The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Gray Man's Grim Tidings, Part 2 of 3

Mickey Malloy and Doriane track down the Gray Man. It is the easy enough; this ghost wants to be seen. They think they know what they’re doing but this apparition is deadlier than anything they could have imagined, and will stop at nothing accomplish its goals.

This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.

This is Part 2 of The Case of the Gray Man’s Grim Tidings. If you hadn’t had a chance to read Part 1 yet, stop now and check it out first.

Content Warnings: Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Nazis

WEDNESDAY EVENING, JULY 8, 1942
PAWLEY'S ISLAND BEACH
SEASIDE, PAWLEY'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

“I got to hand it to you, that has to be one of the grayest men I have ever seen,” Mick said. He was flat on his belly on the backside of a dune, watching two figures talk on the beach through his binoculars. This was the spot, right where the Pawley's Island Bee had reported the previous sightings. Exactly like before, the Gray Man was there the evening after the transmission.

“Let me see,” Doriane hissed. He handed them over and she studied the strange man.

If the Gray Man was not a ghost, Mick had no idea what he could be. This character was dressed head to toe in all gray: his hanging cloak, his floppy hat pulled low, his slacks, all gray as granite. His oddest feature, beyond his archaic attire, was the luminescence emanating from him. He glowed like the radium face of Mick's old watch.

The person the Gray Man was talking to was just some trembling whelp with a fishing pole and a bucket. He couldn't have been older than ten. Behind them, a low fog was coming in off the water.

“What do you think that is? Some kind of phosphorescent paint?” Mick asked.

“I don't know,” Doriane whispered. “But I want to.”

“So what's the move?” Mick asked Doriane after she'd had a minute to assess.

“I would like to talk to him,” she said. She hardly believed the words coming out of her mouth. She'd been inventorying feed sacks just a few months prior, now she was hunting ghosts and spies.

“We're thinking this guy's a Nazi agent, right?” Mick pondered.

“I have not gotten to speak to one before,” Doriane pointed out.

“That you know of,” he pointed out.

“And if he's not an enemy agent, he's a ghost,” she said. “I've never spoken to one of those, either.”

Mick opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

“That I know of.”

Mick sighed. She was grinning, she would not take 'no' for an answer. These damn kids. But this was why he brought the rifle. Still, it was Nazis that shot people on sight, not him. This character in gray deserved to so say his piece.

“Okay,” Mick relented. “Feel him out. You got your heater?”

“I do,” she said, patting the poorly concealed lump in her pocket. "Well, play it cool, get this guy's story. Stay calm, don't flash any badges, no funny business.”

“Understood,” Doriane said. She was grinning. She slithered backward down the dune on her belly, then began a wide circle around so that she'd approach the strange man from a different direction.

“My knees couldn't take that,” Mick grunted to himself. His bones were already throbbing from being posted up in one position for so long.

He opened his long bag and unwrapped the rifle he'd brought. It was an SMLE, the same kind he'd used in France, the only model he trusted. This one had been scoped and calibrated to within an inch of its life. He felt certain it could thread a needle.

Doriane crested the dunes to Mick's east. He settled his crosshairs on the Gray Man's chest but kept an eye on her. She was almost skipping through the sand on a damn beeline for the ghost and the boy with the fishing pole.

“What was I thinking?” Mick grunted. Doriane was an analyst. A few weeks of Camp X training didn't mean she was ready to go waltzing up to a suspected enemy agent.

He pushed the butt stock into his shoulder and settled in behind the scope. The wood grain felt familiar against his cheek. If anything went sideways with this Gray Man, all it would take was one little squeeze to keep the kid safe.

Doriane approached the chatting pair, waving and smiling. The Gray Man did not turn to face her. His form seemed to wobble, like a reflection in a pond. His dim silver glow illuminated the sand for a yard around him.

The boy with the fishing pole's eyes went wide and he high-tailed it, running hard enough that a few fish sloshed out of his bucket to flap on the beach. He was gone in seconds. Doriane circled around the Gray Man until she was in front of him and stopped a few feet away to chat.

