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Inthrallis – Chapter 37

January 2, 2015

Inthrallis – Chapter 37

Don’t the best of them bleed it out
While the rest of them peter out

Moller had trouble finding the building despite having gotten the coordinates from ‘sup_dawg’ on the pager and putting them in the GPS. The place was so overgrown the small concrete entrance blended in with the trees and vines that surrounded it. It was as if the Earth itself was attempting to absorb it, or swallow it and drag it down to Hell.

Conrad Schmidt–are these names for real?–had been too young to be a German Schutzstaffel officer as he had dreamed of becoming from a young age, born 1937 in Munich. Apparently not one to give up the dream, he later built a cult around Nazi mythology in the 1980s.

Die Weisse Himmlische Armee, WHA, had expected Nazi UFOs to invade the Western Hemisphere in the mid 90s. Schmidt had built his bunker in the hopes of using it as headquarters for the new Aryan domination of the this half of the planet.

FBI, ever lacking a sense of humor, did not find their wacky plans amusing and arrested Schmidt and several others cult members on child pornography charges. Schmidt apparently picked a fight with a Mexican gang while in the slammer screaming that he was superior to mere ‘human trash.’ They turned him inside out like a piñata.

All that was left was a Messerschmitt.

The small Missouri town of Kingston wasn’t otherwise famous for much. A small town of a few hundred people, Moller could see why Schmidt had chosen the remote location northeast of town for his space Nazi HQ, so far as logic and sense could be expected from believers in celestial fascists.

Moller thought he would have to spend some significant time and effort pulling and cutting the vines away from the door, but as soon as he touched one, he could see that they had already been pulled away some time in recent history and then carefully put back in place to seem as though the place hadn’t been open in two decades. The brand new but spray-painted black padlock was another matter.

He grabbed the ToughBuilt bolt cutters he had borrowed from an open power company’s work van from the trunk. He had reasoned that the door was open, therefore he hadn’t really broken into anything. Besides, it probably meant someone would have power a few extra days before being shut off by the monopoly if they had the foresight to bar the company’s access to their box.

And, of course, he would return them whenever he happened to see an open company van in the future. This was simply how one thought, rationalized, when there was no other choice and one had no time for guilt trips nor pity parties.

He started to work on it and discovered that the lock was tougher to cut than he expected. While it didn’t stop him, it would have added extra precious seconds for a burglar attempting to access whatever the lock was protecting.

When he was done, he folded the tool up and slid it in the back of his belt. He pulled the handle up on the lock-latch and tried to turn it counter-clockwise.

Inside the door itself, there would be a wheel with at least four locking bolts attached, one or two in each of the four edges of the door. A battering ram would have to take out the surrounding steel-reinforced concrete in order to knock it down.

Being outdoors and exposed to the elements, as well as lacking anything in the realm of maintenance for most of the last two decades, the door mechanism was more difficult to turn than it would have been normally.

Water finds a way in, always does.

Moller went back to the car, lifted the lever at an angle so as to have leverage for turning, and whacked it with a hammer that had a worn Property of Madison Gas and Electric label on the handle. It moved a few inches after a few more tries and then he was able to turn it freely the rest of the way.

When the door creaked open a few inches, he was immediately assaulted with a familiar sickening, sweet smell. He was immediately reminded of the time people in his apartment building had been complaining to each other about the dead mouse somewhere and that the landlord clearly wasn’t taking good care of the place. It was a few days later that an old man’s family reported not hearing from him and police found him, dead a week or ten days, inside his single-room accommodations.

Moller put the hammer back in the trunk and grabbed a strip of an oily towel. It was large enough to tie around his face. Thankfully, it smelled strongly like auto repair shop. It was then that he realized he didn’t have anything in the way of a flashlight. The light on his cellphone would have to do. If he found what his nose already knew he would, he could snap a few photos and get out of there and away in minutes.

Schmidt’s underground bunker was larger than he had imagined. It must have taken some serious digging requiring equipment from somewhere like Kansas City to build the place.

Despite the warehouse size of the place, Moller found them without much effort. The oilrag wasn’t helping much and he thought he might retch as he approached the unevenness in the floor ahead.

He got close enough as saw mound after mound in the dark, roughly human shaped.

There were the adults. He quickly moved past them, one hand over the rag and the other holding the phone out. Further back, there were the kids in a greater state of decay.

So this is Cain’s ‘Rapture.’

Cain’s mercenaries hadn’t killed the others present, merely sent them to la-la land with something pharma. But he had, as Moller had suspected, kidnapped and killed the missing kids’ parents a week after doing likewise to the offspring of the pillars of the American community.

They were Jonestown’d. Hale-Bopped at gunpoint.

Why the week delay? Why not do them all at once?

Ah. Collect the ransom first, whatever that was. Then frame the Almighty for the disappearance.

Moller struggled with turning off the light app and finding the camera one while still trying to hold the rag in place. He stopped abruptly when he heard a sound.

Moller nearly tripped over a body and into the pile heading back to the entrance, but managed to stay balanced in a move that would have looked incredibly comical in broad daylight. He jumped over the last row of corpses and bounded for the stairwell.

Before he got close enough to look up at the open door, he could see a shadow on the floor in front of it. It was an elongated human-shaped shadow.

“Hello, Mr. Moller. I’m afraid this is your pinkslip…”

There was that goddamn sound again. Martin’s laugh, if it could be called that, sounded more like a dry catch in the throat. Or, if you strained, a click and a hiss not unlike a cartoon snake.

“…from this world. This is where you end, you sheep-dipped motherf—er. Enjoy the company…”

Moller leapt.

“…and the smell.”

The door slammed shut and Moller heard the bolts lock in place with a clink that echoed some kind of finality before he got three steps up. He heard Martin whistling something and walking away, then silence.

“Asshole…”

Moller made a mental note to be sure to remove Martin from his Christmas card list when he got out of the bunker. If he got out of the bunker. It was the least he could do being fired and buried alive in one fell swoop.

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From → Inthrallis, Novels

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