Hogan sighed. He knew that Baker, like Kinch, was a brave and loyal man who resented not being able to do more, especially when his friends were in danger. But it couldn't be helped. He wished he could send Kinch and Foster back as well. Foster, though up and around, was still too shaky and quiet, and Kinch - if any German did come upon them, even his gun in Kinch's back might not convince them that the black man was under control. For Kinch, even to have been seen as having made a break for it, would put him in more jeopardy than if he was back at the truck, safely "under guard". But then, to send them back would mean two less sets of eyes on a search that was already a long shot at best.

There's never a good answer is there, he thought bitterly as he watched them go, pointing one of the flashlights out to light their way as far as the road.


Between the time it had taken them to stumble and skid their way down the muddy road in the dark, lugging Newkirk between them, and then to get him into the truck and settled, Baker estimated that nearly a half an hour had passed when they heard the voices of the two arguing men over the droning wail of the storm. Immediately he and Wilson crouched down and tried to flatten themselves against the inside of the truck's canopy, holding their breaths.

Baker peered over the edge of the truck's tailgate. Townsend had parked his stolen staff car about twenty yards behind them, and now he and Heidemann were there. Squinting fiercely, Baker could just barely make out the darker shadow of the broad man's back against the night sky.

"How come the others didn't spot them?" Wilson whispered.

"I don't know," Baker said. Townsend's car would have been a fairly obvious place for him to go. "Could've missed them in the dark - rain like this, even with a flashlight, you're nearly walking blind. But probably Townsend went through the woods and then doubled back."

"Gerald! I will not let you do this!" they heard Heidemann yell.

"Do you think they know that we're here," Wilson asked.

"I don't know, but I'm going to get out. Heidemann might need some help. You stay here with Newkirk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Baker said as he eased himself slowly over the tailgate, keeping as low as possible. Once out he hugged his body close to the truck and worked his way towards the front, away from the confrontation. After that he lowered himself into a slight gully that ran alongside the road, hoping that would help him keep out of sight while he stalked back towards the two men by the staff car.

As he got closer, their words became clearer. He heard Townsend as he had to take a couple of deep, wracking breaths before he could answer.

"Leave off George," the Englishman panted in a shuddery, weak voice. Baker winced inwardly; without its authoritative confidence, it sounded so much more like his friend's than it had before. A sudden memory came to him of Carter bringing him some books when he had been stuck in bed with the flu - he had no idea where Carter had gotten them, but it must have been while out on a mission - and he suddenly realized just what the barracks would be like without the demolitions man.

Determined, he worked his way even closer.

"No Gerald. You said that you would let him go," Heidemann argued.

"Well," Townsend had to break off and take a deeper breath, "things change." Moving a bit further, Baker could just make out the shape of the man in front of the German, hanging onto the open front door of the staff car and ready to collapse.

"Things change?" Heidemann shouted. "What sort of answer is that? You have what you wanted Gerald - now let him go!"

"No."

"I will not let you take him."

"Really now George, I don't see…how you can stop me."

"I certainly think I'm capable of overpowering you now."

"Ah true…cough cough…that may be a possibility, I'll give you that, though you may also find that I still have a few…surprises left." Townsend let out a wheezing laugh, "But think, you have no way of forcing me to leave this body. So where does that leave you? What exactly do you propose to do? Hold me and wait for the young fellow to die?"

"Why are you doing this Gerald?"

Townsend slammed his fist down on the roof of the car. "Because I deserve it!" he screamed out in a rage. "Because I did not get what I wanted, but I put an end to the bastard anyway! With no help at all! Not from God, not from Fate, not from my friends! I did it, and now I'm going to take my reward!"

"Your reward?"

"I'm going home - to England."

Damnit no! Carter won't last that long! Baker protested silently.

"England? Be reasonable Gerald, Carter won't survive until you reach England!" Heidemann argued, unconsciously echoing Baker's thought. As he squatted there, hidden from the two men, he could hear the thread of a desperate plea running through Heidemann's voice at the idea of another life on his conscience.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I may be able to afford him some rest - the hard part is over now, after all. But it is only important that he get me as far as he can. After that I'll just find someone else."

"NOOOO!" The frantic cry rent through the night just as a flash of lightning and its accompanying crash of thunder shook the air around them. Stunned, Baker watched helplessly as Newkirk rushed towards the scene, flailing around wildly, like a drunk stepping off a carnival ride. Baker heard Wilson shouting at Newkirk to stop, that he was too weak to be up, before he was finally able to react. He leaped up but was a second too late to prevent Newkirk from stumbling into Heidemann's back and falling to the ground.

