The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Butcher and the Black Tide, Part 13 of 13

Lucky Ford has overcome every obstacle the wilds of southern Spain has thrown at him, from monsters, to mad science, to mercenaries, but the last specter of his old life has reared its ugly head. What sacrifices will it take to survive? What does he have to go back to?

The Butcher and the Black Tide is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 13, the finale of The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Butcher and the Black Tide. If you haven’t read Part 1. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, and Part 12, check them out before reading any further.

Content Warnings: Violence, Gun Violence, Death, Gore, Body Horror, Mild Swearing, Drug Use, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 13, 1943
OUTSIDE LA BATERIA DE LOS ACANTILLADOS
THE SOUTHERN COAST OF SPAIN

A fourth rib cracked, but Jonesy did not let up. Lucky could feel his chest compressing in against his organs. The stink of infection on Jonesy's breath was as strong as any smelling salt, so shocking that it kept Lucky from blacking out. Even so, the red closed in around him. It was forcing Lucky out of his body, like he could only observe the pain rather than experience it.

“Lucky!” a woman shouted, far away somewhere. “Lucky!”

She sounded familiar. Emilia. The thought of her piercing emerald stare snapped Lucky back into his head. He opened his eyes.

“Catch!” she yelled. She was sprinting all the way down the hill clutching a mason jar of white powder in her good hand. Her broken arm swung in its sling and popped out of its splints. She tossed the jar while she ran. Lucky recognized one of her pepper bombs. His ribs screamed, but he managed to twist around enough to snatch the bomb out of the air.

“Jones,” Lucky managed to gasp, “You were right about the...”

Jonesy let up on his ribs for just a second, curious if Lucky'd finally acknowledge that he knew whatever he thought he did.

That momentary relief was all Lucky needed to smash the pepper bomb against the armored bridge of Jonesy's nose. His nostrils, eye, mouth, and gaping wounds immediately filled with white hot pepper powder.

Jonesy dropped Lucky onto his rear and staggered away, hacking violently and clawing at his burning face. Each cough thickened the white cloud of flour and cayenne around his head. Emilia jumped over Lucky's head, flare gun drawn.

“Stay down!” she yelled, then fired a magnesium flare point blank at Jonesy's head.

He thrashed at the last second, throwing her aim off causing her flare to blaze inches wide of Jonesy's head, but that was close enough. The twelve-hundred degree starfire ignited the cloud of flour, engulfing Jonesy's head in a blindingly bright orange flash. He howled in shock, pain, and rage, swatting at the flames searing what was left of his face.

Jonesy screamed, a cry that shook blackened scraps of flash-charred skin from his wrecked cheekbones. The fireball died as quickly as it had bloomed, and it had only made him madder.

Emilia's face went white. She backed away from the raging I-soldier and tripped, landing in the ash next to Lucky. The excruciating agony that she had ignored in her swinging broken arm all rushed back, pinning her into the ground.

“Stay down!” Father Mandario yelled, and his people opened fire.

Hundreds of rifle and SMG rounds bombarded Jonesy's broad chest. The few bullets that could bite through his leathery skin dinged off the thick armor sewn in beneath. He stood against the barrage, delighted by the impotence of the attack.

Jonesy brushed the mashed lead off his chested and tried to laugh, but could only manage a few shuddering coughs followed by a spray of blackened blood. He stepped forward and stood over Lucky, glaring down with his fire-scalded eye and a mutilated, crooked smile.

Jonesy mouthed the words 'I knew' as best he could manage.

He raised an armored fist high above his head, stretching as far as he could go. There'd be nothing left of Lucky but a red smear in the soot.

Another flurry of bullets thudded into his body, but Jonesy ignored them. The muffled rumble of The Express' engines was the only thing that could tear his attention away from Lucky.

The plane burst through a thick cloud of falling cinders, coming out of nowhere like a rider in the fog, fifty feet up and buzzing eastward at a hundred miles an hour.

