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SO BEWARE by James Hockenberry

02 Sunday Dec 2018

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Historical fiction, Suspense, Thriller, Uncategorized

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First Chapter, James Hockenberry, Military Fiction, World War I

SO BEWARE BOOK COVER_Final from TonyChapter 1   The Last Day

 The Western Front, Meuse-Argonne Sector, France: November 11, 1918

05:00: “Gil, wake up! Now!” Captain Gilbert Martin of Army Military Intelligence recognized the voice — Lieutenant Paul Keller, his longtime friend and assistant. Martin, alert and focused despite his all-night trek from Allied headquarters, lifted himself from his cot in the basement of an abandoned church. After eight months near the front, he was accustomed to crises, but he had not expected problems today.

“Paul, what’s wrong?” Martin grabbed his boots from under the bed. He trusted Keller with his life. “What in God’s name is it? The war’s almost over.” The armistice between Germany and the Allies was to take effect on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Six hours away.

“Not yet. The general’s sent the reserves up.” In General Donald Prescott’s part of the line, American troops had assembled in their forward positions. They were about to fight for ground the armistice would grant them for free a few hours later, a senseless waste of blood. “All hell’s about to break loose. We’re preparing to — ”

The deafening barrage of American artillery commenced. The explosions rattled Martin’s eardrums. “What did you say?” Martin hollered.

“Prescott has ordered an attack,” Keller yelled back.

“He’s not that stupid.”

“I was on forward watch. I saw the build-up.”

The artillery fire intensified. Martin cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “I have to stop him.” They rushed to their motorcycle outside the church. Keller, the fastest driver in the division, grabbed the handlebars and started it up. Martin hopped on the back, and Keller skidded away, kicking dirt behind him. They were at Prescott’s division headquarters in five minutes. General Pershing, the Commanding General of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF), had assigned Martin and Keller to Prescott. Pershing said he trusted their judgment. Prescott called them Pershing’s spies.

Martin and Keller smoothed their uniforms. Prescott was adamant about neatness. Martin marched into the general’s tent with as much authority as he could muster. Keller followed. Prescott’s aides stood aside and let the intelligence officers through. Everyone liked and respected Martin, and they had witnessed Keller’s fearless aggression when provoked. The general, concentrating on his maps, did not look up.

Martin walked right up to the general and saluted. “Excuse me, General. May I have a word?”

Prescott glared at him. “How dare you barge in like this. Leave.”

Martin maintained his best parade-ground posture. “Permission to speak freely, General.” The request sounded like a demand.

“Denied.” Prescott looked back at his maps. He smelled like cigar smoke and expensive Parisian soap.

Keller stepped back and stood at attention with clenched teeth. Martin advanced one step and pointed to Prescott’s maps. “Listen, General.”

Prescott’s chief of staff backed away as if he expected an eruption.

The general’s bristly white hair stood at attention. His barrel chest puffed out. “Get out of my way.”

“General Prescott, this is slaughter,” Martin said grimly.

“Go to Hell. I don’t care who you report to. I’m going to give those Fritzes a final kick in the balls.”

Martin understood why Prescott’s staff called him Iron Head. “For Christ’s sake. Hasn’t there been enough killing? For what? A field we can walk across like it’s Central Park in a few hours.” Martin knew all too personally the value of human life. “Show some mercy.”

“You’re wrong, Captain. We’ve got these bastards on the ropes. I want to kill as many as I can. I’d march to Berlin if I could.”

“But we’ve won,” Keller said.

“Another word out of you, Lieutenant, and I’ll have you court-martialed.”

Prescott’s icy stare failed to intimidate Martin. “I’m calling AEF headquarters.” He turned and walked away.

“Stop,” Prescott yelled. “That’s an order. Sergeant, remove these officers. Keep them under guard until we finish the attack.” The sergeant and a burly corporal pulled their Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols and pointed them at Martin and Keller.

On their way out of the tent, Prescott’s chief of staff approached them. “Come with me.” As he escorted them away, he whispered to Martin, “Sorry.”

“Glory will be mine at last!” Prescott shouted behind them.

Once outside, Keller paced. Martin lit up a Camel and smoked it in seconds. His next one went just as fast. The chief of staff returned to the tent. The sergeant looked on apologetically. Minutes later, the barrage stopped and Martin heard distant whistles and yells from the front lines. The inevitable machine gun and rifle fire began to chatter.

“Shit.” Keller kicked the ground.

“I failed.” Martin shook with rage.

The wounded began to flow back from the front lines. Sick of the butchery, Martin prayed for these men with deep sorrow. The last American soldiers were dying in the war.

11:01: Shouts of joy erupted from both lines. Martin and Keller followed General Prescott and his senior officers and staff into no-man’s land. Half-way across, Prescott stepped into a mud hole. He ordered a staff officer to wipe off his boots while everyone waited.

