Fragmented Evil Read online

  Finally, Chris screamed.

  Chapter 6

  Chris opened his eyes. He was breathing sharply. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his forehead. The bedroom was exactly as it had been before he had fallen asleep and the new morning was stirring. The sun was shining brightly through the plain curtains, and the room was beginning to warm up. Taking a deep breath, he laughed aloud and berated himself for being a wimp.

  He stood up from the chair and stretched both arms as he let out a deep yawn. Apart from a slight ache in his back, he had slept quite comfortably.

  He walked to the toilet and laughed again as he noticed the door was shut. Why shouldn’t it be? he thought. A quick splash of cold water onto his face and he was once more feeling as right as rain.

  Chris walked back into the bedroom and stopped dead. His new-found energy seeped from his body and his shoulders drooped.

  His grandmother was still in bed. She looked peaceful enough, but there was no rising and falling of her chest. Her skin was whiter than white and her lips were fixed, already showing faint tinges of blue.

  Steadying himself, Chris made his way slowly to the bed. He touched her forehead and hastily withdrew his hand. Her skin was freezing to the touch.

  To confirm her passing, he leant in close to her body and listened out for the faintest of breaths. There was nothing.

  Chris let his head fall gently onto her chest and allowed the build of tears he had been fighting back to run free.

  Buried into his grandmother’s body, he failed to notice her eyes dart open, bright and powerful. From his position, he also failed to notice her hand drop free from under the bed-covers, gripping a pair of surgical scissors.

  He was blissfully unaware of the grave danger he was in until the scissors were forcibly driven into his neck.

  The sharpened scissors pierced through the skin and penetrated deep into his jugular. He felt an instant burning pain and became aware of warm blood flowing into his mouth, running down his throat. He managed to lift up from his position. Upright, he looked at his grandma with a look of utter confusion on his face.

  ‘Why?’ was all he managed to utter as he started to drown in his own blood. t thickened in his mouth and trickled over his lips.

  His grandmother never moved, keeping her cold eyes locked on his. Shockingly, she erupted into a laughing fit that shook her entire body.

  Chris pulled the scissors from his neck and winced as blood jetted out from the wound, spraying onto the walls. He felt his body go cold. First his fingers and toes, then the chill rapidly moved up his torso.

  Glancing towards the bathroom, he saw the thin mist appear. It was moving quicker this time, eager to be there for the kill. He fell to the floor, struggling to keep his eyes open. His grandmother was still madly laughing, and the mist was advancing towards him with a passion.

  Everything started closing in; his grandmother’s laughter seemed further away. As the mist circled his body, Chris Allen closed his eyes for the final time.

  The mist in the room slowly dispersed. Grandma hauled herself upright in her bed, ignoring the pain that racked her body. A sly smile slowly appeared on her wizened face as the light in her eyes shone brightly once more.

  Perched on the window of her bedroom was the black raven who had spoken to her during the dark, lonely nights, promising and teasing her with tales of eternal happiness waiting for her up in heaven.

  The raven was studying her closely, its head bobbing slightly in satisfaction.

  With awe in her voice, she spoke out, calmly and clearly.

  ‘I have done what you asked. I am yours to take.’

  The End

  Der Devil Komando

  Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.

  John Milton, 1667

  Chapter 1

  The first whistle blast sounded out sharply in the cold, Dutch September morning air.

  The men of the 1st Airborne Division of the Parachute Regiment started to prepare for the oncoming battle, hastily checking that their spare ammunition was correctly secured to their tunics, an ample supply of hand grenades was available and god forbid, that they had enough battle dressings close to hand. All along the shallow split trench, hastily dug the night before in silence and total darkness in fear of the enemy, who were in similar trenches approximately four hundred metres away, men began to stretch and stand up in readiness.

  They were part of Operation Market Garden, planned to liberate the Dutch cities of Eindhoven and Nijmegen. Dropped in by glider the previous night to seize key bridges they had overshot and missed their drop zone by a good twenty kilometres, they were now stranded behind enemy lines trying to navigate back to their intended target whilst the remaining Allied forces continued on with their assault.