Edgard Neff hung out in the breeze and lined up his shot. His anti-tank rifle barked once. Neff worked the massive bolt, ejecting .50 caliber brass into the air, slammed it forward, then fired again. Both rounds thumped dead center into Jonesy's chest, putting two new pock marks in the I-soldier's bullet-battered torso.

The Express was gone as quick as it had returned, the makeshift gunship disappearing back into the ashfall over the stained Mediterranean.

Jonesy watched The Express fade away, then turned his attention back to Lucky. He tried to laugh again. His broken mouth moved, but no sounds came out. His malicious stare went blank, and his jaw dropped, slack. A discharge of chunky blood spilled out of his mouth. His fists fell and dangled at his sides. His gaze dropped and his chin landed on his chest as he was examined the two new bullet holes that Neff had given him.

Twin ruddy trails trickled down his chest, standing out against the dozens of other wounds that had punched into his skin but had gone no further. Jonesy touched the red with his fingers, looked at it in awe, then fell to his knees, his hand dropping away again. He looked up and locked his single remaining eye on Lucky.

'I... knew...' he mouthed.

Jonesy stood for another second, swaying with the warm pulse of the volcanic wind that whistled in off the ocean. Lucky quickly rolled to his right, almost passing out as he put weight on his broken ribs. Jonesy tipped forward. When he hit the ground, his crushed helmet put a divot right where Lucky's head had just been.

Bucket ran up with Grease close behind.

“You all right?” Bucket asked, looking Lucky over to make sure he was in one piece.

“Yeah,” Lucky groaned. Each breath felt like a mule kick in the side. “Just help me up.”

“Careful there, buddy,” Bucket said. Lucky took his offered hand and let Bucket haul him to his feet. Grease was helping Emilia up, careful to avoid her broken arm.

“Gracias,” she said, cautiously taking him in. As soon as Grease saw her green eyes he snapped up straight and brushed the dirt off his pants. He tried to slick his hair back, his old habit, but he jumped and pulled his hand away the instant it encountered the forgotten helmet bolted to his skull.

“Hey there,” he said sheepishly, “I'm Marco.”

“Emilia,” she replied, putting out her good hand. Grease snatched it up, eager like he was accepting a cold beer. His altered mitt could have fit around her hand twice. Grease's smile was infectious and Lucky caught himself grinning too.

“Damn,” said Bucket. Without his glasses he had to squint his eyes so tight that his face was squished in like he slurped some unsweetened lemonade. He was examining Jonesy's body. “That frog's gun is no joke.”

Neff’s two bullets left exit wounds like craters, each damn near a foot across, like Jonesy’d been hit with a pair of jackhammers rather than a couple bullets. The twin armor-piercing rounds had tumbled, expanded, and broken into flattened razor shards after they'd hit Jonesy's subcutaneous steel plates. His steel armor had crumpled as easily as paper, then been pulled through his body and out his back at twenty-nine-hundred feet per second, followed close by a geyser of pulverized bones and every one of his hearts and lungs. The spray of ruined organs and chunky blood extended thirty yards down the ash-covered road.

“Holy mackerel,” Grease muttered. He thumped his chest, though this time the sound of the steel plate didn't reassure him as much.

Without any explanation, Grease threw his hands into the air. A second later Lucky knew why: he heard The Express coming back for a third pass. Grease didn't want to take the chance that he'd be mistaken for Jonesy. The familiar plane cut back through the ash and buzzed low overhead again. Bucket waved up at them. Neff pulled himself and his rifle back into the jump door, then tossed a small bundle into the breeze. It drifted down on its own little 'chute and landed in a puff of dust just four yards past Jonesy's body. Angel waved out of the cockpit window.

They were all clear.

Lucky limped over and picked up the fallen package. It was small and wrapped in brown paper. Every little movement aggravated his ribs, so it took forever to unwrap. Inside were two Colt 1911 clips rolled up in a hand-drawn map.

Neff had sketched the map himself, even signing 'E.N.' in the bottom right corner. The intricate drawing, complete with dramatic shading and charcoal accents, showed the network of dirt roads and mountain streams that ran through the region. One road that ran down the middle of a wide open valley was circled in red. 'Be here,' it said.

