Dawn of the Living-Impaired by Christine Morgan

Author:Christine Morgan
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Death's Head Press
Published: 2019-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

*

After the train were the trucks, two long trucks, covered in grey-green canvas.

Soldiers took all the bags and suitcases, and threw them into the back of the first one. It was also full of metal barrels, canisters, and crates marked with the swastika flag.

A blond man with the coldest eyes Klara had ever seen reached for Gerte, but another stayed him with a gesture. That one had softer eyes, almost the same blue as Gerte’s dress. He patted Klara on the shoulder as she shuffled past. She wondered if he had sisters back home, and missed them.

Her whole life felt further away than she could have imagined. She didn’t even know where they were, way out here, surrounded by farms and fields and wooded hills. Where was Mutti right now? Was Mutti thinking of her? Was Mutti sad, though trying to be as brave as she’d urged Klara to be?

Clutching Gerte in one arm, Klara clambered up into the second truck. For seats, they had rough plank benches along the sides, and a double-bench down the middle. She was able to squirm her way past the jostling larger bodies and sit beside the girl with the brown braids. They shared another shaky smile.

Was talking allowed? Klara didn’t know, and didn’t want to get in trouble, but …

“I’m Klara,” she whispered. “What’s your name?”

“Helgie,” the girl whispered back. “I like your doll.”

“Thank you. She’s called Gerte. Would you like to hold her?”

“I better not,” said Helgie.

“Maybe later.”

They fell quiet, watchful as the rest of the benches filled up. An older girl said something flirty-sounding to the soldiers, who laughed. Then they pulled down the canvas flap at the back and tied it secure, casting the interior into a shadowy gloom.

A few nervous murmurs arose. Klara managed not to join them, but she leaned toward Helgie without pausing to think about it. To her relief, Helgie was doing the same thing, leaning toward her, their arms pressed together.

It helped. It made the dark not so bad. They could still be scared, but it was better to not feel entirely alone. Being brave was easier with a friend.

The truck engines coughed, sputtered, and roared to life. Moments later, they were bouncing along a rutted dirt road. The faster the trucks went, the bumpier the ride became. It was almost fun, at first, with some hoots and cries of alarmed excitement, but soon it was a grueling ordeal of hanging on, so as not to be thrown off the bench.

As the tires juddered across a bridge, the girl who’d flirted with the soldiers announced that she was getting splinters in her you-know-where, which elicited a few snickering giggles. Aside from that, though, the mood soon soured and sombered.

Conversation was next to impossible. The air under the canvas was hot and stuffy, exhaust-smelling and dust-smelling and sweat-smelling, and then even worse-smelling as someone was noisily sick on the floorboards.

Klara closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was on a ship at sea, instead of in this jolting, bouncing truck.

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