"Newkirk, calm down!" Baker pleaded, all the while glancing around anxiously and praying that there were no real Germans within earshot. It was highly unlikely, he thought, but with the way their luck had been going, there'd be a platoon just over the next hill.

Seeing Heidemann momentarily distracted, Townsend moved quickly to get into the car.

"Stop him!" Newkirk yelled feebly, as Baker and Wilson struggled to haul him to his feet and get him out of the way. Heidemann attempted to pull the door open, but then found himself flying through the air, only to crash into the three POWs. Untangling himself as fast as he could, he saw a violently trembling Townsend just managing to put the car into gear. Without hesitation, the older man whipped out his Luger and shot out the nearest tire. Inside the car Townsend shrieked in anger and beat his hands against the steering wheel.

"Get out of the car Townsend," Heidemann ordered.

Townsend burst out of the car. "What in the hell did you do that for?" he screamed. Blood began to gush from his nose again, but he paid it no mind, sheer fury giving him a second wind.

"To stop you Gerald. And if I can't stop you then I'm going to die at least slowing you down, because I'll let the Lord God Almighty damn me to Hell before I let you do this!" Heidemann spotted Townsend's nearly imperceptible look towards the truck. "Don't even think about it Gerald," he ordered and calmly aimed his weapon at the truck's back tires. "Even if you push me away again, I'll still have time to shoot."

Townsend considered it and made no move towards the truck. Instead, he turned and started walking away from them. Heidemann made to run after him, but Townsend whipped his head around and the German impostor was thrown backwards again, hitting Wilson and pulling the medic down into a heap on the ground.

"NO! You're not going to take him!" Newkirk spat out and fought himself free of Baker's hold.

"Newkirk calm down!" Baker ordered as he lunged at the Englishman, but Newkirk pulled away.

"Yes, do calm down Corporal," Townsend said. The tone would have been patronizing if the voice hadn't sounded so weary.

"No! I won't let you take him!"

"This is becoming ridiculous," Townsend said and turned to walk away once more.

Newkirk pulled out his pistol. Despite exhaustion and shock, he grabbed Townsend and shoved him against the car. He pointed the pistol in Townsend's face.

Which was also Carter's face.

"Newkirk!" Baker gasped, "Newkirk, for the love of God, what are you doing?"

But Townsend didn't bat an eyelash. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice was low and raspy, but composed. "Really now Corporal, I would have thought that you at least would have been able to grasp the essential point here."

Newkirk said nothing and Baker thought that he was weeping, but it was hard to tell in the rain.

"You cannot kill someone who is already dead," said an exasperated Townsend. "What is it that you could possibly hope to achieve?"

Newkirk stepped back, but kept the pistol pointed at his friend's face. "I won't let you take him." Then he lowered the pistol to where it was pointing at Carter's leg. "You won't get very far with a broken knee cap, so you might as well let him go. And you won't stay in there while he's in so much pain in any case, will you?"

"Not a tested hypothesis I'm afraid," Townsend said. "Besides, I think it's highly likely that so much blood loss would kill Sergeant Carter more quickly than anything else at…at this point." Townsend suddenly clutched at the roof of the car, swaying on his feet, and then continued, "You can't win, you know."

"That's a bleedin' laugh - look at the state of you!"

"I may be weak Corporal, but no one…can force me out of this body before I'm ready to leave it. No one can hurt me…at least not without killing your friend. He's the perfect hostage."

A furious Newkirk howled with frustration. With all of his meagre strength, he grabbed hold of the front of Townsend's coat and cocked the gun. "Get out of him now, because one way or another he's going to be free of you!"

The other three rushed forward to stop him, but pulling Townsend in front of him, he tightened his grip on the gun and gave them a warning look.

Despite the obvious harshness of his breathing, Townsend smiled. For a brief second Baker almost wished Newkirk would shoot the bastard, just to wipe that damned smirk off of his face. "It's rather touching of you…to feign such concern for your young friend Corporal. But he's already been made well aware…of how you truly feel."

Newkirk's eyes widened with horror. "What?" he asked breathlessly, as if he had been punched in the stomach, and he lowered the gun slightly without noticing.

"In fact, perhaps it's not me that you want to shoot at all."

Newkirk stood there, open-mouthed with shock.

"One Yank is as guilty as another, is that it?"

"Shut up," Newkirk whispered hoarsely, "Just shut up." The others could only look at each other, not comprehending.