“Father!” Lucky called to Mandario, regretting it in an instant. The effort of shouting doubled him over. Mandario was busy directing his militia as they loaded bolsetero prisoners into their trucks, but he paused to dodder over just as Lucky recovered. He looked up at the old priest and wheezed: “Think we can hitch a ride?”

TUESDAY MORNING, JULY 13, 1943
NORTHBOUND ON THE ROAD FROM THE COAST
THE SIERRA ESPUÑA MOUNTAINS, SPAIN

Lucky was afraid that the truck he was riding in would rattle to pieces around him. Father Mandario’s militia had liberated it from the bolseteros just that morning, and it was a Russian model so there was no telling how many owners it had had before them. Its beleaguered engine choked on gritty air as it chugged through the ash fog, threatening to stall with each bump.

The old priest was driving.

“I must be certain you take a safe route,” he’d said, but Lucky figured he wanted to make damn sure they actually left. Hellbörg’s gold and Espada's connections had kept his valley isolated. Sightings of foreign agents would send Franco’s dogs sniffing around sooner than Mandario wanted.

Though they’d had to endure Hellbörg’s atrocities, the Nationalist government had been committing their own all over the rest of the country. The officials’ actions had left a power vacuum, and Mandario and his people weren't eager for new chains to replace the ones they'd just thrown off.

Lucky tried his best to tie the canvas wrap tighter over the back of the truck, but any time he moved his back or arms he nearly blacked out. It took all he had in him to grin and bear it with every bump the old truck hit. He grimaced and watched Miller.

Miller hadn't shown any sign of life since he'd been put on ice. His head bobbed gently with the motion of the truck.

Grease sat across from Lucky with the tub between them. He was clenching it to keep it from sliding out of the truck's open tailgate. Big bumps made it bounce, spilling some of the ice. Skittering chips tumbled off the back of the truck, into their rising gray rooster tail.

Father Mandario's people had bandaged Grease, covering every split stitch and open bullet hole head-to-toe with clean gauze. There wasn’t much they could do for him in the field, but they’d tried to keep out as much of the grit as they could. He looked like the Mummy, though Lon Chaney would've had to be four times the size of a circus strongman and armored like a tank to even compare.

Bucket hadn't spoken since they'd gotten on the truck, he just chewed on the end of a cold cigarette. He was slumped down next to Grease, working through the last few days. He'd already disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled Lucky's Colt twice.

They were all physically and mentally exhausted from days of running on pain and adrenaline. They were relishing the relative calm of the ride and soaking up every moment of silence they could scrape together.

Emilia was a different story.

After her momentary burst into action to save Lucky’s life, Emilia had fallen into a silent depression. She hardly made a peep when the militia reset her broken arm the second time. Mandario had helped her board the truck to see the officials off, but her only interest had been in the warped floor boards. The green glow in her eyes had faded a few minutes after Jonesy fell. Without her war, she had nothing, and said nothing.

The ash-choked forest opened up to a wide road, and the silhouette of The Express loomed out of the haze directly in front of the truck.

“¡Dios mío!” Father Mandario shouted. He stomped down, locking up the brakes and sending the old truck skidding. Lucky groaned and held on for dear life as they ground to a halt only a few yards from the plane's tail. Grease kept Miller and his tub from sliding into the front seat.

“Turn off the truck,” a man shouted at them. He had a thick French accent: Neff. He shouted again: “Raise your hands.”

Lucky rolled up the truck's canvas cover and leaned out. Neff was not two feet from the front bumper, puffing on a cigarette and aiming his massive rifle at Mandario's face.

“Put that thing down and help us with Miller!” Lucky yelled at him. Neff leaned his rifle against the front bumper and trotted around the back of the truck.

“I see you found someone who could read a map for you,” he said. Lucky couldn't tell if Neff was ribbing him or not. Flakes of ash were starting to stick to the Frenchman’s sweaty scalp. He took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked it aside as he rounded the tail gate.

