Viktor's Last Stand
One rash decision had finally done him in. Viktor laid on the ground, bleeding out. He could hardly think about what had just transpired. The speakeasy he had fought so hard for had been attacked, and now for the second time he was paying the price. The sound of broken glass from the fire echoed around him as the last of the daylight disappeared. The door which was meant to keep intruders out had just slammed shut, locking him in.
His thoughts focused on the family he had in Illinois. He had tried so hard to get away, to make it out alive. But it wasn't to be. His long-suffering bride was going to be a widow after all. What hurt more than bullets was the thought that he wouldn't see his daughter again. Alena, that little girl, had accepted him without hesitation. And for that he had failed her yet again. But she wasn't his only daughter, was she? No, there was Ivy too. He prayed that she had found a way to evade capture. It was a small chance, but it was all he could hope for now.
Despite the heat from the growing fire, the ground felt cold. He wasn't choking on smoke yet; the air was still clear down on the ground. Looking up, he spied the portrait of Atlas as it began to burn. Those eyes were looking down on him, disappointed. Viktor couldn't stand the heat and looked away in shame. He had failed, and now what was left of Atlas was going to burn or be buried in some shallow grave out of town. He locked eyes with the painting once more. Then the fire came back to his eyes. No! He would not go out this way! Not after all he had been through. He might not have enough strength to open the door and crawl to freedom, but he could douse the blaze.
Rolling onto his knees was painful. Each bullet hole oozed with blood, pressured against the additional weight his abdomen was now carrying. The handle was behind the bar. Viktor tried to get to his feet, but the blood loss and the smoke made it impossible. He'd have to crawl. Hand over hand, Viktor pulled himself through broken glass and booze. After an intense struggle, the handle dangled far above him. With one last feat of strength, the one-eyed Slave rose and touched the handle. He instantly collapsed in a heap. Even for him this would be a reach.
The system was state-of-the-art equipment. Putting it in a speakeasy of all places was both a great expense and a great risk. Any of the plumbers could have blabbed to the cops about what was going on. But Atlas wanted to make sure that his friends could get out in an emergency. Well, that and to make sure his investment in booze didn't go up in flames. Now it was the only thing that could save what was left of his legacy. Staring up at the handle above him once again, Viktor gritted his teeth. One final time he rose up, one finger grasping the lever. As he fell once more, the handle came with him.
The pipes clanked and groaned before water started appearing like drops of rain. The shower began to smother the blaze, but at the cost of more smoke. Viktor relaxed, letting the shards of glass eat into his back. He had done all he could. The only one left now was Ethan, and the rest would be up to him.
The old engine gave me all she could as I roared back into town. The thought about what would happen were I pulled over didn't even cross my mind, but luckily the path was clear as I made it back to the Lackadaisy. I could tell immediately that something was wrong as I shut the truck off in the alley. Pulling out my revolver and grabbing the bayonet, I entered the garage. Everything was quiet, far too quiet.
Hoping beyond hope, I made my way down to the speakeasy and that's when the first signs of trouble appeared. There was broken glass everywhere. As I approached the door, smoke was seeping out from the seams. Realizing what may have happened, I tried to open the door, but it held fast. The handle was hot as well.
"My God, Moreau had them burned alive!" I thought as I grabbed a crowbar from upstairs and wedged it into the hinges, busting them off one at a time. As the last hinge gave way, the wooden door gave a heavy groan as it fell forward, landing with a "thud". Smoke billowed out now, but there was no fire. I stepped inside, blinded by darkness and thick, black, smoke. Despite all my senses saying otherwise, there was no immediate sign of an active fire. In fact, once through the door way I felt water fall all around me. It hadn't occurred to me how a speakeasy full of liquor could survive a fire, but the answer was in the pipes running far above my head, delivering precious water to douse the blaze. But who would have activated it?
I nearly tripped over the answer. Looking down, a pair of leather boots were sticking out from behind the bar. I followed the clothing up to the face of the owner. It was Viktor!
"Viktor! Oh my God…" I couldn't find the words. As I knelt, my hand rested on his chest. It rose and fell, but my hand was wet and sticky. That could only mean one thing. I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled with all my strength. He was far larger and heavier than me, but right now I was all he had. After another heave, I made it over the threshold. Only then did I see the full extent of the damage. His chest and abdomen were riddled with several bullet holes. His fur, matted and wet, was seeping with blood.
I thought for sure he was dead, but Viktor proved me wrong, coughing up blood. Instantly I sat down and brought Viktor's head into my lap. We looked at each other. His eye seemed to look past me while mine locked on his face, trying to make out what the big cat was trying to say.
"Feds…" Was all he was able to say.
"The feds did this? But who—" I knew exactly who would have done this. Drago. He had a hand in what happened here, there was no doubt about it.
"Viktor, just hold on! I'm going to call that horse doctor. For the love of God, don't you close your eyes!" But as I tried to move him back to the ground, Viktor caught my arm. In one last moment of lucidity, he looked me deep in the eyes and gave his last request.
"Find… Daughter. Tell her… I'm sorry."