Mick took a deep breath. The Gray Man drifted around in Mick's scope. It wasn't his target that was moving, the glowing ghost stood still as a statue while he listened to her. No, it was Mick's own hands that were unsteady. A tremor had taken hold of them. He should've brought his flask. The booze wouldn't kill his shakes, but it sure as hell could've slowed them down enough to control.

Doriane kept her distance from the apparition. Mick watched her talking to him, nodding. The fog was rising around both her and the Gray Man, catching his spectral glow.

“Weird weather,” Mick muttered. He made a mental note to confer with the meteorology egg-heads at Zoo Base. Should there be fog on the Atlantic Ocean in July?

The Gray Man was gesturing to the kid, to the sea, to the island around them. Whatever he was saying was too quiet for Mick to hear. He should've sent her in with a microphone or something.

By the time Mickey finished the thought, he'd forgotten who he'd intended to ask about the weather, and by the time he decided he couldn't remember, he'd forgotten the question as well. Damn, he wanted a drink.

Doriane took a step closer to the Gray Man. Mick nearly pulled the trigger then. If he'd been sure his trembling mitts wouldn't send a bullet right into her instead, he'd've popped the creep right then and there.

Damn kids.

She leaned in closer. Her face was fully lit by him.

“Hell,” Mick grunted. He held his breath, trying to get his hands under control. Doriane stepped up inches from the Gray Man. The ghost held his ground. She looked around him like she was studying a statue, then lifted her hand, palm out toward his chest.

“What are you doing?” Mickey hissed. Her whole hand passed through the Gray Man's torso. His entire body rippled like she'd poked a silk curtain. The Gray Man did not so much as flinch.

“Damn it,” Mick grunted. “An actual ghost.”

He'd seen a lot, a whole lot. Everything he'd ever run into could be answered with either a stern look, a fist, or a bullet. Ghosts were something else.

The Gray Man stared at Doriane for a moment, silently contemplating the elbow-deep arm in his chest. Then, like someone flipped a switch, he disappeared: his form, his voice, his glow, everything. All that remained was a frozen Doriane, arm still outstretched, and a curling column of sea fog before her.

“Get out of there,” Mick muttered. It took her a few seconds to thaw, then she moved with purpose, marching back across the beach, swinging her arms like she was in a parade formation, completely lost in thought. He scanned the water, looking for any sign that the Gray Man still lingering. By the time Doriane belly-crawled back up next to Mick, the ghost hadn't shown his face again.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, out of breath.

“What'd he say?” Mick asked.

“It was a recording,” she gasped. “I heard what he was saying to that boy. He repeated everything exactly when I spoke to him, down to his body movements.”

“Like on film? How would that even work?” Mick asked. He'd seen some wonky things in his day, but nothing like that.

“I suspect it was moving images projected onto the sea mist,” she said. “I walked between the apparition and the shore, so it must have been projected from the water.”

“And if you were talking to him, they'd have a speaker, too. Set up close,” Mick grunted. He began scanning the dark sea, but couldn't make out anything other than lapping waves. “You recognize him?”

“No, and I would have. Very pale face, eyes so blue they looked silver, no hair, not even eyebrows,” she said. She was still out of breath, not from exertion but excitement.

“Distinctive,” Mick said. Mick had spent time in the Office's mug shot books looking for a certain smiling Nazi, but he'd never seen anybody fitting Doriane's description. “Make-up maybe?”

“Could have been,” she considered. “Better than the talkies, for sure.”

“How about accents, anything like that?” Mick asked.

“I am not the best with American accents, but he sounded like he was from this region,” Doriane answered.

“Fair enough,” Mick said. “I've heard Nazi agents switch between three accents in one sentence. Just 'cause he sounded one way doesn't mean a damn thing. So, same schedule as before?”

“Deadly storm, due tomorrow,” she reported.

