The Trench - Brian Hesse (amazing books to read .txt) 📗

German rear support lines; Smiling boys descending and hardened combat veterans ascending the opposite side.

 

Otto felt the rung of the ladder and climbed up over the top of the trench. The sweat pouring from his brow making pools of liquid trapped at the bottom of each lens of his mask. Standing up caused the pools of sweat to splash into his eyes, burning, obscuring his vision. He continued to walk blindly forward slow and sure to not pick up his pace until he felt his end of the rope slacken, signaling that Friedrich and Paul were also over the lip of the trench.

 

Wasteland

 

It seemed as if hours passed since crawling over the top of the trench. Hours of looking ahead into a thick blinding fog reflecting the light and heat of a desert sun. Otto kept thinking of walking over thousands of miles of dunes during a violent sand storm. His throat was dry and cracking causing stabbing pain with each swallow of cement like spit.

 

He thought,” if we do not reach the line soon, we will die.

 

Just as he was prepared to remove his mask and expose himself to the fog, his heart raced with adrenaline laced blood boosted by intense fear… fear of the distant squealing.

 

Otto stopped, grabbed the rope, and made his way back to Friedrich. Friedrich must have heard the sound also because he was already heading back to Paul taking up the rear. All three huddled together to hear each other speak, but there was no need for a discussion, only the next words from Otto mattered, “Run!”

 

Otto ran without looking back, occasionally feeling the tug of the rope, signaling that both Friedrich and Paul were lagging. He thought, not without some guilt, that he should release his end of the rope freeing him to escape the horror lurking, camouflaged, within the fog. But love kept him from abandoning his best friend Friedrich, and loyalty to a fellow soldier kept him from leaving Paul. This was still the battlefield, and nobody is left behind.

 

Otto continued to run blindly through the fog until suddenly jerked backwards off his feet in mid stride. The force of the sudden stoppage caused his end of the rope to break, sending him sliding several feet away from Friedrich and Paul, in a direction he could not guess. By the time he could guess his position from his friends, he blacked out from the force of the concussion and his already dehydrated weakened state. For what seemed like hours, but only a few minutes, Otto opened his eyes behind the suffocating barrier of his tightly fastened mask. Fighting his instinctive urge, a second time to run, Otto crawled across the ground as low as he could. He realized that the fog seemed to be lifting from the ground, at least the thickest parts and he could make out darkened silhouettes just a few feet ahead of him. He must have rolled forward several feet or Friedrich and Paul rolled away opposite his position. Otto crawled low to the ground using his hands to dig into the soft dirt feeling for imbedded rocks to use as anchors to expedite his progress. As he approached the two supine bodies lying side by side in the dirt, a chill raced through his spine as he noticed one of the forms covered in dark red blood, and the unmistakable smooth white muscle of intestines protruding from a large hole in the stomach. Still unsure if that was Friedrich or Paul laying in a pool of their own blood and guts, Otto crawled a few feet to his left to the other still body. He dared not take off his mask, or the mask of the body in front of him, but he could tell, with a muffled sigh of relief, that this was Friedrich, and he did not appear to have any visible wounds.

 

Otto’s head began to spin, his stomach ached, and throbbing pains traveled throughout his legs and arms.

 

“I have to unmask,” he thought. Every soldier on the battlefield learns a simple rule from day one. You cannot help a wounded buddy if you are a casualty yourself. Simple enough, but he couldn’t count on two hands and two feet how many have died running head long into danger to save a dying friend. So, Otto slowly peeled off his mask starting with breaking the seal closest to his chin. He grabbed his canteen and swallowed a mouthful of hot stagnant water making him retch but still forcing the hot liquid down. He peeled off the rest of his mask and threw it to his left, feeling relieved by the slight breeze brushing against his wet face.

 

“Now its time for you buddy,” he said, with a smile as he detected a faint rise and fall of Friedrichs chest.

 

Otto peeled of his friend’s mask in the same manner as himself with a canteen of stale water ready to wet Friedrichs dry cracked lips.

 

He jumped back in horror rolling several feet away from Friedrichs body. The form was Friedrich but mutated, distorted, just as Hermann’s face. The swollen lips, enlarged teeth, deformed elongated nose, and those eyes, he thought. Those eyes. Blood red, yet lifeless. The eyes of a rat in the dark of night.

 

He pulled his Luger pistol from its holster with his right hand and with his left, buried his face and cried. “Its not the gas that killed us, it’s the rats. The rats are infected. My God, it’s the rats.” “I’m sorry my friend, but I can’t do it. I can’t kill you, and I am already dead. I will see you in a better life.” Otto placed the tip of the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger, spraying a fine red mist mingling with the blue tint within the surrounding fog.

 

Behind the German Lines

 

“So, Professor Zeigler, what is your analysis of your creation?” asked General Ludendorff, with a crooked smile and a tone of sarcasm.

 

“The operation itself was flawless, he stated confidently. We isolated a small section of our lines for the experiment. The conditions were perfect, an actual battle against the enemy, and the gas was dispersed by our artillery precisely where we planned.”

 

“Go on Professor, I know there is more to an experiment in relation to judging success or failure.”

 

“Very well, continued the Professor with a sigh and a tone signaling that he was not thrilled with talking science with, what he considered, an inferior. “The effects of the gas. Containing biological agent X1, did not produce the desired result.”

 

“In other words, Professor, the inoculations on our own troops was ineffective. You managed to kill everyone left after the battle, with your strange little bug. Although I am impressed with how the gas so quickly mutated and annihilated those poor devils out there.”

 

The Professor interrupted, “We learned that X1 causes mutations, particularly gland enlargement and accelerated growth of tissue, causing I believe, shock and death. There are signs of hallucinations and insanity, and acceleration of body systems responsible for healing, and In a few cases, murder-suicide of friendly troops. I would say that this experiment was a success. We simply need to perfect the inoculations to X1 to protect our own soldiers. Very regrettable that they had to die, but it was all in the name of science.”

 

“Oh, one last thing Professor, something I am sure you just let slip from your mind. My own intelligence reports encountering very large rat droppings throughout the area and unusual wound patterns like claw marks on some of the bodies. I found this strange when we consider how many of the victims appeared to resemble rodent like mutations before death.”

 

“I assure you General, X1 was not designed to create mutant rats capable of eviscerating a man, no less infecting anyone with the bacteria. That’s pure science fiction sir, and you can rest your mind on this point.”

 

“Well I hope your right, because what would happen if such rats escaped the area to run amok throughout the land?”

 

The Professor thought about this question as the General walked to his staff car, and whispered to himself, “it could mean the end of human civilization.”

 

“A new era. Kingdom of the rats.”

 

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

           

 

 

 

 

 

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Text: Brian Hesse
Publication Date: 05-08-2019

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