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Chapter 3
The Awakening
Brazil,
Shortly after the events in the North Pole
Some men fit the age in which they live, and Freddie Kreidler, who had fit the eighties and nineties to a tee, was well on his way to making the 2000s his as well. Freddie was what some called Euro-trash: rude, arrogant and vain. At least, they might call him that had he actually lived in the old country. One of the many reasons Freddie despised his father was that Otto picked Brazil to hide away in, ensuring his inheritance came with the stink and heat of the Third World instead of the cool elegance of the Old. Munich, Paris, Amsterdam: clearly these were the places he belonged, not here. How easily Freddie could picture himself cruising the clean, lighted avenues of Bonn—with all his friends in tow, hitting only the most exclusive clubs and discos, drinking Champagne all day and doing cocaine all night. And screwing only the most beautiful of the beautiful people. How the tourists would glare, the fat, lazy Americans and the dull-eyed Brits. Nothing but Euro-trash, they would say. Ah, if only.
If pressed, Freddie had to admit that life in São Paulo was not all bad. He managed to carve out a nice living, becoming known in most every level of society, and feared in them. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he was physically imposing, but it wasn't his size that invoked fear; it was his nature. Freddie Kreidler was a killer, as deadly as an asp. He killed his first man in a bar fight over some whore when he was just sixteen. It was the beginning of his rise to notoriety, though in truth, he always stood out.
Freddie was a nearly pure Aryan, the only thing he could thank his father for, aside from the money, of course. Despite having had a brown-skinned mother (who thankfully died when Freddie was three, sparing him the embarrassment of knowing her), he possessed deep blue eyes, white/blond hair, and perfectly chiseled features. His skin was darker than he liked, but this being South America he more than passed for European. How proud his father had been! Always remember your heritage, old Otto preached. Your grandfather was Baron Heinrich Von Kreidler, and you are an aristocrat. Your bloodline is pure—your mother was of good, Aryan stock.
The deluded fool, so obsessed with his precious racial theories. Freddie had seen the pictures; was the man stupid or blind? True, his mother wasn't a nigger, but neither was she Aryan. God, how Freddie hated that old man. Otto would parade him around in front of all his cronies; emigrates, they called themselves. War criminals, others called them, though only behind their backs. Their money and influence guaranteed no one challenged them openly. They would meet weekly in some out-of-the-way coffeehouse, huddling in the back rooms. Otto took Freddie to hear the stories of the old days, of the pride and glory that was Germany. The old men would tousle his blond hair, telling him: You will carry the standard one day, Fredrick. The Fourth Reich will be yours to build!
Freddie would smile obediently, accepting their praise, all the while knowing how stupid they were. It was because of men like these that he was here instead of in his own homeland. It was because of their war, which brought the whole world down upon their heads. And why did they do it?
To kill some Jews. The stupid, blind fanatics.
So they hated the Jews, what of it? Everyone hates the Jews, it's no reason to start a damned war. Freddie learned long ago that one must live with the inferior races. Tolerate them as best you can, kill them only when you must, and profit off them always. That's how one prospers in the real world. Freddie wasn't interested in dreams of glory, he was interested in prospering. By sixteen, his father had begun to lose faith in him. By seventeen he threatened to disown him entirely, so on his eighteenth birthday Freddie snuck into the old man's bedroom and smothered him with a pillow. He was almost proud of Otto, fighting so hard at seventy-two, but it was done quickly. Now the Villa was his, along with five million dollars in Nazi gold bullion. It was Freddie's turn to prosper.
He'd done well as a small-time drug dealer, earning a good living by eighteen, but it was time to get out. There were too many entrenched gangs, too much competition. Instead, with Otto's gold to stake him, Freddie went into the gun running business. There were entrenched players in that field as well, but none as strong as the drug gangs. Within two years their leaders were dead, their men and merchandise his. By thirty, Freddie was known throughout all Brazil—even the big syndicates in Rio had to respect him. But the real turning point in his rise to the top began five years ago, when he partnered with Herr Schmidt.