"If you couldn't get at him, you'd get at your friend. Faulty reasoning at best, I must say."

"Shut up," Newkirk repeated a little more loudly.

"Now, now, such hos…hostility." Townsend's eyelids were heavy and he had had to say the last word twice before he could get it out, but the smirk was still on his face. He had shown that he still had an option or two up his sleeve, a few buttons still to press. "And yet it was your young friend…that you were so intent on punishing before."

"Shut your bleedin' gob!" Newkirk cried out.

Townsend, unperturbed, moved his face closer to Newkirk's. He looked the English Corporal in the eyes. "I don't guess that in your life there have been that many people who have ever trusted you. Let me go…and perhaps - just perhaps - there won't be one less."

A beaten Newkirk finally lowered the gun, and as he did, his knees buckled and he fell. Baker and Wilson quickly hurried over to their fallen comrade and heard him moaning not to let Townsend go, but Townsend had turned and was already walking away.

Baker tried to go after him - it was not as though Townsend had the strength to run - but he couldn't. In his head, he was willing his feet to move, but in reality he was unable to do anything more than stand there and stare sadly at Townsend's - Carter's - retreating back as the man shuffled away down the road and into the night. Wilson and Heidemann seemed to be having the same problem, but then Baker heard a furious growl erupt from the German, and saw him wrench his right leg free and step forward. He couldn't go that fast, Baker saw, but he was able to push his way forward after the escaping man with an awkward, twisted limb type of gait.

Townsend turned to look at him, irritated at yet another delay.

"Gerald, leave Carter," Heidemann pleaded. "I'll take you to England."

Townsend snorted. "A generous offer George, but really, I don't…I don't have the time."

"How can you refuse? You're so weak now that you cannot finish a sentence without taking a breath."

"You are wasting my time."

Heidemann lowered his voice. "You can't, can you? You're too weak to make the transfer now."

Townsend started walking again.

"No Gerald." Heidemann grabbed a hold of Carter's thin arm. "You aren't leaving until you tell me how you expect to get all the way to England when you know Carter won't last that long."

Townsend paused, then answered quietly, without looking at Heidemann. "I'll be capable of making the transfer more easily…when I'm freed of this body naturally."

"In other words, when Carter dies - is that it Gerald? Are you telling me that you cannot leave Carter until he's dead?"

In spite of all that he had done, and all that he was threatening to do, Gerald Townsend found it singularly difficult to lie to his last friend.

"I can leave the body now, but only…only in such a way that I…would lose myself. I would lose what little…mental cohesion, what sense of consciousness that…I now have."

"Gerald, did you ever consider that maybe that is what is supposed to happen? That it's what should have happened all those years ago? It was your time, and you've already denied it once."

"What a tremendously arrogant thing to say George," Townsend exclaimed. "I wonder if…when it's your time…if you'll be so willing to leap into oblivion."

"I can't answer that."

"No, you can't. So don't presume to argue…with my answer."

"Fine. Then tell me Gerald, as a man who has faced death, and as a parent, what do we tell Carter's family?"

"What?"

"Tell me what we'll tell his parents! What can we say to make this easier for them? What would you want to hear upon learning that your Sarah or your Christopher died, simply so that someone else could have a few more hours? Tell me."

For an eternity, Townsend stared at Dietrich Heidemann, his eyes smouldering, his body vibrating with suppressed rage. Then, with a visibly excruciating effort, he pulled all of his emotions inward.

"Tell them that he did his duty."

With that, Townsend waved his hand. Heidemann believed that it was the last vestige of power that Townsend was capable of exerting, but it was enough to push him down and hold him there while Townsend disappeared into the darkness.


It was a drenched and disheartened search party that trudged back to the truck roughly an hour later, only to be met with disastrous news. Wilson was tending to Newkirk, who had passed out shortly after his confrontation with Townsend, and so it was left to Baker and Heidemann to tell the story.

His men waited anxiously while a grim and stone-faced Hogan listened. When Baker finished Hogan was silent for a moment, before looking at Wilson.

"How's Newkirk?"

"I don't like his symptoms, but I've done all I can do for him here. We need to get him back to camp. He should be taken to a hospital really."

Hogan nodded. "Olsen, do you feel up to driving?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright, we're going back to camp."

"Back to camp Colonel? We aren't going to keep looking for Carter?" Lebeau asked.

"We don't have time Corporal. We have to get back before Dodd starts evacuating the men."