“Think that kid is going to spread the word, or should we help?” Mick asked.

“Flapping our gums wouldn't hurt,” Doriane said. “It might get a few people out of harm's way. Whether from the storm or from these enemy agents.”

“Agreed,” Mick said. “This all still conjecture, though.”

“When has that stopped you?” Doriane wondered.

“Okay there, kid,” Mick chuckled. “I don't want to bring the whole cavalry in just yet.”

“If nothing else, this is a very small island,” Doriane mentioned. “We want to catch the enemy agents in the act, not frighten them off to attempt the same act on another beach.”

“That's a good point, can't have a couple dozen officials blasting through town and expect our ghost not to notice.”

“So it is just us?” Doriane asked. She looked far too excited.

“You know the backstroke?” Mick asked her. Her face scrunched up in confusion. He chuckled, saying: “'Cause it looks like you landed me right back in the deep end again, kid, and you're going swimming, too.”

WEDNESDAY NIGHT, JULY 8, 1942
PAWLEY'S ISLAND BEACH
SEASIDE, PAWLEY'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

//translated from the speaker’s original German//

This thing should weigh forty kilos, You should not be able to lift it with one hand.

FALSE. REALIGN.

Bruder Sieben's spine tightened. Unwelcome, alien thoughts intruded every so often, but his training, his instincts, always subsumed them in an instant, like a building collapse. He didn't know what this contradictory voice was, but he knew it was always wrong. It could only be the feeble remnants of his unevolved lizard brain, subhuman doubts that not even the science of the Reich could cure.

Of course that unwelcome murmur was wrong. He carried the mortar's baseplate under his arm, and a crate of armed shells under the other. The load was nearing his physical limits, but the effort barely slowed him. He trudged through the white sand until he found a confluence of two dunes. It would give visual cover from the west and south, and partial obfuscation from anyone approaching from the north. His did not anticipate enemy activity from the east, the sea, but he maintained situational awareness.

He dropped the baseplate with a dull thump, then placed the shell crate beside it. These air-bursting aerosol shells were not as heavy or as dangerous as high-explosive rounds, but one still have to be careful. Sieben lifted the mortar tube and placed it upon its base plate. He checked every pin and connector, then adjusted its telescoping legs. The elevation adjustment and traversing handwheel moved smoothly and had not had sand infiltrate their mechanisms.

You have never used a mortar in your life. You cannot know how to put this together.

FALSE. REALIGN.

Sieben smirked. Of course he knew how to set up an 8cm GrW 34. He knew the schematics of every weapon in the Waffen-SS's arsenal. Compared to some of their weapons, this mortar was practically a wooden club. Sieben was Brotherhood. He was trained and perfected. He was an army unto himself, and capable of building an army of his own from sticks and stones. The Fuehrer had chosen him. He was the future of the Reich.

The Reich? God damn the Reich!

FALSE. REALIGN.

The Reich was depending on him. He was their champion. He was their chosen. He was the hero who would give all to create the future this world needed. He was a warrior of the sacred Brotherhood, forged from his blood to his bone to his mind to implement the Fuehrer's glorious will.

Sieben unfolded his charts and set up his barometer and weather vane. A quick read proved the air pressure, humidity, and prevailing winds to be perfect. The All-Highest smiled on him. They supported his mission.

The Wurfgranate 41 Ertrinkender shells within the ammunition crate were easily identified by their pale blue warheads. But these were not designed to explode in a burst of shrapnel. Rather, they contained numerous aerosol canisters and a high-altitude weather balloon. Sieben had been made to forget the chemicals the Ert shells contained due to his operations behind enemy lines. His risk of capture was high.

You’ve been captured! They peeled you open!

FALSE. REALIGN.

Sieben was immune to even the most effective methods of interrogation. Even were he captured alive, his nerves had been chemically deadened. His keepers could slice him to pieces, and he would not feel a thing. He had been shown this to be true.