Schmidt was another expatriate German, though not part of the crowd his father moved in, the "Party Faithful", singing the old songs, hatching plans that never came to be. No, Schmidt was different; Schmidt was apart. The other old Nazis held him in high esteem. Once, when Freddie was seven, he and his father met Schmidt heading down the sidewalk. Otto stepped aside, dipping his head. After, he knelt and whispered, that was Herr Schmidt, Fredrick. A very great man. You must always show him respect. He was shocked at the tone in Otto's voice. For all his faults, Otto was not a coward, but all the same, he feared Herr Schmidt. Freddie feared him as well, but what child wouldn't?
Schmidt's face was wrapped entirely in bandages, a war injury, Freddie assumed. His ensemble included a wide brimmed hat and dark glasses, and no matter the temperature, an overcoat. To Freddie, he seemed less a man than the shadow of a man, given substance. It was as though a hole had been cut into the air, leaving only a deep black void, and inside that void was Schmidt. But then, children are given to fanciful thoughts, and are easily frightened. When he met Schmidt again, in the summer of eighty-nine, Freddie saw he was just a man after all. A somewhat small and decrepit man at that.
He was shocked to discover the Mr. Schmidt he was meeting that day was the Schmidt, from his childhood. When Freddie was ten, Schmidt disappeared, seemingly overnight. Now he had returned, looking to purchase a great many guns. Schmidt knew people who wanted weapons, and Freddie happily met their needs. Business boomed. Schmidt seemed to know every rebel group, every terrorist cell, right-wing militia, and death squad in South America. He had no ideological motive, it seemed, dealing with government forces one day, communist insurgents the next. That suited Freddie fine—let these fools kill one another in their endless coups and wars, so long as they paid. His plan was to amass a fortune of five hundred million dollars, then move to the south of France and live a life of luxury. At thirty-five, he was nearly there.
He often considered killing Schmidt. By removing the middleman, he could sell direct and increase his profits…but he never did. For one thing, the man's contacts would be hard to replace. Mostly, although it galled Freddie to admit it, he still feared Schmidt. The man had to be in his mid-seventies, yet he seemed to possess an endless supply of quiet stamina. Like an old patient spider dutifully spinning its web, Schmidt kept working. It was unnerving. Sometimes Freddie would swear the old bastard could read his mind. Schmidt was not a fool like the other old Nazis, like his father. It only made Freddie hate him all the more. But today, if all went well, was the last he would ever have to see him. This sale was the largest of Freddie's career; ten thousand of the new energy weapons the US had developed, the first to arrive south of the border. The demand was insatiable. It would put Freddie over the five hundred million mark. Ah, America; the biggest and best guns the world had to offer. Everything could be had in America for a price. Perhaps that was where he should retire, not stodgy old Europe. Yes, the States were his kind of place. He fancied buying a movie studio and going into business with all the Hollywood Jews. Oh! How that would torment dear, dead old Otto.
Freddie Kreidler sat at his table in the back of the café Ollesto, sipping his gin and quietly planning his future, when his man De'allo walked over.
"Boss, de Yankee is here."
"How many are with him?"
"Only two, boss. Should I call our men over?"
Freddie thought for a moment. It was important to show he wasn't worried. This was his town. "No, it will be just you and me. Send the American over and then fetch the car—but not too quickly."
De'allo headed off. A minute later, Freddie's new American associate, bodyguards in tow, made his way to the table.
"Williams, my friend, it is good to see you. How was your trip?"
"Long," Williams said, mopping his brow. They shook hands. "I'm looking forward to the weekend."
"Absolutely," Freddie said, inviting Williams to sit. His two men stayed back a respectable distance. "Think of my villa as your home. I'm throwing a big party in your honor tonight. Wine, women and song, all for your pleasure. This is a big day for us."
"It is…if your associate comes through."
"Oh, do not worry about Schmidt. He's made all the arrangements." Freddie lit a cigarette, offering one to his guest, who declined. "Tell me, is that a sample you have there?"