This walk was unlike any other Martin had made across a battlefield. Except for the cries of the wounded, it was so quiet he could hear his timepiece tick. No machine guns, no shells bursting, no confused orders. But some things had not changed. A nine-inch rat ran across his feet with something in its mouth. Another chewed on the face of a soldier blown apart at the waist. Martin was not sure if the man was American or German. The smell of cordite, decaying flesh, and onions filled his nose. He wondered if this field would ever yield crops again.

Martin reached for another Camel. Smoking was his one solace. Since he had landed in France, he had smoked two packs a day. When the war had started, the army transferred Martin and Keller’s entire police unit, New York City’s elite Bomb Squad, into military intelligence. That was almost a year ago, an eternity. His lungs were still recovering from exposure to poison gas two summers ago, and his doctors had told him to stop smoking. Die now or die later — what difference would it make? Nothing at home to go back to. He had expected to be buried in France.

Martin surveyed the field. He estimated the attack had cost more than forty American casualties. Stretcher bearers continued to carry the wounded back to the field station. A soldier with a Red Cross band around his arm picked up human remains too small to be identifiable and dumped them into a sack. Martin had seen death up close as a New York policeman, but the killing in this war was beyond his comprehension. Industrial murder. He longed to go away. Someplace quiet. Someplace where he could forget.

They followed General Prescott to the German position. The Germans in their tattered gray uniforms stood weaponless. “Bavarians,” Keller said when he saw their uniform markings. Although defeated, they looked tough and proud. A one-armed German major stepped forward and saluted crisply. He offered Prescott his Luger. The general grabbed it and pushed him aside. “Where is your commanding officer?”

Keller translated. The German major replied. Keller turned to Prescott. “They’re all dead, General. Major von Ohlmann here was ordered here last week to take command of this sector.”

Prescott grumbled and shouted orders. Keller and von Ohlmann talked for a few minutes. Martin understood enough German to know that Keller had softened Prescott’s orders. Keller turned to Prescott. “These men are hungry, General. Can we bring some food over to their lines?”

“Don’t give these bastards a damned thing,” Prescott said.

“General, I apologize for saying this, but Major von Ohlmann is from a long line of Prussian officers,” Keller said. “He’s an honorable man and deserves respect.”

“He’s lucky I don’t shoot him.” Prescott looked around and seemed bored. “I’m done here. You so-called intelligence officers can do what you want. You will anyway, Lieutenant.” Prescott instructed his master sergeant to supervise the collection of German weapons. He told a corporal to remain with Martin and Keller and left with his staff.

After he was gone, von Ohlmann approached Keller. “Am I to understand you are intelligence officers?”

“Yes. We are part of General Pershing’s staff, not his.” Keller nodded his head toward Prescott.

“Gut. Then, may I speak to you and your captain in private?” the major asked, looking suspiciously at the American corporal standing nearby.

“Of course. Where?”

Von Ohlmann pointed to his command bunker behind a series of communications trenches. The three men walked there in silence followed by the corporal. Three times von Ohlmann looked behind him. Martin followed his eyes to a German sergeant with a red arm band and a curious stare who never took his eyes off them.

“Corporal Wasek, please stand guard outside,” Martin ordered. He, Keller, and the German major descended several steps into a 10 x 12 foot bunker. Three layers of stout timbers formed the roof, which was reinforced with layers of sandbags. Keller had to bend down to enter. It smelled of sweat, human waste, and turnips. Two sagging cots, a small table, and a chair were the only furniture. Rats moved unmolested. A dim light completed the bleakness. Von Ohlmann looked nervous but said in good English. “We can speak freely now.” His voice was dry. “You noticed that my men are Bavarian, did you not?” Von Ohlmann swallowed hard and stopped. He looked at the entrance to the bunker.

“Is something wrong?” Keller asked.

“Go on,” Martin said. “We’re alone.”

Obviously distraught, von Ohlmann looked toward the entrance again.

“We’re safe,” Martin said. “That corporal is a good soldier. I know him.”

Von Ohlmann breathed deeply and said in a low voice, “I love Germany, but these Bavarians, they are not German. They are traitors.” He squeezed his fist so hard his knuckles whitened. “You must tell General Pershing this. It is critical.”

“What?” Martin and Keller both said.

“The junior officers. They are planning a coup. They want to break Bavaria away from Germany and make it Communist. That would be a catastrophe. You must stop them!”

Martin heard a faint gasp outside, the sound of a man falling, and footsteps. A shot went off. Von Ohlmann grabbed his chest and slumped to the ground. Martin and Keller reached for their .45s and dived for cover. In the confined bunker, Martin looked up and saw the German sergeant with the red arm band in the entrance. He fired two more bullets from his Luger, but they missed. Martin’s return shot bored into his heart.

Keller examined the assassin, while Martin tended to von Ohlmann. His dying words were, “The German Revolution has begun.”