“Not my fault, this weather makes it hard to navigate,” Lucky replied.

“Not for everybody!” the Angel called out. She stood in the jump door of The Express. The flight lieutenant had her blonde hair tied up in a red handkerchief. Her bright blue eyes and dazzling smile pierced the gray air. She caught Lucky staring at her and shocked him out of his trance: “Brilliant to see you too, Ford!”

“Get down here, Lucky,” Neff said. Lucky broke out of her trance and gingerly lowered himself off the tail gate. Even so, the impact shot into each of his broken ribs, doubling him over.

“What is wrong?” Neff asked, clapping him on the back. The pain flared up again.

“Ribs...” Lucky managed to whimper.

“Ribs? Use Osteo-Bond in them. Miller has it,” he said, smiling wide under his pencil-thin mustache. Lucky could see himself in his mirrored glasses: he looked like somebody who came in second in a no-holds-barred bare-knuckle boxing match.

“He lost his supply,” Bucket told him. He jumped down and put his hands up to help Neff lower the iron tub. Lucky wanted to help but his arms wouldn't go higher than his shoulders without making him want to vomit.

“Stop!” Neff shouted. His MAB D pistol was suddenly in his hand and leveled at Grease, who'd just materialized out of the shadows in the back of the truck.

“Calm down, Eddie,” Bucket said carefully. He knew Neff might shoot with any twitch.

“Marco is safe,” Emilia said, slowly standing and putting herself between Grease and Neff. The green in her eyes had reignited as soon as a gun had been drawn. Neff was taken aback by the sight of this fierce, strange woman.

“Oh, uh, pardonnez-moi, belle,” he suddenly mumbled. He sheepishly slid his police-issue pistol back into its holster. A knife he hadn't noticed returned to Emilia's concealed sheath as well.

The gruff Frenchman edged away from her, keep his mouth shut while he helped Bucket and Grease lower Miller to the ground. He staggered backward and broke his silence the second he saw the condition Miller was in.

“Seacombe!” he shouted, “He needs the generator!”

Angel disappeared back into the plane, and a low hum started up inside the fuselage.

“It's ready!” she yelled back. Unfamiliar, unwelcome panic caused her voice to waver. Lucky had only ever known her as the terse, stalwart pilot. Her fear for Miller shook him and must have gotten to Grease as well.

The I-soldier pushed Bucket and Neff aside and threw the heavy iron tub onto his shoulder. He rushed it past the truck and into The Express' open jump door. Bucket followed close and scrambled up the boarding ladder to help Angel.

Bucket stuck his head out of the door after a tense moment.

“He's plugged in and charging up,” Bucket announced. He had a grim look on his face, but he wasn’t scared. If this intrinsic sapient current was going to work at all, they’d know in the next few minutes. They’d done what they could.

Bucket looked down at Grease, the first time the little sergeant had been taller than the hulking I-soldier.

“Time to go. Get up here, ya' goombah,” he said.

“Is that an Italian crack, you little twerp?” Grease asked, then pulled himself into the jump door. The plane groaned and shifted with so much weight going in at once.

“Time to roll, Lucky!” Bucket shouted.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” Lucky yelled back. He winced. Yelling hurt. Everything hurt. He groaned and looked at Emilia. She had gone cold again.

“You can come too,” he told her. She slowly, mechanically, turned her head, but not quite far enough to look him in the eye.

“This is my home,” she mumbled.

“You could help where we're going, too,” Lucky replied. “Everyone's in trouble these days.”

“Everyone,” Neff mumbled. Her emerald gaze drifted onto him and he found something very interesting to study out in the gray haze. A floating trail of cheap tobacco smoke traced his path as he skirted around them to speak to Father Mandario.

“Father,” he said, “If this is not the end of the situation, contact us.”

Neff handed the old priest a calling card.

“Thank you,” Mandario replied. “But we have what we need here.”

He tucked the card into his vestments nonetheless, then hobbled over and put his gnarled hand on Emila's good shoulder, telling Lucky:

“Thanks to Miss Rosales, my people have found their inspiration. They have found a warrior and leader in her. She helps them to act, not hide.”

