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Urotsukidoji - Overfiend ‘44: The Hell Portal.	By : Nickamano Category: +S to Z > Urotsuki-doji Views: 1508 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Neither Urotsukidoji or any related materials are owned by me. This was created for entertainment purposes only, and I am not profiting financially from the creation of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Chapter 10.
For the girls, the lashing rain pummelling the canvas roof above them was like a calming, lulling drum roll on their stolen Opel Blitz transport truck, but they were in the safest place. The whole group Poles, Americans and Brits were shoved like sardines into the rear cargo bed, and to make matters that little bit more uncomfortable, they were all pressed together in the middle of the two side benches, trying to keep away from the four corners of the truck’s rear, where the heavy rain was able to seep in between the laced-together sheets of the canvas covering.
There were twelve inside the cargo bed, Zofia and Kasia were up front and hopefully out of sight of any patrols trying to inspect the interior from the rear drop down. Next to the girls were the two Dark skinned Americans, well up front for the same reasons, there were no Africans in the Wehrmacht. Then came the two angry American officers and the other three Americans plus Lew Bodie, with Michal Klick and Thiago Clonek - two of the best German speakers closest to the dropdown rear. Dominik Furman was the best driver and knew German roads, plus his German was the best of all of them, so he was up front in the cabin along with Rangel Piszczek and Raymond Shaw whose German was easily passible.
Kasia Tomaszeski looked across at Clay, the big American with the huge machine gun. He was grimacing constantly, pulling at his new SS uniform, which was long enough for him but a little tight around the seams and the shoulders. However, it had been the biggest uniform that the sweet yet scary nutcase Segen had left them, and he was forced to make do. He kept looking across at her smiling politely though his eyes often slid down from her face to take in her body and took its time before coming back up again.
Kasia was pretty much used to the way male eyes worked, though having had little contact with dark skinned men, it took her a moment to come to terms with the reality that they were the same as Polish men, German men, French men and British men too. Brooks sitting beside her seemed to be equally unable to take his eyes off Zofia, though that was no surprise the young girl was remarkably pretty. And Kasia had worked hard to maintain a friendliness with the girl who under peacetime circumstances she might have felt jealous of and disliked. The girl had shown her mettle on numerous occasions though, and had long since earned Kasia’s respect.
The American officers were constantly chunnering between themselves, mostly too low for Kasia to follow their conversation. And sometimes the Italian was joining in, and though naturally louder of voice, his accent made him hard to follow too, even though Kasia knew English well enough. At least Klich and Clonek were sitting closest to the rear of the truck and if they did get stopped Kasia could rely on those two experienced cool-headed guys to talk their way out of potential problems.
She just wished Rangel was back here to convey the priorities of their own people to the Americans. Their group had learned to work well enough with Bodie and Shaw, but they outnumbered the two Brits and these Americans, at least the officers, had apparently expected to be taking over the mission and ordering everyone else around. It had been good of Segen to cut their ranks down to a more manageable number, even though it might endanger their mission and the crazy girl herself, of course. Though, Kasia had always been of the opinion that they would have been able to succeed alone, with a little luck and careful planning. Still, she wasn’t about to turn down extra help if it got the job done.
However, she was dubious about the importance of this particular mission. What did it matter if Germans were experimenting on their own? If that meant less Germans in the world, surely that wasn’t a bad thing. She had chosen to trust in Rangel and the Brits and that, wherever was going on in this Schloss was very bad and needed to be dealt with.
The others, other than Zofia and herself of course, had also managed to find a suitable, even though rarely perfectly fitting, SS Uniforms to wear and now with their helmets and in the darkness of the dull evening, they were making steady progress toward the outskirts of Berlin.
There had been some concern about the American’s weapons and equipment, the familiarity versus of their own weapons weighed against being recognised as carrying non-standard equipment by any observant German soldiers, and maybe their disguises being seen through. Eventually, cooler heads prevailed and the Garands and M1 carbines were exchanged for German Sturmgewehrs and MP40’s. Though the US equipment was brought along anyway and now took up most of the floor space in the truck’s cargo bed, getting in the way of everyone’s feet.