Williams motioned to one of his bodyguards, a large man with a strongbox handcuffed to his wrist. Williams took a futuristic looking gun from the box, and passed it under the table to Freddie. Unconcerned with onlookers, Freddie lifted the gun as if he were about to fire, a broad smile on his cruelly handsome face.
"Kirby 2.0. Wonderful! Ah, that Stark, he makes all the best stuff. Hmm, it's lighter than I thought."
"A lot of the weight is in the clip. There are only two clips per gun. Next month I'll have truck loads, but…"
"My friend, it is fine. You've delivered as promised. My buyers will be ecstatic. Now, you did remove the tracking chips, correct?"
"Would I be sitting here if I hadn't?"
"True," Freddie said. De'allo made his way to the table, speaking briefly to Freddie. "My man has brought the car around. Shall we go?"
The entourage headed out of the café, but stopped upon reaching the exit. Something caught Freddie's eye.
"Boy, let me have a paper."
The cashier complied, raising no question of payment. Freddie scanned the front page with delight. It was a banner headline, placed over a full-page photo. Williams peered over his shoulder.
"I heard about this on the flight down. I'm surprised to see it made the morning paper here. First you've heard of it?"
"Yes," Freddie said, smiling. "This strikes me as something Herr Schmidt would be interested in. Let's go see him, shall we?"
They got into Kreidler's car, a Cadillac Escalade limousine, and began the ninety-minute trip. Freddie was pleased. Not only would this sale set him up for life, but as a parting gift he would get to see Schmidt's reaction to today's headlines. Though he was no blubbering ideologue, this news would surely be upsetting to an old National Socialist, as Schmidt most certainly had to be. The sly old bastard never spoke a word concerning his past, despite their years of business together. How delightful it would be to see him squirm for once. As they neared their destination, Freddie spoke up.
"I've warned you about Herr Schmidt's appearance, haven't I? He dislikes being asked about it. You do understand?"
"I'm not interested in the man's medical history," Williams said. "Just his money. This isn't my first rodeo, Kreidler."
"Oh, of course." Williams was a touchy little prick. "I was more concerned about your men."
"They're professionals."
"So good to know. We are almost there."
The Escalade wound up a small mountain road. The tropical heat dwindled as they climbed, the air taking on a light scent of earth and pine. Schmidt's home sat atop the slope of Pedra da Mina, in the foothills of the Mantiqueira Mountains. The paved road soon became gravel, then dirt. Five minutes later, the road stopped entirely; they had arrived. The house was cut into the sheer rock face of the mountain, affording a spectacular view. On a spacious deck jutting out over the mountainside, the figure of a man stood waiting, silhouetted against the blood-red late day sun. As the men got out of the car, Freddie rolled up the newspaper, leaving the headline conspicuously visible, and put it in his front jacket pocket. They made their way to the deck.
"Herr Schmidt, I've brought someone who very much wants to meet you." Freddie motioned the American forward. "Mr. Williams, this is Herr Schmidt."
Williams stepped forward, trying hard not to stare. As Kreidler told him, Schmidt looked as if he'd stepped out of that old movie, The Invisible Man. His face was completely wrapped in bandages, capped off with a wide brimmed slouch hat, and dark glasses. Not sunglasses—but dark glass lenses, like blind men wear. His long black overcoat, belted stylishly, was accented by hand-tooled leather boots and matching gloves. The man's strangest affectation was on his right hand; a ring of gold, set with a great ruby, which he wore over his glove. He held a simple straight cane, seeming to put no weight on it.
Williams extended his hand "Pleased to meet you, Herr Schmidt. I've heard so much about you."
Schmidt did not take the proffered hand. Instead, he stood and stared.
"Have you indeed? And what was it you heard?" The voice came from a small slit in the front of the wrapping, just wide enough for his mouth. The German accent was strong. Williams stood with his hand dangling in space.
"I…I assure you, Herr Schmidt, it was nothing bad."