  Corporal Dave Morris and Private Sam Davis looked at each other and winked. Corporal Morris was a burly six-foot, former rugby player from Newcastle and Private Davis was a stout, stocky former miner from Wales, who had left the safety of his reserved occupation to serve his country. They had met during their six-week training and had remained side by side ever since.

  ‘Who does the captain think he is?’ laughed Private Davis. ‘Bloody whistle, he might as well tell the Jerrie’s we are on our

  way.’

  ‘Aye, your right enough there,’ replied Corporal Morris. ‘He thinks he is on the Somme. Just wait till the bullets start flying, he will crap his pants.’

  The captain double checked the bullets in his Webley Revolver one more time. Satisfied, he drew the whistle to his lips once again.

  As one, the whole regiment stiffened and looked ahead at the muddy opening of their slit trench. For some, this would be the last sight they witnessed. Each man prayed to his own chosen god. This was it.

  ‘Hey, Stumpy, stay close to my side. You know you are frigging useless on your own,’ whispered Corporal Morris, from the side of his mouth.

  His comrade merely nodded his head in acknowledgment and stood, ashen, waiting for the command to advance.

  In the silence, the second whistle sounded deafening. Everyone jumped, startled, and made their way to climb out of their split trench, unsure of what was waiting for them on the other side and what their future would hold.

  Chapter 2

  The nanosecond the first helmeted heads of the attacking British Forces lifted above the parapet, the German Spandau MG 42 machine gunners opened up from their camouflaged bunkers, concealed out in the middle of no man’s land with a ferocious onslaught, discharging 12,000 rounds per second into the slow-moving and prone soldiers. In that terrifying moment, it felt as if the world was coming to an end.

  Paratroopers were flung back into the pit of the trench without making a single step forwards. Bodies crumpled down onto the torn earth in front of them after only one or two paces. They were unceremoniously flung to one side as other soldiers desperately endeavored to break free from the kill zone.

  Corporal Morris took his turn to leave the safe confines of the trench; he reached around to lend a hand to his friend. The soldier in front of him was struck in the side of the head. The bullet tore through his soft fleshy skull covering the corporal’s face in blood.

  ‘Get a bloody move on, old pal,’ Corporal Morris roared, dragging Private Davis free.

  They both sought out cover, diving behind a pile of dead paratroopers mowed down in front of them. Their eyes were still wide open, staring blankly into space, bodies warm to the touch. The small fringes of grass that had previously occupied the field separating the two warring sides had quickly disappeared. They had been trampled underfoot or blown sky high from grenades and motor shells that were now homing in on their target with deadly accuracy. The floor underfoot was slippery with mud, slowly turning into a browny-red. Bullets zipped past over their heads as both soldiers took stock of the battlefield. All around them was a scene of chaos. Bodies were propelled into the air from the motor fire; soldiers were dropping like fl
ies, their screams echoing above the sounds of combat.

  They were sitting targets where they were. They both knew that sooner or later a bullet was going to find them or a mortar round was going to come crashing down. Bodies were littered everywhere. The paratroopers, now with a newfound confidence after clearing the kill zone and finding themselves still alive, were slowly starting to turn the fight around and were advancing further into the battlefield.

  Just ahead and to their right, a burnt-out German half-track lay slightly smoking, a remnant from a previous skirmish. Its tracks had been sheared in two and the armoured vehicle lay precariously on its side, offering greater cover. Without a word, both men rose as one, firing short bursts from their Sten guns as the enemy faltered and retreated back into their own trench system. Private Davis noticed with pride that one of his small bursts had taken out a German infantryman as he attempted to sprint back to his men after clumsily throwing a stick grenade towards the British lines. His bullets caught him neatly in the centre of the torso and he dropped like a stone. He was prevented from firing any further shots towards the enemy as he clashed into the hard steel of the half-track. Below, at his feet, crouched on his front, Corporal Morris fired off single, accurate bursts, each finding its designated target.