Clay, Kasia had particularly noticed, was overly excited by the swapping of his big and bulky M1919 Browning for the German MG42 machine gun. He had seen her looking at the way he stroked the weapon with an oily rag and familiarised himself with its top opening, belt loading mechanism, the cocking lever and the trigger group.
“The old Browning’s heavier, bulkier and slower. This baby’s much easier to handle. Plus, there’s gonna be plenty of extra ammo lying around for it. We already picked up an extra couple of belts back at the bridge.” He said with a flashy grin.
Kasia was still watching him casually shift his attention between trying to make his uniform fit better, lusting over the newly acquired bipod-mounted belt-fed machine gun and the jut of her own trussed up bosom - when she realised the truck was slowing down.
She found herself exchanging concerned glances with Zofia, and then the two women leaned themselves deliberately back into shadow, their backs against the damp canvas, putting the bodies of five men between themselves and the dropdown rear of the cargo bed, just in case.
The truck slowed to a halt and then sat there, engine idling, not going anywhere for a while. Kasia could just about hear voices coming from the cabin but not enough to discern the content of whatever conversation was being had.
After a few minutes the engine started to growl again, the truck was thrown into gear and then the rear flap of the cargo bed was flipped open and a figure leaped up into the back with them. Kasia’s first hint of who it was the look of happiness and gratification that blossomed on Zofia’s face. Then she heard a curse of shock and annoyance from Bodie.
“Teufel! For God’s sake! You could have been shot!” Bodie snapped.
The young Japanese looked around with wide eyes and open hands indicating the lack of guns having been pointed at him.
“By who?” He asked, shaking his head.
He clambered over the weapons and uniforms cluttered across the bed of the truck’s rear as the vehicle got underway again, and then stubbornly forcing his way to where Zofia was sitting, he hoisted her up off the bench, took her seat and then sat her back down on his lap. The girl was grinning inanely at his cheeky greeting while Kasia rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile at the lad’s alluring unassailable confidence either.
“So, what’s the situation, Teufel?” Kasia asked.
There was a delay in response while Teufel and Zofia’s mouths locked together in a sordid and almost embarrassingly hungry, passionate kiss. Though eventually they broke off and Teufel finally cast his deep, dark eyes on Kasia and threw her one of his saucy, cocky smiles. The older woman felt halfway seduced as the target of that smile.
“Segen managed to secure some blueprints of the Schloss. I handed them to Shaw and Piszczek. I think we’re gonna pull over in the next town and do a little planning before we make the last leg.”
“Is your sister okay?” Brooks asked.
Teufel glanced over at the American sitting almost opposite him.
“Sure. She’s gonna meet up with us soon. She’s gathering intel still, some village up north.” He said.
And then with a knowing grin that had Brooks almost blushing, he leaned forward.
“You don’t have to worry about my lil sister. She may look like a kid but she can more than take care of herself.”
Brooks’ embarrassed nod was interrupted by a more scowled repeat of his own question from the Lieutenant.
“Yeah, boy. Is your sister still with us? I hope nothing unpleasant happens to her.” Kahn drawled.
Sergeant Carson and Private Salvatore both sniggered at their officer’s snide comment. And Kasia noticed an odd dark look exchanged between Brooks and Clay. Then Teufel’s reply silenced them all in its own way.
“You don’t have to worry about my sister, Lieutenant. She can take care of herself.”
“Remember those Germans in the armoured car?” Wesson muttered, staring wide eyed over at his Sergeant.
Carson’s previous smile dropped pretty abruptly following Wesson’s recollection.
There was more or less silence then in the back of the truck. Just the rain on the canvas roof, a palpable though silent anger that emanated from Bodie, Kahn, Carson and Salvatore. And the distracting and embarrassing moans and wet, slick noises of Teufel and Zofia’s passionate kissing in the corner. Brooks looking anywhere but at the couple next to him, randomly jostling him with elbows and legs. He looked flustered and embarrassed while Clay was enjoying the view, watching them going at it with a smirk and occasionally looking across to try and catch Kasia’s eye as well.
Like Clay, Kasia found herself struggling to look away from the excited young couple as they kissed and fondled with all the passion of the horny young teenagers they were.