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DSC_4043James Hockenberry, a career financial executive, has redirected his life to suspense writing with his award winning “World War One Intrigue” trilogy. The change has allowed him to interweave three of his long-time passions: history, literature, and his German-American roots. Over Here, the first novel is set in 1915-1916 and dramatizes the little known but extensive German sabotage campaign in New York. The sequel, So Beware, is set in 1919, portrays the events and turmoil of the climatic Paris Peace talks and German revolutions. He is working on his third book, Send the Word (scheduled for publication in 2019), set in 1918 which will focus on the U.S. military experience in the Great War and the U.S. home front. His books are character-driven, page-turning thrillers, grounded in exacting research. Both Over Here and So Beware have won a silver award from the Florida Authors and Publishers Association (FAPA), and So Beware was a finalist in the Book Excellence Awards competition.

Connect with James at http://jameshockenberry.com/

As well as LinkedIn ( https://www.linkedin.com/in/jimhockenberry/ )
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DEATH AND WHITE DIAMONDS by Jeff Markowitz

12 Monday Jan 2015

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Fiction, Mystery, Suspense, Thriller

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Death and White Diamonds, First Chapter, Jeffrey Markowitz, Port Salmon, start reading

Death and White Diamonds

Just nominated for a Lovey Award by the Mystery Writers and Readers of Chicago, Death and White Diamonds dives right in…

Chapter 1
Richie

The weather was changing, clouds blocking out the stars, wind whipping the surf into a frenzy. As high tide approached, the beach was nearly gone, just a narrow strip of sand between water’s edge and dune grass, the rhythm of the waves pounding at the shore, washing away the evidence. My attention was drawn to the distant lights of a lonely freighter. There was a chill in the air. I hardly noticed. The knife was still warm in my hand.

I looked down the beach. Not ten feet away lay Lorraine, her blouse ripped, an ugly gash just above her left breast, a delicate thread of blood making its way between her breasts and running down along her abdomen. I couldn’t take my eyes off the blood. Something in me stirred. Was it wrong that I saw her, at that moment, perhaps for the first time, achingly lovely?

I forced my eyes away from her chest and peered at my wristwatch, the hands luminous. Three a.m. We had walked down to the beach together shortly after midnight, through the dune grass, giggling. I’d been carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of merlot. Lorraine had been carrying a blanket. I remember thinking, at the time, the surf sounds angry. And then? I can’t remember. I’m fairly certain I wasn’t responsible for the death of Lorraine van Nessen. But it took no great powers of deduction to realize that I was going to be the prime suspect when Lorraine’s body was discovered. If Lorraine’s body was discovered.

I pictured Lorraine’s body floating out to the middle of Castleton Bay. I wondered how long it would take for her body to sink. And once it was submerged, I wondered whether it would stay underwater. I’d watched enough detective shows to realize that at least on television, bodies had a way of popping to the surface at the most inopportune moment, usually just before the first commercial break. I couldn’t take that chance.

Disposing of the body safely would be a gruesome bit of business. Still, I didn’t think Lorraine would mind.

Port Salmon was a ghost town in February, especially on the bay side of town, along Ocean Avenue, at three in the morning, the homes seasonal, rentals mostly, just a few hundred yards from the beach, but all of them empty during the off-season. Lorraine’s grandfather had built most of these homes and even in retirement, he looked after “his” houses. He remained one of the few year-round residents right up until the end. Lorraine was the only one left who made use of the house. And now that too was coming to an end.

I would have plenty of time to dispose of Lorraine’s body. I walked toward Ocean Avenue, turning back briefly to make sure that Lorraine wasn’t moving before hurrying back to the beach house. I didn’t have a plan, not at that point anyway. But I did have a glimmer of an idea.

I rooted through the cellar, searching for a proper tool. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the beach. As I made my way through the dune grass, I sensed a presence on the beach. I was not alone. Someone was crouching low over Lorraine. I held my breath, trying to get close enough to see without being seen. I looked again. Not someone, I realized. Something. A dog was sniffing at the body. I scanned the beach, praying the dog was a stray. Suddenly I felt bad for Lorraine.
Scat, I hissed, waving the hacksaw in the dog’s general direction. The dog snarled, but backed away. I threw a piece of driftwood down the beach and the dog took chase. I stared at Lorraine’s body, a woman’s body, plump and inviting, even in death, especially in death, her full hips, her perfect round breasts, the four inch gash just above her left breast. I’m sorry Lorraine, I whispered, for what I’m about to do.

It was slow work, with the hacksaw. Before long, I was breathing hard. My shirt was soaked with sweat, the sweat drying cold against my skin. I had to face a hard truth. I was out of shape, twenty pounds overweight, unused to physical labor. The hacksaw had not been designed to cut through sinew and bone. At least not by me. My arm grew numb, but I had little to show for my effort, her body scarred by the hacksaw blade, but still intact. I was making more mess than progress. The tide was coming in quickly now. I needed more time. Lorraine needed more time.