"How unfortunate. I try so hard. I myself have heard nothing whatsoever about you, Mr. Williams."
An awkward silence enveloped them, until Freddie stepped forward. "Herr Schmidt is just having a little sport with you, Williams. Aren't you, Schmidt?" Freddie stared daggers at the old fool. He could swear the man was smiling under those rags.
"Freddie is correct," Schmidt said, finally taking the man's hand. "Did he not warn you of my wicked sense of humor? I am a notorious joker, I'm afraid."
"That's fine," Williams said, finding Schmidt's grip a match for his voice; cold and flinty. "Maybe we can get down to business."
"Ah yes, business. You American's, so industrious. I commend your dedication. Come this way."
He walked them over to a large oak table sitting at the center of the deck, where pitchers of ice water waited, along with bottles of wine. Schmidt, showing for the first time something of his age, slowly eased himself into his chair.
"Excuse me, gentleman, these old bones of mine are quite weary. I've spent the last four days in the jungles of Chile, setting up the details of today's purchase. Perhaps you would favor me with a demonstration, Mr. Williams?"
Williams produced the weapon, and proceeded to give a rundown of the gun's capabilities and various features. Schmidt appeared to follow his every word. As the demonstration concluded, Schmidt stood.
"I should like to test the weapon."
"Certainly," Williams said, inserting a clip. "To adjust the setting, just—"
"Yes, I believe I have it," Schmidt said. He dialed the gun to the pulse-bolt setting and aimed at a hanging boulder a distance away from the deck. A slight hum, a flash of light, and the boulder exploded, sending twenty tons of rock sliding down the mountain. A shower of dust and fragments rained down at their feet.
"Jesus!" Freddie exclaimed. "That's more bang than an RPG."
Williams puffed with pride. "The Kirby pulse-bolt is more powerful than the highest yield rocket grenade on the market, the Mk 6 included."
"I believe it. What about the recoil? It looked so easy."
"There is no recoil," Schmidt said, disdainfully. "Electromagnetic radiation. Light, in other words. Where is your physics, Freddie?"
Freddie glared. How he longed to be rid of this old cretin. Schmidt readjusted the setting on the gun and let out a piercing whistle— though how he managed it through all those wrappings, Freddie could not tell.
"Wolf! Come boy," Schmidt called out. A large brown and gray German Shepherd bounded up the stairs and trotted over to Schmidt, sitting dutifully as his master stroked his mane. "Ah, good boy, Wolf," Schmidt said. He walked back several paces, issuing a single command: "Stay." He calmly took aim at the animal. "Let us see how the weapon's stun setting performs."
Williams interrupted. "Schmidt, the setting is too high—"
Schmidt fired the gun. A brilliant violet beam of light flashed out, striking the animal, pinning it against the side of the house. The dog howled in agony, its head whipping back and forth like a doll in the hand of a child, its teeth shattering as smoke filled the air, sickly sweet. Schmidt released the trigger, and the dog's carcass collapsed to the deck.
"How marvelous," Schmidt said, eying the gun. Freddie, Williams, and the other three men, professional's all, felt their gorge rising at the horrible display. Williams found his voice first.
"I'm …glad you approve. Can I assume we have a deal? This weapon is the coming thing, I assure you. In five years, gunpowder and bullets will be as obsolete as the bow and arrow."
"Indeed?" Schmidt said, looking up from the gun. "Genghis Kahn conquered most of the known world with the bow and arrow. What would such a man accomplish with these, do you wonder?"
"I don't wonder. I'm just a salesman. Now, do you want my product?"
"Our customers will be most pleased. Don't you agree my young assoc…"
Schmidt stopped, his vision fixed upon Freddie, having just noticed the newspaper in his pocket.
"Oh yes," Freddie said, taking the newspaper from his pocket. "I almost forgot. I brought this for you. I thought the news might be of interest."
"Let…me see it, please."