  The German superiority in numbers was no match for the discipline and tactics of the Parachute Regiment who quickly gained ground, first destroying the machine gun posts. PIAT rockets were fired with devastating effect into the enemy formations as they retreated from the battlefield into a small wooded copse for shelter.

  ‘Let’s go,’ shouted Private Davis, racing after his fellow soldiers.

  Corporal Morris lifted from his prone position and joined his friend.

  ‘Into the fire once again,’ he mumbled under his laboured breath.

  Together, side by side, they advanced towards the copse.

  Chapter 3

  They had barely made it five metres from the protective cover of the half-track when – humph! – the ground erupted beneath them as a stray motor shell landed at their feet. Their ear drums burst instantly. Corporal Morris felt his whole body lift off the ground where he felt himself floating through the air like a feather in a breeze. He passed out moments before his body flew back down to the hardened earth with a solid thump.

  Corporal Morris opened his eyes, blinking wildly to try and clear his vision. He found himself in a deep crater created by the impact of the explosion; smoke swirled around the base and the air was heavy with cordite. Through perforated ear drums he could vaguely detect the sounds of the battle continuing further ahead, deeper in the woods.

  He looked around the shell hole and saw Private Davis lying at the bottom of the hole. The bottom of his right arm was missing, and he was frantically trying to stem the flow of blood that was jetting freely from his raw and exposed stump with a field dressing. Every time he applied a new field dressing it quickly became saturated with blood, requiring instant replenishment. Around him lay several dressing packs that had already been spent. The color was draining fast from Private Davis’ face; it was evident to see that his body was shutting down and that time was rapidly running out.

  ‘No!’ screamed Corporal Morris, lifting himself up from his own position, wanting to help his friend. As he moved, a sharp pain flashed across his forehead causing him to cry out. A wave of nausea swept through his stomach and he fell back down to his original position, gasping wildly for air. Wiping his hand across his forehead, he was shocked to see it was covered in hot warm blood. Before he could take anything in, he slipped away again, back into unconsciousness.

  The next time his eyes fluttered open, it took more effort from Corporal Morris. He was not ready to wake from his dream, where he was warm and comfortable, lying in a nice warm bubble bath as a young Dutch peasant girl perched over him, feeding him succulent steak, well done to perfection just as he preferred. She handed him a cool bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale to wash it all down. He was in heaven.

  The minute he opened his eyes, he regretted it instantly. He gazed upon thick, dull-grey clouds loitering above. Rain was imminent and the light was starting to fade. Lying rigid, allowing everything to slowly come back to him, he listened out for sound. It was silent; not just silent but deadly silent. No gunfire, no screams, no NCO’s barking out commands, nothing! It was as if the war had simply moved on, passed him by, heading for somewhere else and unconcerned about those left behind. Forgotten and abandoned.

  Corporal Morris was relieved to discover the wound on his forehead had eventually ceased bleeding and had congealed like home-made jam. He winced as he touched the tender gash that felt as if it ran the entire length of his brow. It was already starting to heal; he could feel it nipping together. He was in no doubt that he was going to have a monster of a headache over the next few days but he was also well aware of the depressing fact that he would never be as lucky again.

  A dusky fog curled around the edge of the shell hole, stirring him into action.

  With saddened eyes and an empty heart, he stole a glance over to the prone body of Private Davis. He half expected to see him poised over a small stove, brewing up a nice pot of tea for them both, just like he always did. One look at the fallen body of his friend instantly told him that those days were over. Corporal Morris was going to be alone for the entirety of this shitty war.

  Private Davis was still at the rear of the shell hole. His body was rigid, and his skin was ashen grey, his head hung back, and his mouth was wide open, perhaps from his final call for help. His eyes remained fixed into space, unmoving and lifeless.