“My fight is over,” Emilia said quietly.

“You are an icon of the people, a people still under the rule of a corrupt dictatorship,” Mandario countered. “Those who allowed la Medida to thrive are still in power, and they will come to investigate where their bribes have gone.”

Emilia's eyes lit up again when she heard his words.

“You would not be fighting alone, you will have an army at your side, an army of the people, sisters and brothers in the struggle,” he continued. “You will be the face of resistance against Franco and his dogs.”

Fire rose in the old priest's voice as he spoke.

“The hour of the fascists has ended. The people shall rise up and take this this country back, with you at our front,” he declared.

Emilia stood up straight at his words. Her eyes flashed with an electric green. Lucky wanted to object, but Neff was behind Mandario, shaking his head to stop Lucky from interrupting.

“I am with you,” she said.

If they had been fighting anyone but fascists, Lucky would've accused the old priest of manipulating a hurt, vulnerable person. In truth, they needed her, and they needed to win. She needed them just as much. Hellörg’s defeat hadn't fulfilled her; vengeance was a bottomless cup. What Mandario was offering wasn’t closure, but a new stream to pour into that cup. She felt like she was dying of thirst, and she no longer remembered the taste of anything else.

“Good bye, Emilia,” Lucky said, the only thing he could say. She smiled and hugged him, holding him tight with her one good arm. His ribs ached, but he didn't mind.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She waved to Bucket and Grease, then slid into the passenger seat of the truck. Mandario shook Lucky and Neff's hands then took the wheel. Neff collected his anti-tank rifle and stepped back. The old truck coughed to life and backed away from them. They were swallowed by the gray within a few dozen yards.

“Come along, Lucky,” Neff said. Lucky blinked and shook his head as if he had just watched a pair of ghosts disappear. Neff slung his rifle across his back and climbed aboard the plane. He said over his shoulder: “There is much you all need to know before we return to the Saint George.”

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 13, 1942
ABOARD THE EXPRESS
ABOVE THE BALEARIC SEA

It took a few minutes for Angel to bring The Express to altitude above the hanging soot. The sky was bright, blue, and oblivious above the sulfurous ashfall, though volcanic particles had tinted the horizon a sickly red. Below, the carpet of toxic clouds extended as far Lucky could see.

The first time he'd seen the Mediterranean in daylight, the water had been a mesmerizing blue. The volcano had changed that. Below the the shroud, he knew the waters were inky and acidic, choked with rotting, blinded creatures.

Lucky shuddered and shifted, trying to find a position that wasn’t excruciating against his ribs. He distracted himself with the mimeographed report that Neff had given him. Neff and Bucket were looking over the same intel. Miller had yet to stir and Grease had passed out as soon as he sat, even sleeping through the bumpy takeoff.

“The information you took from Vesuvius has changed our war against Department Three,” Neff said. Lucky looked up to find Neff staring straight at him.

“Information I took?” Lucky asked.

“The clipboard you secured during our the exfiltration from Vesuvius,” Neff said, annoyed at the interruption. “The intel is contains is extensive. Its capture has enabled us to fight them on an effective scale.”

Lucky fell back in his seat. The clipboard. He'd only grabbed Werner von Werner's clipboard because he was too panicked to find a better weapon to conk that traitor with, and he'd only kept it because he’d been too distracted to drop it. He shook his head in disbelief. Lucky.

The top sheet of the report was emblazoned with an emblem that could only be described as a swastika with eleven crooked branches. The next several pages were lists of code-named personnel and projects. Each page was labeled 'July' in big bold letters. Gerhardt, Metzger, and von Werner's names stood out on these lists.

Neff took another drag on his cigarette and resumed his informal briefing:

“Department Three is more pervasive than we thought. It is not the series of independent research bases we suspected. This information implies it is a dedicated force of eleven separate arms, each of which is larger than the Office in total.”

“Total?” Bucket sputtered, almost losing his own cigarette.