Then his arm went limp. I felt the dread death rattle. He met eternity with his head upon my knee. All was still as the shock settled in, crimson water surrounding us both. I closed Viktor's one good eye for him and willed myself to get up. Climbing up the stairs back into the garage, the alley was quiet, as was St. Louis beyond the brick walls. I could only hope that Riley had found a place to hide. Maybe Ivy or Rocky and stowed her away?
In the apartment, the answer was clear. Everything had been trashed. All the books, papers, clothing, stuff we were packing earlier, it was all strewn about. There had been a struggle, but no blood was on anything. At least she was alive and likely unhurt for the moment. As I got to my bedroom, the stress of it all became too much. I couldn't hold back anymore. I couldn't stay strong! With nothing else for me to do, I sunk down and fell back, my head resting against the side of the bed. I had been here before…
Hill 198, The Argonne
"We've been cut off!" Our Lieutenant said in a panic. We had pushed hard for days and had made great progress. But apparently, we had made too much progress. Looking off in the distance, we could see people moving on the other hills, but they were not Americans. This had happened briefly before, but we managed to reopen communication with headquarters after a few hours.
This time would be different. As the day wore on, the Germans strengthened their positions and started to close in on us. Derrick and I were now in a small pocket, holding back the Hun so that they wouldn't over-run us. LaBlanc had taught us well in the weeks prior. Don't expose yourself to enemy fire if you can help it, stay low, use the terrain and whatever else you might find. And most importantly, pray to the Lwa spirits so that they might protect us. I hadn't really fallen for that last part, but at a time like this anything would help.
Then, the situation went from bad to worse. In the far distance we saw the flash of cannon. Derrick's smile came back as he realized our friends behind the line were going to give the Germans a leaden rain from their steel guns. But the whistling became louder, and louder, and louder. At the last second, I realized what was happening.
"Derrick! Get down!" I screamed as I pulled him into the foxhole. Shells landed all around us, the percussion of each hit reverberated through the Earth. After a minute of cowering, the volley was over. I opened my eyes to see LaBlanc with the unusual look of confusion on his face.
"Perhaps I asked the wrong favor from a spirit?"
The Lieutenant dusted himself off as he sat up. "Damn. Either our boys back at the front line think we're Germans, or they've got the wrong position!"
"What do we do, sir?" I asked.
"We… you need to hold fast. I'm going to get back to the Major and figure out how to stop another volley. Cover my ass, boys."
On the count of three, the lieutenant ran from our hole. Germans in the distance began firing, but those of us who could, fired back. Our volley worked! But more flashes in the distance behind us could only mean one thing, more shells were inbound. We all ducked into the hole once more as lead rained down around us.
Through the pounding of the shells, I heard LaBlanc. He wasn't speaking in a language I could make out. It sounded rough and as ancient as the Earth. But I did make out one word, "Ogun." He had told me about this spirit and painted his symbol on the armor plating which protected us now from shrapnel and bullets.
He was the ancient Lwa of iron and steel, as well as a god of war from a time before bullets and bayonets. A time when enemies would fight with literal tooth and nail, rocks and spears. "Ogun was a powerful spirit that demanded respect and was only to be called on if in great need." Or at least that's how LaBlanc described it. I suppose this was indeed a time of great need. The chanting grew louder and more aggressive as offerings were made. I focused on reloading my rifle, but once that was done, I thought it wouldn't hurt to carve the spirit's symbol on a piece of equipment. It was large and complex, but I was able to scratch out a crude symbol into the stock of my Springfield.
No sooner had I completed the task than I felt uneasy. LaBlanc looked up, shocked. I followed his gaze in that fraction of a second, just catching the blur of a shell falling right next to us. I rolled and covered myself as the 8-inch shell exploded mere feet from our location. Shrapnel tore through everything as we were enveloped in smoke and dirt. I was thrown around by the force of the impact, and when I came to it was difficult to get my bearings. My head hurt; my ears were ringing. But as my vision and hearing came back to me, I suddenly wished that I had remained blind and deaf. Our position was torn to pieces. Those closest to the shell were blown apart. Derrick was lying there with a large wound in his chest. I already knew that it wasn't going to end well for him.
As I crawled over to my friend, I checked him for more injuries. He had a broken leg, cracked ribs, and likely a collapsed lung. But the worst injury was the shrapnel that shredded his torso. I looked to where LaBlanc had been, but it was like his body had disintegrated. Nothing substantial could be found of him, and it was as if our guide hadn't existed here at all.
"E—Ethan. H-how bad is it?"
"Bad. We might be all that's left. For the love of God, Derrick, don't leave me! Please!"
"I'm n—not. Us Mon—Montanans got to s-stick together."
"That's right, Derrick. Now hold on!"
I removed whatever bandages I could find amongst our stuff and began to wrap him up. Despite the damage caused by our own artillery, the Germans had apparently thought it wise to hang back and let us get destroyed, so at least we weren't being shot at. Without anything else to do, I hugged Derrick and held him close as another volley of shells found their way toward us.