  He crawled along the muddy floor to where the lifeless body of his friend lay. He looked down at him, tears running down his soiled cheek and he said a silent prayer. After a moment, he removed his ID tag from his neck and placed it in the top pocket off his tunic. He gently closed his eyes before crawling back to retrieve his weapon. He blew some mud from the firing chamber of his Sten gun and quickly checked his ammo. He was good to go.

  Forcing himself out of the hole, he crouched heavy-legged on the deserted battlefield. The fog had turned thicker, absorbing everything in grey. Visibility was reducing rapidly, and the wispy murkiness danced all around him. In a few minutes it would be like pea soup and he would be able to see nothing at all.

  He listened out for any sounds but there were still none to be heard. The eerie feeling made Corporal Morris feel alone and vulnerable.

  ‘Give yourself a shake, big lad,” he thought.

  When he was sure that it was safe to do so, he stood up and cautiously stepped forwards into the gloom, ready to open up with his Sten gun the second he saw anything untoward.

  After two steps he suddenly came to a halt.

  ‘I don’t even know what direction my lines are?’ he thought to himself.

  He slowly spun around but could not make out any identifying objects. ‘Shit,’ he simply said to no one in particular.

  He hesitated, and finally continued walking in the direction he was facing. He felt his whole body shiver as he walked on. He sighed to himself and thanked God when eventually, after a few moments, he spotted a section of woods in the distance. Here he would be able to seek refuge for the night.

  The soldier with the crazy red eyes lying concealed in the woods watched his approach in anticipation.

  He slowly smiled to himself.

  Chapter 4

  The light was beginning to fade rapidly as he approached the entrance to the wood. The cold was settling in and Corporal Morris knew he was in for a long uncomfortable night.

  Stepping into the woods he halted, waiting for his eyesight to adjust to the total darkness that instantly engulfed him. The whisper of fog from the battlefield halted at the fringes of the wood then turned around and beat a hasty retreat.

  Before stepping forwards he took in his surroundings. It was difficult as the trees felt as if they were closing in on him, they held no desire to allow him to venture forw
ards. Again, there was an eerie silence.

  Taking in the patches of thick mud that looked like they could swallow a horse, the overhanging branches and the jagged thorn bushes poised to strip the skin from his flesh, he was careful to pick out every footfall in front of him. He was mindful that any sound would instantly disclose his existence and that if he crashed to the floor with a sprained ankle or even worse, his chances of survival would decrease and at the same time his chances of detection would increase.

  Corporal Morris detected something. A presence, maybe? The hairs lifted on the back of his neck. Sensing that he was not alone in the dark woods, he fumbled in the pockets of his smock and pulled out a hand grenade. He gently removed the pin, prepared to lob it at whoever or whatever appeared.

  Continuing forwards, the darkness swamped over him. His nerves were stretched to breaking point. He stepped over a decayed tree that had given up on life a long time ago, crashing down onto the floor of the wood where, over time, Mother Nature had claimed it as her own.

  He was just bringing his rear leg over the obstacle when he heard the words ‘Hilf mir, hilf mir.’ A clammy hand brushed the bottom of his trousers. Nails like talons rasped against his skin.

  Corporal Morris kicked out with his booted foot in panic, trying like mad to quell the scream that was rising in his throat. He looked down and recoiled in disgust. Lying back against the fallen tree was the most disgusting vision he had ever witnessed. The soldier who had grabbed at his legs, at least he assumed he was a soldier although the uniform he wore was unidentifiable and torn to shreds, cowered and shivered. His skin resembled charred coal and looked painful to the touch. Mud and grime clung to the stubble on his face. A foul smell was coming off him that he instantly identified. A smell that he had often detected back at camp whenever he walked by the first aid station. If he was correct, the poor soul before him was suffering from the later stages of wet gangrene and was close to losing a body part or dying from the blood poisoning which would eventually occur. Corporal Morris could imagine the pus-filled sores that were emergent on his body and how much the victim must be suffering.