By the time the truck had pulled in at whatever location had been chosen, and Furman had parked up and finally shut the engine off, Zofia and Teufel were fully engaged and intent on each other and oblivious to anyone around them. The girl’s head was turned to the side so she could engage fully with Teufel’s lips and tongue. And while their excited tongues duelled, he had one hand down the front of her rain coat, obviously groping her fresh young bosom while his other hand was snugly cupping her hip and the curve of her bottom that wasn’t seated in his lap. Zofia’s hand was around Teufel’s shoulder, pulling him securely against her, while her other was under and between them and obviously, though unseen, stroking and rubbing at the hard ridge of his trouser-trapped erection.
“Everyone out!” Kahn snapped, nodding his head toward Klich and Clonek.
The rearmost Poles were already throwing open the flaps of canvas at the back of the truck and working the bolts in order to drop the tailgate. While everyone else grabbed their gear and started to make their way awkwardly across the obstacle course of the cargo bed’s central walkway. Everyone except Teufel and Zofia of course.
<><><>
Greta, lying on her back in her cell, on the sweat-dampened and utterly uncomfortable bunk, was dimly aware of the dull rumbling background noise that seemed to originate from somewhere over her head, however it took her a long time to work out that it was in fact the sound of rainfall striking the roof and walls of wherever she was being held.
Firstly, she had been distracted by the muffled din coming from Milena’s cell, as well as the one across from her own, that she still believed was occupied by Frau Marquand. Through the concrete dividing wall, Greta could just about make out the occasional rhythmic rattle of the metal bedframe as well as the harsh yet subdued – and utterly heart rending - shrieks from Milena herself, the sound somewhat deadened, as though she was screaming through a hand clamped over her mouth. There was also muffled laughter and grunts and shouted commands from the numerous men who were obviously occupying her cell.
Feeling exhausted by the constant visits to her cell to rape her, as well as the continual guilt and heartbreak from the sounds of her sister’s own drawn-out assaults, Greta closed her eyes and tried to focus instead on the sound of the rain. It didn’t really help. The rain was too far off to provide much of an aural shield against the sounds of her sister’s sexual torture, which were too loud and too intrusive. And having her eyes shut only enabled her addled brain to add imagery to the sounds and she found herself picturing what the men might be doing to poor Milena.
Deep into the cruel, sordid images filling her mind’s eye, it was a few minutes before she became aware of the excruciating feeling of being watched. She felt a gaze on her, the uncomfortable feeling creeping over her and she opened her eyes and turned her head and saw through the slot in the door a boy looking down over her naked body. She wasn’t sure if the slot had been left open after the last tiny morsel of vile food that had been shoved through for her, or if the boy had opened it up himself. She had seen him before, of course. She remembered at least one other time when she had discovered him looking at her through the food slot in her door.
It was hard to determine his correct age, though Greta guessed at something like fourteen or fifteen, though he could have been younger. He was a strange looking boy, frightening in a way, it brought up in Greta thoughts of the Satanic and the evil type from the fairy-tales her mother read to Milena and her when they were young children.
There were tattoos, almost like scars, falling vertically from the outside edges of both eyes following the thin curve of his sallow cheeks and they resembled something like eagle talons, or the fangs of snakes. His long face was finely sculpted and ended in a long, pointed chin, closer to memorable than handsome. His eyes were small and narrow and somehow at once wise and animalistic, as well as strangely colourless. His hair, what she could see of it, was wild and unkempt, almost spikey and seemed to be a weird sickly green in colour. Greta found herself wondering if he dyed it. She didn’t wonder why, it seemed to suit him somehow.
“Aren’t you going to come in here and rape me too?” She said, spitting the accusation.
He seemed to baulk slightly at the word ‘rape’ as if he hadn’t considered the reality of kidnapping and imprisoning German women and then forcing them to perform continual sexual acts as ‘rape’. Though almost immediately he smiled and it was an altogether predatory grin, malicious and arrogant at the same time.
“I’ve been screwing you sister, rather than you.” He replied. “I prefer her body to yours’, bigger tits, more vivacious, plus I like the noises she makes. But she’s busy with a couple of the officers at the moment.”
“So, you’re here to rape me?”
She repeated her question, casting it at him as though it was an insult. Which of course it was, though not to these men, apparently.