It’s funny, don’t you think? Whenever Lorraine wanted to talk about our relationship, about our future, I always put her off. We’ve got plenty of time for that later, I told her. All the time in the world. Now we needed more time.
Wrapping her scarred body in the blanket, I dragged Lorraine back through the dune grass. The path through the dunes was narrow and long. My feet sank in the soft sand. As I made my way through the dunes, the footing gradually grew firmer. When I reached the road that bordered the beach, I slung her over my shoulder and carried her across the street and down the deserted road until we arrived at the house. Pulling open the cellar door, I carried her body inside and collapsed in exhaustion at her side.

I imagine that most men would find it difficult to fall asleep next to a corpse, even if the corpse wasn’t your girlfriend, even if you weren’t about to be the prime suspect in her murder, even if you weren’t just a little bit turned on by the intimacy. I dipped my finger in the blood between her breasts. I drew my finger up to my lips. I wanted a taste. But that would be wrong. I kissed Lorraine lightly on the lips and said good-night.

I slept till mid-morning, on the floor in the cellar, Lorraine at my side, lying in a pool of dried blood and semen. I shook the stiffness from my shoulders and breathed in the day. The day, apparently, smelled of death and White Diamonds. Lorraine had a thing for Liz Taylor. Something about that made me happy.

I’m not a power tool kind of guy. When my friends talk about their home improvement projects, I fade into the background, silent, letting the do-it-yourselfers trade their tales of sheetrock and spackle, talking a language I don’t understand. I examined a large saw in the cellar, wondering what it was called – a table saw maybe – it didn’t really matter. Anything was better than making a second attempt with the hacksaw. I stared at the blade for several minutes before plugging in the saw.

Lorraine was obsessed with her weight, but she was not, in truth, a large woman. I had, on more than one occasion, picked her up and tossed her on the bed during intimate moments. But now that she was dead weight, moving her was more difficult. Lifting her, I stumbled and we both hit the floor hard. I got up slowly and rubbed my shoulder. Moving slowly now, I dragged her body up onto the table, pushing it toward the spinning blade. The machine hummed. I hummed along with it.

Making the first cut was hard, but the left hand came off easily enough. I tossed the hand in a trash bag at the foot of the saw and worked my way up her arm. I was encouraged by the results. I paused to admire the saw, the housing metallic red, the blade a beautiful steel gray, tipped in blood red. I was beginning to understand my friends’ fascination with power tools. I’d have one helluva story to tell, the next time we talked home improvement over a pitcher of pale ale.

Somehow I managed to block out the notion that it was Lorraine on the table, that it was Lorraine I was feeding to the whirring blade. Then I got to her head. Her blue eyes and blond hair. Her high cheekbones and full lips. I sat down on the cellar floor and gave myself permission to cry. I didn’t want to finish the job, but I knew there was no other way. It was time for me to man up. I cut through her neck, doing my best to avoid those baby blues staring at me, asking why. I put the head in its own trash bag, sealed it right away, and double bagged it. Once the head was removed, the job got easier. It wasn’t Lorraine anymore on the table. I found a rhythm to the job, systematically cutting and bagging and cleaning the detritus. I began to sing as I worked, without regard, at first for the song, one of my favorites, suddenly taking on a whole new meaning – The Right Tool for the Job. I smiled. It’s amazing how a little thing like that can brighten your whole day.

I tossed the final body part, Lorraine’s left foot and leg below the knee, into a trash bag and smiled at a job well-done. I looked at my watch. Two in the afternoon. It had taken nearly four hours to cut her up into disposable parts. I’d have to wait until dark before attempting to dispose of those parts. Until then, I needed a place to leave the trash bags. There was an enormous freezer in the cellar, large enough to feed a house full of guests in season. Out of season, it was easily large enough to handle Lorraine’s trash bags.

I was jazzed. I stood in front of the freezer, talking to the trash bags. I wished Lorraine were alive, so I could tell her what I had done. I had never felt quite as vibrant as I felt when I was cutting her up into little pieces. And I needed to tell her all about it. But isn’t that just like a woman? When they want to talk, they expect you to drop everything and listen. But now, when I really needed to talk to someone, Lorraine was ignoring me.

I’m not a handsome man. I’m just a little too short, a little too soft, my features a little too feminine. But covered in blood and dirt, I realized appearance was only a matter of perspective. Suddenly I felt taller, trimmer, more manly. I studied my features carefully. My face was rugged in a way I had never noticed before. I imagined myself dressed in tight blue jeans and white T-shirt, work boots and hard hat, endorsing a certain line of power tools.

I did a quick google search. You can find anything on the internet. Even so, it amazed me that they advertised so openly. There were hundreds of hits, the closest one just up the road a few miles. I’d never been to a massage parlor before. I consider myself a man of high moral standards. Under normal circumstances, I would never go to a place like that, never treat a woman that way. But these were not normal circumstances. Someone had murdered my girlfriend. I needed a woman to help me relax and Lorraine was no longer available.

I drove north on Route 9, looking for the Asian Paradise. I didn’t know what to expect and nearly turned back twice before spotting the small office building. It might have been an accountant’s office, or a dentist’s, but for the discreet sign in the window. I pulled my car into a space behind the office and parked, pleased to see a private entrance around back.