Freddie gave the newspaper to Schmidt, pleased by the old man's trembling hand. Schmidt read in silent amazement, as the breeze picked up, wafting the smell of burnt flesh across the deck, rich and nauseating.
"Look," Williams said, "I have other interested buyers. Do you want these guns or not?"
Schmidt did not answer. Instead, he began to laugh. It was quiet at first, but it grew into a deep, hearty bellow, seeming to rise from a depthless cavern where an echo might live for centuries. It felt unclean. Freddie felt like he was a child again, seeing Schmidt for the first time. He watched in apprehension as Schmidt looked up, and spoke.
"He has come back. Yes, I can feel it now, in the very air. He has come back to me. I would almost say I can't believe it…and yet, somehow, I knew this day would come. I have always known."
Schmidt set the paper down on the table, running his gloved hand across the Portuguese headline:
United States Rejoices:
The Return of Captain America!
Below the headline was a full-page photo of the Captain standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, addressing the media.
Silence held on the deck for several long seconds until Williams spoke, his words haltingly and uneasy.
"You know the man?"
Schmidt spun around. "Know him?" he said, with a volume that hurt the ears. "Did Cain know Abel? Or Caesar Brutus? Yes, I know him. You asked me a question of business a moment ago, Mr. Williams. Ask me again."
"I…I asked if you wanted the guns."
"Oh, yes," Schmidt answered, gleefully. "I will take them all. I shall take your weapons as I shall take any and all things upon which I fix my eye. Then, I shall take this world…and shake it to its foundations! I will bring him to me, and welcome him as only a brother can."
Casually, but with great speed, Schmidt fired four quick bursts, killing all the men except for Freddie, who was scrambling to free his pistol from its shoulder holster. He was too slow. Schmidt dialed his weapon to the lowest setting and fired point-blank into Freddie's chest. He crumpled to the deck, unconscious.
. . .
Freddie slowly regained his senses. He was stretched out flat on his face, unsure where he was, or what had happened. Then he remembered. He frantically felt for his gun.
"It is not there, Freddie."
He looked up, seeing Schmidt standing a few feet away, his back to him.
"I've taken it. Along with the Berretta you keep in that ankle holster. I've taken all your weapons. Except your knife. I've heard you are good with a blade. I shall give you a chance to prove it."
Freddie saw his knife lying just in front of him. He reached for it, but stopped.
"Schmidt, why are you doing this? I am your partner!"
Schmidt sighed. "No longer, I'm afraid. My plans have changed, Freddie, and they don't include you. Come now boy, you've always wanted to kill me. This is your chance."
"I never wanted to kill you…"
"Ach. Do not lie, it is unbecoming. Your father once commanded an entire field Army. Thousands of the most ferocious soldiers the world has ever known once answered to his beck and call. Don't dishonor his memory by being a coward now."
Snarling, Freddie grabbed the knife. He was good with a blade; he'd killed two men in knife fights alone. He would kill Schmidt now, but only after he cut those damned bandages from his face and spit in his eye! He was Fredrick Kreidler—and this was his town. He jumped to his feet as Schmidt turned to face him, and at that moment all the strength drained from his body. Schmidt had removed his bandages himself, revealing his naked face. Only it was not a face at all. It was a skull.
A Red Skull.
It was not a face that resembled a skull, nor was it a mask. It was a skull, deep crimson, the shade of blood-stained granite. It seemed to hover somehow, suspended. The place where Schmidt's neck should have been was empty, save for a bony protrusion that might have been his spine, which was also red. Even his teeth, so sharp and viciously straight, were red, but unlike his hard, gritty skull, the teeth were smooth and luxurious, red like ripe shining cherries. The only thing not red was the sockets where his eyes should have been. They were black, like holes cut out of the very air, leaving only a void. And inside that void, was Schmidt.
"Come Freddie. Surely you are not frightened of an old man?" said a voice that sounded like Schmidt's, echoing from that hideous leering skull.