Near the end of the day, the shelling stopped. I would find out later that our Lieutenant had given his life making sure the last carrier pigeon delivered its message to headquarters. They knew we were here now, and all we had to do was hold out. I lay there next to my friend as the night came and the fighting died down. We were both quiet for the longest time, that is until Derrick spoke.
"Hey… Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"I want to go home."
"I wish we could, Derrick. And we will, you just need to stay alive."
"I miss Mom! I need her here!"
"She's with you, Derrick. She's with you. And she wants you to hang on!"
After a time, Derrick faded in and out. Sometimes he would be making sense, other times he would be completely insane. The clouds parted above us around midnight, and the moon shone overhead. I peaked my head out and could see enemies moving through trenches in the distance. They were perhaps two hundred yards from us. They were moving closer, looking to retake ground they lost during the day. If we didn't move, we'd both be captured.
"Derrick, we need to leave, now. Our position is going to be overrun."
Derrick checked himself over again and gave a heavy sigh. "It all feels cold. I'm not going to make it."
"You will, Derrick, just hold on!"
"I can't any longer. I'm sorry."
"No. No, I won't accept that. Keep fighting!" The enemy was now a hundred yards away, perhaps less.
Derrick used the last of his strength to grab me and pull me close so that I could hear him better. "Ethan, you'll have to do the fighting for us both. You remember what our foreman said that day when we got stuck underground for two shifts?"
"Yeah, I remember. Why?"
"Then you need to remember, Ethan Kelly. Tell God and the Devil they can try—"
"—but today won't be the day we die. I know, Derrick. Don't let either of them win, keep fighting."
"Well, tonight I'm going to die. But you, Ethan. You need to live! Tell mom I'm sorry."
"What do you mean?"
"Go, leave."
"I'm not leaving you, Derrick!"
"You must. You need to survive this, but if you stay, we both die."
"I'm scared."
"So am I, friend. But you'll make it, I know so. I was a fool to think this would be fun, but you seemed to know exactly what was going to happen."
"I promise you, I didn't." I looked up and now the Germans were 50 yards out. It was now or never.
"Ethan, leave. Go, please. You've done all you can."
"I—" I couldn't deny it any longer, he was right. Even if I still had the strength to haul him back to our own lines, Derrick would certainly bleed out long before we got to safety. With tears in my eyes, I retreated. Once I was far enough away, I turned around and chambered a round to help my friend in whatever way I could.
Derrick lay there, motionless in the dark. He heard footsteps approach him, and all at once he was surrounded by several of the enemy. One took interest in him specifically, and started to poke and prod with his bayonet to make sure the American was dead. But Derrick opened his eyes and locked his with the enemy for a moment. The other soldier was shocked, but before he could alert the others, Derrick raised the barrel of his rifle and shot the cat clean through the head, sending the feline tumbling backwards as his comrades panicked. The shot alerted the rest of the company to the approaching enemy, and our captain sent a red flare high into the air, illuminating our numerous, and exposed, adversaries. With determination, we repelled the night attack, sending many young men to an early grave.
In the moonlight, I saw Derrick desperately crawling for a nearby hole. He was out of strength and exposed but kept fighting. One German finally shot him while retreating. I could look on no longer. But in my pain, anger arose in me once more. My friend was dead, as was my mentor. But I wouldn't let their deaths be in vain. We had to stand our ground, we had to fight on. Picking up my rifle once more, I carefully snuck out from our redoubt and into the new section of no-man's-land. I was going to use every trick I learned to keep our enemies at bay. I wasn't going to lose anyone else!
St. Louis, 1927
But that was then. Now, years later, I was finally alone. One poor decision after another led me to this point. It didn't matter that those were the best choices I could make, they still weren't enough. My little sister was now captive as was the crew I had grown to care about. Viktor was dead downstairs, and that just left me alone in a ransacked apartment. I looked around the room, tears staining my fur. What could I do?
That's when the title caught my eye. Looking at my hip, there was my little box with its contents spilled all around me. But under the box was a newspaper clipping, and the words were circled under the title. They read "The Ghost of Charlevaux."
Yes, that is what they called me when it was all said and done. In anger and desperation I had taken many German rifles as well as ammunition and supplies. All stolen from the enemy to keep our dwindling force of soldiers in that little pocket on Hill 198 alive. But to get those things I had to commit terrible acts. I had lost track of how many Germans I had killed by the second day. Realistically it probably wasn't more than a dozen, but the memories all start to blur together when running on no sleep and very little food. I wasn't so much a demon on the battlefield as I was a scared boy doing awful things to make it just a little longer.
That legend was indeed a myth, but perhaps it was time I finally lived up to it? As I stood up, I thought about what I could do. Then I saw the letter. It was in a plain envelope with "Mr. Kelly" written on the backside. As I opened up the document, it quickly became clear that Mordecai Heller had written this to me as part of some much larger plan. It was detailed, factual, and without error. But most importantly, the letter had everything I needed to formulate a plan.
Pocketing the letter, I looked out through my window to the alley below. The truck was still there, and it would everyone. With renewed determination, I dug out my spare box of ammunition and got to work. But if this plan was going to succeed, I was going to need help and there was only one cat I could turn to.