I tried the door, but it was locked. Perhaps it was closed for the winter. As I turned to leave, the door cracked open. An Asian woman of indefinable heritage and indeterminate age checked me out carefully. “Forty dollars,” she said, and smiled, pulling me inside the office.

For the next hour, it was all she said. I was relieved that she didn’t speak English. I didn’t want to know who she was, didn’t want to know what was on her mind. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do first. When she began to unbutton my shirt, I figured that I was supposed to get undressed. I stripped down to my boxer shorts and socks and waited. The Asian woman pointed and giggled. I knew what she meant, and slowly stripped off my boxer shorts. For reasons I didn’t entirely understand, I chose not to remove my socks. I lay face down on the massage table and waited.

As she worked on the knots in my shoulders, I found myself talking about Lorraine. We were not exactly lovers. What was the term the kids used? I tried to remember. Friends with benefits. That wasn’t quite right either. I wanted to explain, not for the Asian woman who was walking on my back. She had shown no evidence of knowing any English beyond her initial two-word greeting. No, I was talking to explain it to myself. Co-workers with benefits? That was closer to the truth. A matter of convenience for two lonely adults. Part of the company’s defined benefit package. Lorraine was an Assistant to the Vice President of Finance, five years older, two levels, at least, above me in the organizational chart. I was an entry-level quality assurance analyst, tracking performance by department. My job was to crunch numbers, and to display those numbers in fancy three-color pie charts, charts that were supposed to make the company look good, even when it wasn’t. I had a knack for making the numbers fit the company’s desired storyline. A generation past, I would have had a bright future at the company. But I knew it was only a matter of time before my job was outsourced to India. It was useful to have relations with an Assistant to the VP of Finance. I was going to miss her. “I’m going to miss Lorraine.”

The Asian masseuse climbed down off my back. I stopped talking while she finished the massage.

I dressed quickly and prepared to leave. The masseuse unlocked the door. “So sorry hear about Miss Lurlene. You come back, okay?”

I told myself it didn’t count as cheating. After all, Lorraine was dead. You can’t cheat on a corpse. A dismembered corpse at that. So why did I feel guilty? As I drove back to the house, I considered my options. I had come to Port Salmon at Lorraine’s urging, to spend a long week-end, off-season. I’m not one to understand the appeal of a deserted beach in the cold of February, but Lorraine had insisted, using words like trust, and commitment, and bonding. She promised me a week-end I would never forget. So why was it that I couldn’t remember what happened out there on the beach? Now Lorraine was dead, in pieces, in the freezer.

Some people might interpret my decision to chop her up as evidence of guilt. But they would be wrong. Chopping her into pieces had been a difficult, but necessary step to protect my own innocence. In my favor, no one knew I had come to Port Salmon with Lorraine. And no one knew that she was dead.

I couldn’t just carry the body parts down to the water’s edge and set them adrift like little toy boats, the S.S. Lorraine, a fleet of S.S. Lorraines, set them adrift in the current, and watch them sail off until, one by one, they sank to the bottom of the bay. Because, by morning, the currents would wash those body parts back up to shore. By morning, along with the seaweed and the hermit crabs, the driftwood, oyster shells and egg casings, the beach would be littered with Lorraine.

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Death JeffJeff Markowitz is the author of the darkly comic mystery/thriller, Death and White Diamonds, as well as three books in the Cassie O’Malley mystery series. He loves to write early in the morning.  “You can usually find me at my computer at 5:30 in the morning plotting someone’s murder.” When he’s not out looking for dead bodies, Jeff keeps busy as the founder and Executive Director of a nonprofit agency serving adults with autism. Jeff is a proud member of the International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

Learn more at Jeff Markowitz.com

THE WORLD BENEATH by Rebecca Cantrell

22 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Fiction, Thriller

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Fiction, First Chapter, International Thriller Writers, ITW, Prologue, Rebecca Cantrell, The World Beneath, Thriller

The World Beneath (Small)The World Beneath by award-winning novelist Rebecca Cantrell  is the Winner of International Thriller Writers’s Best Ebook original Novel award. What are you waiting for?   Start reading…

THE WORLD BENEATH

Prologue
November, 1949
Presidential train
En route to Grand Central Terminal, New York

Dr. Berger looked into the long dark mouth of the tunnel. This tunnel would lead to another and then another until they stopped at a secret platform under New York City’s Waldorf Astoria hotel. Only one train had permission to stop there. This one—the presidential train car. It hadn’t been used by the president since the war and, despite its original purpose, the car was surprisingly utilitarian—simple wooden cabinets, a stainless steel counter bearing four liquor decanters, and leather chairs bolted to the floor.

He clutched his precious briefcase with nervous fingers. The train had almost arrived at its destination, and nothing had gone wrong. Yet.

Darkness engulfed the train car as it pulled inside. The train slowed to a crawl. To see why, Dr. Berger adjusted his round spectacles and peered through bulletproof glass so thick that it had a green cast. Dim, electric lights hanging from the ceiling revealed a field of silver tracks merging together again and again as the tunnel narrowed. The engineer had slowed to switch tracks. The car was deep underneath the city now. Close.