Freddie screamed and stumbled forward, slashing with his knife. Schmidt sidestepped, bringing his own blade down as he did, gashing Freddie deeply from scalp to chin. Freddie whirled, trying to sink his knife into Schmidt's heart, as if such a thing existed. Again, he was too slow. Schmidt caught him in a grip of steely, demonic strength, shattering his wrist. Freddie dropped the knife, which Schmidt caught in midair, quickly plunging it to the hilt into Freddie's thigh. His screams of agony echoed off the mountainside. Schmidt circled behind, wrapping his arm around Freddie's throat, holding him upright.
"You are too slow," Schmidt said, his breath like the fetid air of tombs. "Too weak."
With a stroke, Schmidt sliced Freddie's hamstrings, letting him drop to the deck. He walked to the table and set his knife down, picking up the newspaper.
"Ah, my brother, these children today, so soft and pampered. They know nothing of real strength. Not like you and I, who were forged in the crucible of war—the only thing which gives man meaning. I…almost despaired these past years. I almost gave up. I busied myself as best I could, but there was no passion in my work. No meaning. But today?"
Schmidt lifted what was once his head and breathed deep, as if tasting fresh air for the first time in ages. "Today, I am reborn!"
Setting the paper down, Schmidt walked to his former partner, who was trying to drag himself off the deck.
"Freddie…"
A small groan of pain and fear escaped Freddie's throat. He kept his head down and tried to drag himself away, but his will to resist was ebbing from his ruined body. Finally, he looked up, and saw his fate.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," Schmidt said, almost tenderly. "You should have killed me yesterday, when I was old."
Schmidt grabbed a hank of Freddie's perfect Aryan hair and dragged him to the edge of the deck, leaving a trail of blood and gore. He lifted Freddie's thrashing body overhead, as a man might lift a child.
"Today, I am young again! Say hello to your father for me, Freddie."
Schmidt tossed Freddie over the railing, ribbons of blood trailing in the wake. It was a two-thousand-foot drop to the forest below, and Freddie screamed all the way. Not because of the fall, but because of the yawning black void of those eyes. Fredrick Kreidler died as he had lived: violently and stupidly.
. . .
An hour later, the man who was once Schmidt was still sitting at his table, sipping his wine and enjoying the morning paper. How keen the wine tasted now! How sweet the air was. Exactly how he was able to taste the wine without a tongue, he did not know, nor smell the air with no nostrils. It did not matter. It was enough that he did. Once, long ago, he had been just a man, like any other. Well, perhaps not like any other. Johann Schmidt was a killer of consummate skill, a soldier, spy and assassin, a man of brilliance and cunning. He was ruthless and he was strong and men feared him. But now he was something more. He did not need answers as to why. It was enough that he was.
He gazed at the newspaper and spoke aloud, in a voice no longer old.
"I never truly believed you were dead, Steven. You and I were meant for greater things. Do you think me dead? Or do you feel my presence, as surely as I do yours? I shall ask you, when next we meet. Soon, my brother. Soon."
Setting the paper down, he lit a cigar, inhaling until the ash glowed red, and pressed it into the image of Captain America. When the paper kindled, he walked to the door of his house and tossed in the burning scraps. The carpet and drapes quickly went up in flames. He strolled to the garage and started his SUV. Reaching into the glove compartment, he removed the bandages and soon was Schmidt again. He would still need that cover, for a time.
He started down the mountain as his house blazed behind him. It mattered not; there was nothing there he needed. He would drive to the docks in Santos and take the weapons Williams brought. Doubtless, men were guarding them, but killing them would be a simple matter. He would add the weapons to the vast stockpile he had amassed over the years, enough material to supply an army. He had contacts around the globe—millions, who would answer his call when the time came. He had five billion dollars sequestered in secret accounts, and hundreds of millions in gold, platinum and silver: plunder, from the rape of nations. He had all this and more. And he had a world to conquer.
He thought of his brother, and smiled. Captain America had indeed returned, and today, the world rejoiced. Tomorrow, it would weep. Because the Red Skull had just awoke.