“I was thinking about it, but I think I’ll have a turn with the older woman, Halda. Or maybe one of the nuns. A few of the others are rather fun too, but they’ve been here the longest and it wouldn’t be good to wear them out before the ceremony.”
“What ceremony? Can’t you even tell us why we’re here?”
“The ceremony to bring forth the Dark God Astaroth. So, my father says. But I think his associations between the old religions are a little inaccurate. The correct translation of Kyo-Oh is ‘Lord of Chaos’. I don’t see any connection to Astaroth, myself. Of course, father won’t hear of it. And he doesn’t take kindly to being questioned.”
“I don’t understand…” Greta moaned.
“Of course, you don’t…” He laughed. “You’re just here to provide the energy to dissipate the barrier between here and Hell.”
“Hell!?” She gaped. “You’re crazy! You’re all just a bunch of evil monsters! You’ll be going to Hell! All of you, vile pigs!”
“Oh, no girl. We’re bringing Hell here, to Earth!” He gleefully spat his reply to her as a high-pitched, near manic diatribe.
The boy stared back at her ripe though bruised nakedness for another silent second and then laughed long and a with a depth of timbre that seemed much older than he actually was. And then he was gone, his laughter echoing along behind him until it was a memory echo, tormenting Greta’s fear- and exhaustion- addled mind.
Shivering in renewed fear, she stared at that blank rectangle of blackness for a long time, but all she was aware of was the continuing, heart-rending and utterly rancid sounds of her sister being brutally gang-raped in the cell next door.
<><><>
Teufel had scribbled down an address that he had scoped out, It was in a small town that had once been part of a series of independent locales to the east of the capital but had long since been absorbed into the borders of ‘Greater Berlin’ and was now just an expansion of the capital and had lost its own identity to the past, at least to all but a few hardnosed elders who remembered the ‘olden days’.
The truck, with Furman driving and Shaw navigating while Piszczek kept a close eye on the pavements and buildings around them for SS troops, grumbled its way along the narrow streets small bridges that covered the stream running through the town like a miniaturised Budapest.
Shaw directed the turns in quick, precise Polish without knowing what they were heading for. It turned out to be a bakery with a small garage attached to it for the delivery van.
Teufel appeared at the passenger-side door on the outside of the truck, holding onto the wing mirror and the top of the cabin roof. The rain was in his face and slicking back his hair and causing his golden skin to gleam, water catching the illumination from the dim orange streetlights, but he seemed impervious to the coldness and discomfort of it.
“You’re coming up to it,” He yelled though the window was half way down. “But you’d better pull into an alley that’s coming up on the right. The Yanks have got some work to do.”
“SS?”
“Yep. Occupying the place we’re gonna be using.”
“So why pick that place?”
“Have to give them something to do…”
Shaw smiled.
“Next right, Furman.”
“Okay.”
“They’ll have to do it quietly, no shooting. Not here. Once we’re in the Schloss rifles may be necessary but not yet.” Teufel said.
“Of course. I’ll brief them. It would help if they knew exactly how many they’re dealing with.”
“Seven or eight. But I’ll double check once we’re parked up and get back to you.”
Furman took the turning. It was a dark and well-shadowed space with barely enough room to take the van into but he managed it and once the engine was shut off and the lights extinguished it was all but invisible to anyone passing the mouth of the alley. Teufel dropped down from the passenger door and vanished into the shadows while Furman and Shaw slid across the seats and hopped down in Teufel’s wake, stretching their legs and backs.
They had dropped off the others to give them a chance to make their own preparations and ease the movement of the truck through the Berlin streets. A careful guard at a checkpoint might have spotted black skinned men and two women in the truck, and interrogations would have revealed men who could not speak German. It was too much of a rick. The Poles would be able to lead them through backstreets and alley. Plus, the weather would keep observers of the streets and the blackout curtains drawn tight.
The guns, both German and allied, were left in the truck. The assaulters had knives and bayonets, a number of the knives’ grips featuring knuckle-duster handguards, most of which were relics from the Great War thirty years earlier.
Having been given an updated head count of eight SS troops, two women, and one bed-ridden old man in an upstairs bedroom. The Americans went into the Bakery building.