"But…"

"Look, do you think I want to leave Andrew out here? Do you think that this is easy for me? But how many men are going to be at risk in a mass escape? It's not like I can have London send planes to pick up every one of them. They won't know to send any planes at all. And what about Newkirk? We can't leave him in a German hospital - he'd be a sitting duck after the Gestapo tears apart an empty Stalag - and it would be too hard on him to make the trip to England. Not to mention, we'd be trying to continue a search while half the German army is here looking for a thousand escaped prisoners." His tone softened slightly, "And for what? What hopes do we have of finding Carter in the dark? And what could we do if we did find him?"

His men could tell how it killed Hogan to admit that, that this time he didn't have an answer, that this time he couldn't pull a rabbit out of his hat and save them all. They sat there in the back of the truck, miserable and silent while Olsen climbed in front and started off.

All was quiet for a bit. Other than Olsen occasionally shifting gears and Wilson periodically checking his patient, the men were still. Numbed and dead-eyed with exhaustion, they stared out at nothing, hypnotized by the rain and absorbed in their own thoughts.

Hogan moved over to sit by Kinch, who was at the back of the truck and had one arm dangling out over the upright tailgate.

"Aren't you getting wet?" he asked his radioman. He really should be further inside, Hogan thought, his mind always thinking of the need to blend in.

"What? Oh, yeah. I guess I am." He pulled his arm in.

Hogan sighed tiredly and leaned his head back. "Penny for your thoughts," he said after another moment.

"I was thinking that it was too bad that you had given Dodd those orders," Kinch began, holding up his hand when Hogan looked at him sharply. "I know you had to sir. Honestly, I'm not questioning that," he said quickly. "With seven prisoners gone, including the camp's only officer, the Gestapo would be crawling through the woodwork, and if the others hadn't escaped by then, they'd have no chance at all. I just can't stand leaving him out here, that's all. Not like this. It'd be bad enough if things were normal, if he was normal, but what's going to happen to him now?"

"We're not going to give up yet Kinch. We'll come back out tonight after roll call and keep looking."

"Do you really think there's any hope Colonel?"

Hogan looked away for a moment before answering. "Well, there's always some hope, right?"

"Right," Kinch sighed, not believing it. "There's always some hope."


It was close to half an hour before anyone said anything again. They sat in a collective stupor, listening to the whining howl of the storm outside. Intermittent flashes of things they had witnessed that night began to clarify in their minds, but mostly they were still numb; unable to muster the energy to focus on anything besides the long journey back to camp.

This is bad, Hogan thought. Needing to do something, anything to keep his mind alert, he made his way carefully forward and asked Olsen if he was alright. Olsen said he was.

"You sure Matt? You don't need anyone to spell you?"

"No sir, I'm fine." Olsen never took his eyes off the road while speaking to Hogan, but there was the same dull, stupid with fatigue, look to him that Hogan could see with the others and so he decided to stay close.

He found himself sitting next to their German impostor. Hogan did not really want to talk to him; he couldn't make out what he thought about the man, but right now there was still an overwhelming feeling of rage seething inside him, one that was becoming increasingly directed towards the older man.

"I'm afraid you'll have to come back to camp with us. We don't have time to take you back home," he said finally, his voice curt.

"I understand."

"You can stay in the tunnels until after evening roll call. I'll have someone escort you home when we go out to look for Carter tonight."

"I'm sure I can find my own way back, old eyes or not, but I'd much rather help you search for Sergeant Carter."

"No."

"Please Colonel Hogan, think. I'll have more freedom of movement than you will; once your Kommandant finds Sergeant Carter missing, the patrols will be - "

"The patrols are our concern. I said no. By tonight, you'll have been gone a full day. Anyone watching you will get suspicious."

"Why would anyone be watching me?"

"Why the hell does anyone watch anyone in this damn country? Friends turn in friends - it keeps the Gestapo off their own doorsteps." Hogan's vehement tone made several of the men closest to him look up. He lowered his voice.

"You'll go back and stay put until this is over," he ordered. The meaning was implicit: don't call us, we'll call you.

Heidemann understood, but still grew angry. He was about to argue that he was not under Hogan's command when Olsen, rounding a corner, slammed violently on the brakes, pitching them all forward.

"Matt? What is - " Hogan broke off.

There, his face gleaming like a ghost in the headlights, was Carter.