He cast a sidelong glance at his sole traveling companion: the uniformed soldier who was tasked with protecting him and the secrets he carried. What did he know about the man?

What was there to know? The man sitting straight-backed and alert with a Thompson submachine gun flat across his lap was merely an ordinary American soldier. A soldier much like the one who’d taken Dr. Berger prisoner in Bavaria a few years before. Another square-jawed man with close-cropped hair whose narrow eyes told Dr. Berger how much he hated all Germans. Of course he did—because of the war. These American soldiers held him personally responsible for all the deaths caused by Hitler’s madness, as if these soldiers could have influenced Roosevelt’s decisions themselves, as if his adherence to orders was so different from theirs.

In the end, he had defied his superior’s orders when he’d packed up his notes and gone to meet his destiny on a train not unlike this one, fleeing west, praying only to surrender to the Americans and not the Russians. He’d been lucky. The troops who’d stopped his train were sturdy and well-fed, chewers of gum and crackers of jokes—American through and through. Their orders regarding high-level scientists were clear, and they hadn’t mistreated him.

They’d brought him to the United States, interrogated him respectfully, and paid him a good salary to continue his research. They’d even retrieved his yellow parakeet, Petey, and the upright piano he had inherited from his father. His specialized knowledge had put him in the president’s own train car on a special and secret mission that would change the future.

Funny how things turned out.

“Near now,” Dr. Berger said.

The soldier jerked his head. Almost a nod, but not quite. The man had probably been given instructions not to speak to him. As kind as they seemed, the doctor doubted his American colleagues trusted him. A mutual state. The wounds from the war had not had time to heal.

Dr. Berger’s fingers tapped out a song on his briefcase, but instead of helping him play music, the notes in its leather interior helped him to play the human mind. The trials were promising indeed, though protocols in the United States were more complex than they had been in Germany. Here he spent too much of his time talking about safeguards, about how to minimize risk and wondering if his funding would be canceled.

He hadn’t worried about such things in Germany.

The SS valued only results.

He tilted his head, certain that he had heard a familiar sound. The clacking of steel wheels against track filled his ears. The reassuring rhythm told him that every second brought them closer to their destination. He closed his eyes and relaxed.
The sound came again—like Petey’s soft warble when he tapped his mirror with his rounded beak. This sound wasn’t quite the same. Seeking its source, he scanned the front of the car. A small hand emerged from behind the door of a cupboard at the front of the car, and tiny brown fingers with dark nails groped the frame.
“Gott im Himmel!” The precious briefcase slid unnoticed to the floor as the doctor sprang to his feet and brushed past the startled soldier. The little hand vanished behind the wooden door as if it had never been there. But he had seen it.
Dr. Berger lurched toward the cupboard. It was impossible. It couldn’t be there. It must not be there.

“Come out, little one.” He eased the door to the side. Its nerves were probably on edge, too, and he had no wish to startle the creature.

The soldier stood behind him, gun trained on the half-open cupboard. “What’s in there, doc?”

So, he could speak.

Dr. Berger reached inside the cabinet with one cautious hand while speaking in a gentle singsong voice. “No one will hurt you. We are all friends here.”
Leathery fingers curled around his wrist, and a slight weight dropped onto his forearm. Slowly, he pulled the creature out.

“A monkey?” asked the soldier.

Not just any monkey. The animal on his arm was a female rhesus monkey. Short brown fur covered her plump body, except for the inverted pink triangle of her face. Huge brown eyes stared up into his.

“Do I know you?” Dr. Berger crooned.

He touched her soft ear and felt for a tag punched through the cartilage. His heart sped with fear, and the monkey tensed, too. He took a deep breath and hummed a few bars of Eine kleine Nachtmusik to calm them both. With one hand, he tilted her to the side to study the small piece of metal that would determine his fate.
The orange tag bore the number sixteen. The worst of all.

He wanted to throw her out the window, as far from him as possible, and pretend he’d never seen her. He could. The soldier didn’t know what the tag meant. She’d have a few days, perhaps weeks, of precious freedom before she succumbed, and he would be safe.

“How’d a monkey get in here?” The soldier seemed charmed by the little creature. “He’s a cute little guy.”

“It is a female monkey.” As if that mattered.

The thick bulletproof windows had a complicated latch, but the soldier would undo it for him, if he asked. He could not ask. He was a scientist first. This monkey must never be freed. Indeed, she must be contained at all costs.
Because she was infected.

She’d been infected only a few days before, but the infection ran its course quickly in primates. The danger already swam in her rich red blood. Incurable.

He remembered her now, recognized the distinctive shock of golden fur above her brows. She had been the most docile of animals, before. But she might not be docile now. He must not agitate her.

“Find a cage,” he said quietly.