The place had three storeys, ground floor shop with living area to the rear. Upstairs were bedrooms and then there was standing attic space up on the third floor.
Able team took the shop front entrance while Charlie team, with their one extra man, entered via the rear door that was within a paved and walled in backyard. Baker team were ordered to check the outhouse first at the far end of the yard before having instructions to follow Charlie team through the rear entrance but then head straight upstairs.
Teufel’s observations had stated three men upstairs occupying the bedrooms, and five downstairs - one in the shop guarding the door, while the other four occupied the dining and living area. However, there were no guarantees that the troops wouldn’t move around at any time and the American paratroopers had to be prepared for that.
The young Japanese lad had sketched a very rough layout of the interior of all three levels of the bakery on the back of the Schloss’ blueprints so the strike teams would have a vague idea of where to go. And that was it, they geared up, separated and headed out.
Piszczek allotted three of his own people as a back-up, while the rest he ordered to spread themselves out as a rear-guard, concealing themselves in shadowed shop doorways and the mouths of nearby alleys to watch for more approaching guards and patrols.
He recognised Teufel’s suggestion to give the Americans something to do to improve their own moral as well as prove themselves, so he didn’t really want his people to interfere unless it proved absolutely necessary.

Shaw, Teufel and Bodie sat in the truck’s cabin, Bodie behind the wheel, waiting for the go ahead to shift the truck into the bakery’s little garage once the place was cleared of the SS.
“Do we have a backup plan in case this goes wrong?” Bodie asked.
“If it comes to it, I can bring the building down on them. But we’d have to find somewhere else to plan the Schloss assault.”
If he saw Bodie rolling his eyes at his assertion to drop the building, Teufel gave no sign.
“At a pinch we could do it here, a couple of oil lamps and crowd in together in the back of the truck, as long as we stay quiet it shouldn’t be a problem. Though I’d much rather do it in the comfort of a nice warm kitchen, with hot tea and fresh loaves and a nice roaring fire.” Shaw said, chewing on the mouth piece of his pipe.
“How far is the Schloss from here?” Bodie asked.
“Couple of miles northwest. You can see its steeple from the bakery roof.”
“Twenty minutes on foot, five in the truck.” Bodie grunted.
“Might Able team have trouble the with shop door, do you think?” Shaw asked, filling in the silence.
Teufel shook his head.
“I unlocked it.” He clarified.

Carson, hefted his trench knife, keeping the polished brass and tarnished steel pressed against his grey SS uniform. He glanced around up and down the street as Foster with one hand on his sheathed SS bayonet tried the shop’s entrance to see if it was indeed unlocked as the Nip had asserted.
He could see the guard on the far side of the counter sitting on a stool, feet up, head down, eyes shut. Though if he was actually asleep or just resting his eyes was anyone’s guess. His rifle was on the counter top, not easily in reach but easily enough.
Carson gulped as he gripped the door handle and pushed. The Nip had been true to his word, he thought to himself as the door gave with a little resistance and swung silently inward. At least until the little bell above the door chimed his entrance.
The guard shook himself awake at the unexpected noise of the bell. He rocked to his feet but seeing another SS guard bursting into the shop caused him to hesitate. And yet by the time he felt something was amiss and reached for his rifle, this newcomer was already launching himself over the countertop.
Carson, cursing and shaking with terror and adrenaline, crossed the space between the door and the counter and dived right over it, leading with his trench knife. And now wondering if the Lieutenant’s order to ditch the helmets in order to speed movement and aide visibility had been a good one.
He felt his heart leap in panic as he saw the wooden stock of the rifle swing into his eyeline, but the next moment his body was blocking its swing and he saw a burst of red emerge from the guard’s jacket as his knife pierced the man’s chest.
They fell together into the narrow space behind the counter and Carson stabbed and stabbed as fast as he could, over and over again, feeling blood splashing back into his face as, beneath him, the guard struggled and fought back with all the horror and desperation of a man who knew he was dying.
Foster didn’t have time to check on his Sergeant. The bell above the door, which they should have thought of, had killed any chance of surprise and now it was all down to getting to the men and starting the killing. He just hoped Charlie team had already entered the rear door and at least divided the enemy’s numbers.
He found out as he passed through the doorway separating the shop from the house to the rear. There were three men and a woman there.