All of the men in the back, except Wilson and the unconscious Newkirk, leaped out and dashed around to the front to stare at the implacable figure blocking their way. Only Olsen remained, too stunned and shaken to realize that he was talking to himself. "Just appeared out of nowhere! Hell's bells - he just came outta nowhere!" The logical part of his brain told him that this probably wasn't true, that it was just the effect of coming around the corner and catching the pale man in the headlights, coupled with the shock of nearly running someone down, but he still sat there feeling like a gaping-mouthed fish who'd just been pulled from the water and whacked against the side of the boat.

The others halted on each side of the truck's cab. "How did he get here before us?" Hogan heard Lebeau whisper to Kinch.

"His shoes are covered with leaves; he must have cut across through the woods," his radioman answered.

Carter continued to stand there, rain streaming down his face, making no move. Hogan took a couple of cautious steps towards him.

"Carter?" he called out gently.

The figure straightened slightly, coming to life. It didn't respond, but by the way it suddenly glared at Heidemann, Hogan had his answer.

No, not Carter.

Heidemann moved forward. Beside Lebeau, Olsen slowly opened his door and got out to join his friends in case there was trouble.

"Gerald?" Heidemann got close enough to touch him.

"Damn you George. Damn you to Hell," Townsend muttered. He looked smaller to them now, standing there hunched and shivering, his hair plastered to his forehead, but they were still reluctant to make a move. Townsend's voice was weak, but it was steadier than before.

"I could have won," Townsend continued.

"I know," his friend agreed softly.

"I didn't want this, not always. There were times, in the darkness, when I only wanted to see England once more. To see my family one last time."

Heidemann's voice was sympathetic. "But that wasn't what you chose, was it? You chose to stop Schuler."

"I had to."

"Yes, I know. He had to be stopped, I see that now. No matter what the reason, I believe that you made the only choice you could have."

No one moved or spoke for a few moments, then Townsend murmured, "You know, he felt no remorse. None at all. He was proud of his work. He thought that he was a visionary. A bloody goddamned visionary."

"Is that what you wanted? For him to feel remorse?"

"Mmmm?" Townsend seemed to be drifting away.

"Before, when you said that you hadn't got what you wanted."

"Mostly, I suppose. I wanted him to see, to know what a terrible thing he had done. I wanted him to be afraid, not just of pain and death, but of his retribution in Hell."

"You wanted him to repent."

"Yes." Townsend sighed, "I don't know if I expected it, but I wanted it. But I never saw that fear in his eyes. Oh, he was scared enough for his own skin, but he never realized what was wrong with what he had done. It was all just so wretchedly futile."

"Was it so important? Wasn't it enough to rid the world of such a monster?"

"It should have been. But when I did what I thought that I had been destined to do, I found no gratification, no fulfillment. Trapped in the darkness for seven years; I don't think you can conceive of just what kind of hell that is. I needed so much out of this. I needed to believe that someone wanted me to do this, but in the end I was alone. Most of all, there were no answers." Townsend's shoulders fell, and for the first time in all the years Dietrich Heidemann had known him, he sounded lost and unsure.

"Answers?"

Townsend gave him a regretful smile. "I hope there will be more for you George, when the time comes."

"Is that why you went back on your promise to let Carter go? Revenge against God for feeling abandoned?"

"I felt betrayed. If no reward was coming, then I would take one. I deserve that much, don't I? I deserve to go home."

"Yes, you do Gerald." It was the voice of George Allen, his friend, who sadly argued, "But then, so does Andrew Carter."

Townsend nodded. He inhaled deeply and they sensed that he was about to leave, when he looked at Heidemann one last time.

"Was there any point to it at all George? There are so many more like him out there."

"All that I can tell you Gerald, is that evil is a tremendous thing, and people are small. We can only pick away at it. But if enough people were to pick away at the Great Wall of China, it would eventually crumble."

"A bit trite George," Townsend said, "but I suppose that it will have to do." And with that, he was gone. Carter's eyes rolled back in his head. His body jerked convulsively and then the edges around him seemed to blur almost imperceptibly with a misty whiteness, which dissipated just before he crashed heavily to the ground.


Author's note:

I hope no one feels cheated by the shortness of the part dealing with Schuler's experiments; I realize that it perhaps takes away from the story's climax a bit. It was originally a chapter in itself, but I began to feel uncomfortable with how I had written it. It's one thing to use real events for the premise of a story, but I felt that I had crossed a line somewhere, and that presenting such grisly details - even if they could never possibly be as horrific as the real events - was exploiting a tragedy for sensationalism alone. Especially since before I started writing this story, I had only ever intended to write a short little thing for Halloween.

Schuler however, was modelled on absolute monsters, and so as far as I'm concerned, his death couldn't be gory enough.