His body was different. Greater. The lesser men he drew to him sought greatness. They craved it. He was a god to them. He was Brotherhood. He was a child of the Reich, and the All-Highest, and the Fuehrer himself. Born from ice and electricity. Perfect and pure.

There were others in this country, he knew. Not Brotherhood, but Abwehr. Common men, of the old style. Imperfect. They shared a name, as if it would confuse these Americans: Schmidt. Smoke and mirrors, just as this Gray Man ruse was.

He had suggested to his superiors that they simply eliminate everyone on this island, but they had, correctly, denied his request. Their orders were final, and supreme. One's rank was earned, and divine, granted by the Fuehrer and the All-Highest in their wisdom. Orders were divine, a mandate from heaven, drilled into him since his birth in Eberkopf.

You were born in Plzeň, to a brewmaster and a milliner. They gave you a name.

FALSE. REALIGN.

The Brotherhood needed no names. He was called 'Sieben.' The seventh of his generation. When he succeeded, his deeds would be for Germany. When he died, another Sieben would be readied. The Brotherhood had no beginning, and no end. Each was perfect, identical, driven, and obedient.

Sieben leveled out the mortar, bringing it to a perfect ninety degrees. One final check of his wind gauge confirmed launch. He dropped the first Ert shell in and ducked away. It thumped loudly, raising a cloud of sand around him.

He imagined he could trace its path. It pierced the low clouds. In eleven seconds its nose-cone would pop open. Then, a chemical ignitor would inflate a high-altitude balloon to lift the warhead to an altitude of twenty-four kilometers. At this height, it was at the apex of the troposphere. Its payload would be the most effective there, able to filter down into the cloud layer and begin its astonishing effects.

Sieben loaded shell after shell, thumping them into heavens at the rate of fifteen per minute. After three minutes, his crate was empty. He laid back and settled his breath. He was sweating. He dragged his sleeve across his scalp, mopping the moisture off. He rarely sweat, but doing the work of an entire mortar crew was a good reason for it.

He sighed. Exhaustion was not a sensation he experienced, but he was able to recognize stress on his body. He could not feel relief that his work was complete, either. The only perceptions the training had left him were that of frustration when mission was not yet complete, desire to take on a new mission when it was, and fury when lesser, false humans threatened the goals of the All-Highest and the Fuehrer. Until U-880 deposited its goods in the hands of the Silver Legionnaires, he would feel those claws of constant frustration, dragging their way down his spine.

Cowards and traitors.

FALSE. REALIGN.

The Silver Legion were friends to the Fuehrer, dedicated to the goals of the Reich and Sieben's superiors. They were brave, and dedicated. They saw the weakness of their muddled society, and wanted something better. They remembered when the world was right, and longed for those times again. What they lacked in purity and professionalism, they made up for in vigor and viciousness. They would arrive during the height of Sieben's storm, jamming radios and blockading the bridges. Even were someone interested in interrupting this operation, they would not be able to access the island to do so. The Legion would take Sieben's weapons all over their broken nation, to create the change they desired.

The lacerating sensation of undone work would abate, soon.

Sieben had run this mission twice so far. The people of this place were foolish, easily manipulated. When the storm came, they would hide. He was not concerned with rain, and his work could continue uninterrupted. He had watched these weapons change the world before. It would be a few hours before the clouds began to coalesce above him. They would draw the wind in shortly thereafter, then the rains would fall. The storm would feed itself and grow and howl. It would tear across this island and create a wall of deafening terror as the perfect cover.

You are going to destroy this world.

FALSE. REALIGN.

Sieben's breath caught in his throat. He had heard the voice right. And all of his instincts, his training, they tried to suppress that whisper. But in his heart, in his stomach, he knew the goals of the All-Highest, of the Fuehrer. They did want to burn this world down. They wanted to scrape it clean and start fresh for pure, true, Aryan civilization. But his training was absolute and uncompromising. It was his entire existence. It could not be wrong.

You cannot lie to yourself all the time.

FALSE. REALIGN.

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.