Two of the men were already up from the kitchen table, alerted by the sounds of scuffling and grunts and groans from Carson’s fight. While to the right the other soldier and the woman were staring at the backdoor opposite Foster as it was hammered inward from outside.
It burst open with a loud slam but Foster didn’t see Charlie team enter, he was too busy scuffling hand to hand with one of the men from the table who had literally thrown himself at him. Even as he took a punch to the gut, Foster’s mind flashed around catching onto stray thoughts and wondering - if they had walked in casually, as if they were meant to be there, would they have had a better chance of taking these SS guards by surprise? The second punch to his jaw cast the thought aside and in response he grabbed the German by his short curly hair and then drove an elbow into the man’s throat. The man stumbled, his weight pressing in on Foster and overbalancing him. They fell together to the floorboards, Foster, underneath and getting the wind slammed out of his ribs. He felt a dry crack in his side but he was too busy punching and struggling, snarling through gritted teeth as the German spat and cursed in his own language and pummelled the invader.
Wesson was dimly aware of what looked like Foster scrambling around of the floor near the entrance to the shop front as he ghosted Salvatore into the kitchen/sitting room right on the Italian’s ass, but he immediately found himself face to face with some heavyset SS uniformed Kraut bastard. Swinging himself around to take on the man, he saw the blur of a wooden rifle stock and realised in horror that the man had grabbed his rifle from the kitchen table and swung it at his face.
He ducked at the last second but still felt the dull, hot thud of a glancing blow as the rifle butt caught the top of his helmet-less crown. The throbbing heat filled his skull, his suddenly darkened vision was intermittently flashing and blurring as he felt the floor coming up to catch him. However, something in him maintained an awareness of the SS grunt and he lashed out with his reverse gripped bayonet, stabbing over and over as fast and deep as he could, feeling the meagre defence of the rough fabric of the uniform giving under the sharpened edge of the blade. Unable to see much of anything within his blunt-trauma delirium, Foster could hear the shocked, despairing wheezing-grunts of the German and he could feel the thick, hot splashes of his sticky, pooling blood and he knew he had been victorious, though barely.
Energy having deserted him, Foster gave a deep, pained sigh and rolled over onto his back, unable to even worry about the very real risk of being set upon by other SS troops who might have killed his comrades already.

Brooks followed Clay through the back door and took a sharp left to the stairs and the upper floors. They raced upwards, taking the bare wooden steps two at a time. He glanced across the kitchen and sitting room area and saw Foster on the ground next to a German who was covered in blood, while Foster could be dead or alive. Salvatore was using his usual manic uncontrolled violence, roaring at his adversary while he used the knuckle duster at his already ruined face. The German would have been screaming if his larynx wasn’t overflowing with his own blood. It was a horror show and Salvatore was awash with the other man’s blood and gore. Salvatore might well be a complete monster in the real world. He certainly seemed to have been made for war. He probably should have been born a couple of thousand years ago. He might have fitted in as some kind of Roman gladiator or something.
The Lieutenant was much more controlled though no less violent, as he had just grabbed his man, whipped him around so he was behind the German and cut his throat from ear to ear. A Niagara Falls of blood was gushing down the front of his uniform. Though at the last moment of his ascending glance he spotted a small knife was sticking out of the meat of Kahn’s left shoulder.
They reached the landing and took a ninety-degree right turn, and found themselves on a very normal domestic corridor - carpets and wallpaper, framed paintings along the left wall, three doors on the right and a window at the opposite end. Blackout curtains pulled across it, of course.
Clay burst in through the first door, snapping at Brooks to take the next room. Brooks ran and slammed the door open, half registering a grunt and a familiar bass snarl and then a groan from Clay’s chosen room. Then he found himself face to face with a half-dressed German officer standing beside a double bed. And in the bed was a naked woman, somewhere in her forties, robust and attractive, her previously styled hair in disarray her lipstick smeared. She was also sitting there, bedclothes pressed up against an impressive bosom, all but concealing it, while she gawked at Brooks’ sudden entrance. The officer had also paused and was staring incredulous, halfway through hooking his braces onto his shoulders over a half-buttoned up shirt. There was an abrupt yell and a clattering thump behind them but neither man seemed to register it.
