Chapter 9: Total War
Nazi Germany didn't ambush him this time. Perhaps the superpower assumed the whip did its work or perhaps he was in the midst of a mad scramble to serenade the Allies with his swan song.
Denmark forced himself to take to bed the rest of the day if not to sleep, then to doze. He felt safer acting when he couldn't be seen. Never could he throw himself into the heat of battle and expect to emerge alive. He'd do a far better job of getting in the way of the countries that did know what to do.
When the stars flecked the sky and Denmark could keep still no longer, he untethered his boat one final time and coiled the rope over his shoulder and then dragged the extra weight to a set of train tracks that carried the industrial equipment south and west.
With considerable effort, he pulled one spike loose and used it to pry the other ones up. He repeated this process with three sets of tracks. There came a feeling not unlike an earthquake that shook the earth under his feet.
He yelped and redoubled his effort. In a monumental endeavor, he knotted the heavy rope about a steel track and threw himself backwards against it. At first, his slight weight did nothing to knock the beam askew but he did it again. And again. And kept doing it until he heard the satisfying scrape of steel against wood.
Then a grenade landed not a meter away and he used those 10 seconds to sprint and take cover in a pile of concrete. Then hell took over the land.
Outside his fortress, the world glowed red. Denmark remained still and quiet and hidden for days.
The first night the cold permeated the stone and seeped into him. It rained the next night, so he opened his mouth to take in what little water he could. He became stiff and restless from lying still, yet he was tired all the time. He watched the clouds sail across the sky from a singular peephole that served as a window to the outside world.
Many times, he trembled because of the noise, the cold, the fear. By the third day, his mind was blank. Where were all the things he learned? The places he played? The songs he listened to? There was just nothing, just a formless gray misery in place of thought. A mind gone dead.
That fourth afternoon, something more intense than oblivion pressing in from all sides percolated through- the barely perceptible clicking of train wheels that suddenly stopped amongst the gunfire. Denmark chanced a peak, but saw only smoke.
What brought him back to some sense of being was Nazi Germany calling for him in a syrupy sweet tone Denmark learned to dread. "I saw what you did to the train tracks, my dear boy. You've ended the dream we struggled so hard to build. Please, come out to meet me and I'll be glad to show you the inside of a gas chamber…" That would be the last time he heard Nazi Germany's voice.
After more silence came a monotonous wait followed by footsteps from above. One of the concrete blocks fell dangerously close to his ribcage as it toppled off its precarious balance.
Then, his tiny space shrunk by half. Denmark rubbed his forehead against the broken edge of a cinderblock until it became bloody, annoyed at his continued capability to feel pain and frustrated that it did nothing to make him feel alive. He spent the remainder of his bid wavering between a state of disassociation and sleep. Waking up became a secondary concern.
On day five of his self imposed captivity, a voice rang triumphant among the melee in Berlin.
"Pobedi dla ludey!"
It was Russia. Denmark had no idea what it meant, but the tone suggested good news. Then there was nothing but dust, pulverized concrete that clogged his lungs and burned his throat. Then there was nothing at all.