“Total,” Neff confirmed. He puffed steadily on his cigarette while he read. A haze of tobacco smoke swirled around the cabin's ceiling.

“These arms have been code-named January through November. Analysts at the Library surmise that each focuses on a single scientific discipline. Von Werner's notes only contained specific information on the July Arm, which Metzger and Gerhardt report to.”

“So the July Arm focuses on what, biology?” Lucky asked, considering Metzger's expertise. He was a master of genetic and chemical manipulation who had created the Vargulf and gremlin programs himself.

“That's what the catalogers have concluded as well,” Neff replied. “As for the rest, many of their functions and leaders remain unknown. As such, our next operation cannot be delayed: Department Three could make this information irrelevant at any time.”

Lucky agreed. Every second they waited was time for the Nazis to snatch away the first advantage they’d ever had. Neff’s voice grew deeper and he said:

“At this moment, we know where the head of the July Arm will be in three days: a meeting with the head of the May Arm. Two of them in the same place. Isaak Gerhardt and Johann Metzger will be present, as well.”

“This is big,” Bucket whispered.

“A chance to cripple two arms at once,” Miller groaned. He sat up in the ice bath. His chest had sealed itself shut and was pink with scar tissue. The Express' humming intrinsic sapient current generator had done its work. Despite the rest of his uniform being shredded, he still wore his gas mask.

“It will not be easy,” Neff said. “The facility is called Eberkopf, it is highly secure and located in southern Germany.”

“Damn,” Bucket muttered. “So who holds Metzger’s leash?”

“Her name is Katrin Abendroth, that is all we can confirm so far,” Neff replied.

“God, if the ones we know are this bad…” Lucky said. He couldn’t imagine someone evil enough to direct the Nazis they’d already barely survived.

“I agree. This mission will be the highest priority,” Neff said. “It will be the largest Office mission ever undertaken. We to rendezvous with the Western European deep strike fleet and coordinate an Eastern European artillery mission that has already begun. The area east of the facility has been under bombardment for twelve hours.”

“Damn, the Ruskies are helping?” Bucket asked.

“This operation is beyond rivalries,” Neff snapped back. “This is how we end the Nazis. This mission will hurt them more than all of our past victories combined.”

“Damn,” Bucket muttered. “After everything, we’ve barely scratched them.”

“So what's our part?” Lucky asked. He was more eager than his ribs to get back into the fight.

“The rockets light off in a day,” Angel yelled from the open door of the cockpit.

“Rockets?” Bucket asked.

“A day?” Lucky wheezed.

“Once we land, you will have twenty-two hours to rest, heal, and learn the plan. Anyone who can walk is to report,” Neff explained.

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Lucky said. He leaned back to appear relaxed, but his ribs forced another groan to escape his lips.

“Cowboy up, cornbread,” Angel called out. “Once Pietrzak gets you in the sick bay, those ribs will be bonded back together in no time.”

“You think the big guy's in?” Bucket asked, nodding at Grease as he dozed.

“Always in,” Grease answered. He opened his eyes and sat forward.

“Eavesdropping the whole time, pal?” Bucket chuckled.

“And itchin' to try out my new toy on some Nazis, sarge,” Grease grinned. He lifted his foot to show off the punt gun he'd stashed under the bench.

“You are not cleared for this information,” Neff growled. He handed a copy of the report to Miller, who sped-read through the pages, absorbing the intel perfectly and permanently.

“You know the Colonel loves new recruits,” Lucky said, grinning at Neff.

“We will see,” he mumbled, then said something under his breath in French.

“If you are cleared by the doctor, I am sure your skills would be quite welcome in the field, Private Benolli,” Miller cut in.

“Call me Grease.”

“Yes, Grease, of course,” Miller said. Lucky smiled. It'd taken Miller a few tries to get on board with calling him anything other than his rank. Miller flipped to a small map near the end of the report. “I don't recall any Department Three activity in this region before.”

“None that had been catalogued,” Neff said.