Thanking God for the German’s hesitation, Brooks rushed him, seeing the officer snatched out of his motionless moment as he advanced. The officer threw himself onto the bed, after a Luger semi-automatic on the sideboard and snatching a short, panicked scream from the woman. However, the pistol it was holstered on his discarded uniform belt, and by the time he had released the top flap and got his hand to the diamond pattern wooden grips, Brooks was on him and slamming the ten inches of bayonet steel all the way in through the side of his thickly corded neck. The man tensed in utter shock and let out a desperate choking noise. But still tried to pull the pistol, though the leather of the holster was gripping it tight. The woman screamed again as she saw the blood start to flow and she shuffled back on the bed, trying to get as far away from the struggling men as she could and she slid to the ground dragging half the blankets with her.
Ignoring her Brooks, with some effort, hauled the bayonet from the officer’s neck and stabbed it down again. This time it went through his cheek, catching in the soft palette and popping horribly out of the other side of his face. The German let out a stifled horrified groan but the blood was pouring from both sides of his neck wound and his strength was seeping out of him along with the blood.
Brooks tried to pull the blade free for a finishing blow but it was stuck fast. And then the sheer terrorising image of the German officer with ten inches of bayonet thrust in through one side of his face and out the other, grabbed him and he staggered back, unable to act beyond standing there in mute heart-hammering terror and stare at the officer as he slumped on his back, finally still, glazed eyes starting at the ceiling, as the life seeped out of him with every hurried beat of his heart.
The woman was no longer screaming but she knelt there of the far side of the bed white as a sheet and shaking visibly. She watched until the German officer’s life had obviously deserted him and then looked up with huge, fearful eyes at Brooks.
He caught her horror-filled expression and felt he probably looked the same as her. The bedding had slipped from her chest and her heavy, pendulous breasts were fully exposed. They were a nice pair too - full, meaty and alluring. However, in that moment Brooks felt nothing sexual whatsoever, his eyes did little more than glance over her topless-ness before fixing back on her face. She was staring back at him, shock and horror merged into a single expression.
“What’s the problem, ma’am? You never seen a Nazi Negro before?” He finally gasped, panting heavily.
And then he started to laugh. And he was still laughing as he recognised Clay’s tell-tale heavy footfalls pass his door, heading to the third room.
Finally stifling his nervous relieved laughter, Brooks glanced around and then snatched up a linen house-coat for the woman that he spotted on the back of a chair beneath a small dressing table, and tossed it to her.
Clay popped his head around the door a minute or two later.
“Last room’s clear, just some old guy. Like that Jap kid said, he seems bedridden.”
Clay’s eyes swept the woman who was now standing up dressed in her house-coat and unfathomably brushing her hair though keeping the bed between herself and the two Americans. Clay offered her a laconic salute and a white toothed smile and then turned back to Brooks.
“He deceased?”
Brooks nodded, as he finally grabbed the Officer’s discarded uniform jacket and used it to clean the blade of his bayonet. Then partially to keep it away from the woman, he grabbed the holster and belt from the bedside table, wrapping the belt around the holster.
“I had two in the first room, killed the first easily but the other little bastard ran past me. I managed to grab him and threw him down the damn stairs.” Clay said with a laugh. “Pretty sure I heard something snap on the way down, but if not Charlie team’s down there, they can finish him off.”
“If there’s anything left of them.” Brooks countered. “So that’s three you killed? With the guy in the outhouse...”
“Yep.”
There had been a guy passing his evening meal in the outhouse Brooks had kicked the door in and Clay had rushed past him and thrust his bayonet through his wind pipe, withdrew and then pierced his heart. It had gone as well and a silently as they could have wished for.
“You used to work in a slaughter house Clay, or what?” Brooks grinned.
“Nah, man. I got killer moxie.”
“Killer moxie,” Brooks laughed. “Ain’t heard that before.”
“We’d best report in, see if we lost anyone else.” He added.
“I’ll do that. You stay here and keep an eye on her, I don’t trust some of them white boys down stairs. And I ain’t having no raped women on my watch.” Clay said, suddenly grave.
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Urotsukidoji - Overfiend ‘44: The Hell Portal.