He stroked a finger along her warm cheek, and she followed the movement with round eyes the same shade of brown as the soldier’s. Smiling, he hummed to her, while she relaxed in his arms. He drew her close to his chest and cradled her like a baby. She reached up and left an oily smudge across the right lens of his glasses.
The soldier looked blankly around the car. The doctor watched him go through the cupboards with methodical efficiency. The young man pulled out paper, pens, liquor, snacks, a towel, but nothing to contain the monkey.

If they could not imprison her, they would have to kill her. The doctor could have done it easily, but a deep wound ran along the palm of his hand where he had cut himself yesterday when slicing bread. If the monkey’s blood entered his cut, he might become infected, too.

“You must kill her.” He lifted the animal up toward the soldier. She weighed about five and a half kilos—he translated the metric measurement because he was in America now—twelve pounds, not much more than a human newborn.
“It’s only a monkey.” The soldier made no move to take the warm furry body.
“Take her,” the doctor ordered.

The monkey’s eyes widened as if she knew what he intended. Lightning fast, she sank her teeth into the doctor’s thumb. Her sharp canines grated against his phalange bone, and his grip weakened. She squirmed free of his wounded hand and landed on the floor on all fours like a cat.

Holding his bloody hand, the doctor stumbled back against the wall of the car. He cursed. Pain throbbed through his thumb, but that was not the worst of it.
A harsh screech rose from her throat. His blood dripped from her bared fangs and fell onto the floor. She trembled and swiveled her head from side to side as if she saw enemies everywhere. She probably did.
While the soldier gaped at the angry creature, gun lax in his hands, she leaped onto his knee and climbed him like a tree, little hands and feet gripping the folds of his uniform. When she reached the top of his head, she leaned down to sink her teeth into his ear before leaping off his head and grasping a light fixture hanging from the ceiling of the car.

Nimble and quick, she swung along the wire toward the back door. The soldier’s bullets stitched a neat line behind her, never quite catching up. Bullets ricocheted around the car, and both men dove to the floor.

When they stood, the monkey had disappeared.

The soldier cupped the bite on his ear, and Dr. Berger gripped his bleeding thumb.
“We may be infected,” Dr. Berger said. “We must follow protocols.”

The train engineer’s surprised face stared at them through the thick glass window separating the engine from their car. The engineer was protected from them, and from the monkey. He lifted a black object with a curly cord. His radio. Good. He would explain what had happened, and proper protocols would be in place when they arrived. The danger would be contained.

Dr. Berger nodded his approval, and the man turned around again.

The doctor lifted the heavy top off a cut glass decanter that stood next to the compact steel sink, and the harsh smell of gin billowed out. That would do. He sloshed gin over his thumb. The alcohol burned like acid in his open wound, but it was not to be helped. It ran down the drain, colored pink with his blood. He tore a strip from the bottom of his white lab coat and used it to fashion a crude bandage for his thumb. Then he cleaned and dressed the soldier’s wound, slow and fumbling because of his bandaged hand.

The monkey stayed hidden, and neither of them attempted to find her.

The soldier put down his gun and poured them each a glass of gin. He pointed to the bottle of vermouth, and Dr. Berger shook his head. The soldier didn’t bother with any, either. Some things called for liquor straight up.

The gin burned a warm trail down his throat. His aching thumb would heal, and the chances of cross-species infection were minor. It was a mere inconvenience, but they would both have to be quarantined for a few weeks to make certain. Fortunate, indeed, that he had brought his notes. Perhaps the time in isolation would let him truly concentrate. At least there he would be spared the drudgery of meetings. He drained his glass, and the soldier filled it again.

The train jerked to a stop. Dr. Berger peered into the gloom. The row of orange light bulbs hanging from the ceiling cast faint light on ten armed soldiers standing in formation around the car—four on each side and two behind. These soldiers looked like the soldier inside the car, except that their Thompson submachine guns were raised and pointed at the train.

With his hands raised above his head and a meek expression plastered on to his face, Dr. Berger stood. He knew how to surrender. He walked toward the back door, to open it and explain to them they had nothing to fear from him or from the soldier.

“Don’t open the door, sir,” barked one of the outside soldiers.

Dr. Berger stood still and called through the door. “It is not airborne. You could only be infected by transfer of blood. There is no danger.”

The soldier kept his weapon up.

Clanking at the front of the car told the doctor that a worker was unhooking the engine, but he could not see him. Half the lights were burnt out. Postwar rationing.
He’d have to wait until an intelligent man arrived to whom he could explain the situation properly. In the meantime, he sat and drank more gin while a new engine pushed their car down the tracks from behind after the old engine had left. There would be time to explain when they reached their destination.

He hoped.

A spike of paranoia rose in his brain, but he quashed it. He posed no threat to these men, and they posed no threat to him. They were no Nazis. Human life mattered to them.

The engine pushed his blue railroad car into a dead-end tunnel, then pulled away.
Darkness cloaked the car at the back and on both sides. He stared at the mouth of the tunnel. Soon they would send a doctor to whom he could explain the risks, and they would be released into quarantine.