“The arms are much larger than we'd ever suspected,” Angel yelled. She was flying the plane with her feet so she could twist around and join in the conversation from the cockpit. “They're spread all across Europe and have hundreds of thousands in their ranks.”

“To take down two of their leaders at once would throw the others into chaos,” said Miller.

“It could change the course of the war,” Lucky realized aloud.

“We will destroy two arms in one strike and recover enough intelligence to take apart the rest.” Neff added. His cigarette had burned down to a nub. “The war could end in weeks.”

“What are we going to run into over there?” Grease asked. Between gas-crazed mercenaries, doctors with robotic arms, I-soldiers, and Vargulf, he was hard-pressed to think of anything worse.

“The Vargulf Korps is always with Gerhardt, and if Eberkopf really is the biological sciences headquarters, there'll be a legion of Brotherhood soldiers. Plus any of the dozens of things we've seen, and more.” Bucket replied.

“Web orchards of Malay dog-hunter spiders,” said Neff.

“Kennels of Mannesser hounds,” Bucket added.

“Roosts full of gremlins,” Neff shot back.

“Trench shark breeding terraces,” Bucket suggested.

“A battalion of ax-swinging, drunk Wikingertruppen!” Angel shouted back from behind the cockpit.

“Dive-bombing titan owls!” Neff countered.

“And hives of Nordholm roaches!” Angel added.

“Bulldozer bears!” Bucket yelled, louder that both Neff and Angel put together.

“What?” Lucky had to cut them off at bulldozer bears.

“Did you say bulldozer bears?” Grease asked.

“Just kidding, boys,” Bucket said, chuckling. “Only the Russians got bulldozer bears, everybody knows that. And nobody’s hatched a titan owl in years.”

Miller cut in before the three of them could start up again:

“Despite this rampant speculation, the fact remains: any creature, mutant, or weapon that we have ever encountered might be there. We need to be prepared to overcome all manners of opposition. Even... ugh, Nordholm roaches.” Miller said. He shuddered at the prospect of the insects.

“What do we know for sure?” Lucky asked, thumbing through the pages to distract from all the madness they'd just listed. Miller had already absorbed all the information and was making connections within his encyclopedic mind

“You know all too well what Metzger and Gerhardt are capable of, and they will be in attendance.” he said.

“What about this big boss, Abendroth?”

“The only Abendroth I have read of is Kaspar, a naturalist reported dead in 1796. He is said to have died at the hands of a mob when he tried to revive the bubonic plague. Nothing good can come from one who would embrace his legacy.”

Everyone was rendered silent at the prospect of someone who'd invoke that kind of person.

After a moment, Neff spoke up. He was not impressed:

“It is no matter,” he growled. “We have survived everything they create. This operation will be no different. The whole world has come together to stop these animals. They cannot withstand us.”

He stopped to stub out his cigarette and lit another. He took a deep drag and exhaled, letting the acrid smoke slowly twist around his face.

Lucky saw himself in Neff's mirrored glasses. A few days earlier he’d been a listless Indiana boy. He’d become something else. He had become a soldier of a new world, a walking collection of scrapes and broken bones with inches of dirt covering whatever else was left. The ideas he'd brought to Spain with him had been scraped out.

The war he was fighting wasn't about getting even or justice any more, or even winning. He'd seen Emilia's soul emptied by vengeance, and he'd lost the stomach for whatever he’d believed justice was. This war wasn't abut ideas, it was about survival.

Against fascists, you win or you die.

This new war was about containment. Even if they won, the world was never going to be the same. Too many ideas had been born, too much pain endured, too many weapons unleashed. They weren't fighting to save what was, they were fighting to save what could be.

Lucky had seen nature perverted, the earth torn to pieces, people reveling in sadism and chaos. He knew that he'd give everything so that no one else would have to experience that. That was what all officials knew, accepted, and strove for.

Neff leaned forward, roiling the languid smoke. He spoke slowly, careful to make sure his words carried the full weight of their meaning:

“Our enemies created a new war. Operation Arm Breaker will make them regret that choice.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres. Spanish translations by Caitlin Gilmore.