Lit from behind by the lights strung from the ceiling, the silhouette of a tall man moved in front of the men with guns. The tall man carried a triangular blade and a bucket. A smaller man carrying the same curious items walked behind him. Were they setting up to disinfect the car with chemicals from their buckets? That was unnecessary, and they must know it. They wore blue overalls like workmen, not white lab coats, so they must be here to perform a different task.

Dr. Berger pressed his face against the cold bulletproof glass to watch.
The first man fumbled with rectangular objects on the ground, covering them with something from the bucket and slapping them with his blade. He’d already completed one row before the doctor realized what they were.
Bricks.

The two men were walling them in.

The gin burned through his system in an instant. Blind panic replaced it.

He yanked open the train door and jumped onto the tracks. Dank underground air hit him like a wall. The soldiers standing outside the shed raised their guns to point at him.

The bricklayers gave him frightened looks and increased their pace.

“There is no risk,” the doctor said. “None. You are all safe.”

He took another step toward the soldiers, tripping on a train tie.
“Don’t move, sir,” said a voice behind him.

He faced the soldier he had been drinking with a moment before. The man stood on the steps of the train, gun leveled at the doctor’s chest. Blood had seeped through the makeshift bandage on his ear, but his dark eyes were determined.

“We are ordered to stay here. We must stay,” the foolish soldier said.

“Those are bricks.” The doctor pointed a white-clad arm at them. Already there was a second row. “They wall us in here now.”

The soldier stared at the bricklayers as if he had never seen one. Perhaps he hadn’t. He was young.

“We will follow orders,” he said.

The men worked quickly and methodically—laying in a brick, covering it with mortar, and adding another next to it. If he ever built another house, he would want to hire them. He pulled himself together—his mind could not be allowed to wander, not now.

“We will die in here,” the doctor said. “Together with that damned monkey.”

The soldier lowered his weapon a few degrees.

That was enough. Dr. Berger walked toward the light.

“These are not the correct protocols,” he called. There was no scientific reason to brick him in here. His heart sank. There might be political ones.

“Don’t take another step, sir.” This time, the soldier who spoke was on the other side of the bricks. His weapon aimed straight at the doctor’s chest. The doctor did not doubt that the man would shoot him.

Already, the wall was up to his knees.

“I am an important man,” the doctor said. “I come on the orders of your president. In his very own car. Do you not see his seal?”

The soldiers didn’t seem to care about the seal. Dr. Berger waited precious seconds while more bricks were fitted into place. They did not understand him. They would not. They were burying him and his research. Something had gone wrong, and it had nothing to do with the errant monkey. Someone wanted him out of the way. His research was unpopular in certain circles. His enemies were burying it—and him along with it.

He spoke to the soldier he had just tended. “Give me your weapon.”

The man looked between the German doctor and his American compatriots beyond the wall. His loyalty was clear. “No, sir.”

“Do you want to die in here?” The bricks had reached waist height and climbed higher.

“If those are my orders.” The young man looked shaken but resolute. There was no time to win him over.

Dr. Berger would not die in the darkness here. He must find out who had put him here. He must escape. He sprinted toward the growing wall, keeping low.
The soldier outside opened fire.

A bullet ripped into the doctor’s shoulder near his neck. Another tore a bolt of fiery pain through his leg. He fell heavily to the hard ties. Steel track struck his temple. Warm blood ran down one cheek. Full darkness blinked in his head, but he fought it.

He must keep his wits about him.

His broken eyeglasses fell to the ground as he crabbed toward the entrance, using his good arm and leg. The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils like water filled those of a drowning man. He gagged on it, spit onto the wooden ties, and crawled forward.

They could not kill him. He was an important man. A doctor.

As a doctor, he must stop the bleeding in his neck, must assess the damage to his leg. But he was an animal first, and if he did not reach the ever-narrowing crack of light, his wounds would not matter.

Another row of bricks was added. Already, he would have to stand to climb through it. If Petey were here, he could have flown to freedom. The thought of his small yellow body flashing through the room and out into the light cheered him. Petey flying free.

Weakening with each motion, he dragged himself one body length, then another, until he reached the base of the newly built wall. The odor of wet cement overpowered the smell of blood. It reminded him of the summer he built his house, after he was appointed head of his research lab at the beginning of the war, when everything had seemed possible.

He grunted in pain as he hauled himself upright. His good leg took his weight, and his fingers found holds in the wet cement slopped between the bricks.

Then the light vanished.

The last brick was in place.

# ##

Keep Reading!

Download THE WORLD BENEATH from Amazon and keep going!

cantrell_150pixcolorNew York Times bestselling author Rebecca Cantrell’s novels have won the Bruce Alexander and the Macavity awards and been nominated for the Barry, Mary Higgins Clark, APPY, RT Reviewers Choice, and Shriekfest Film Festival awards. She and her husband and son just left Hawaii’s sunny shores for adventures in Hannah Vogel’s hometown–Berlin.

Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Cantrell

No part of this work of fiction may be copied or distributed from this blog without express permission of the author.

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