The Monster Novels by Robert R. McCammon

Author:Robert R. McCammon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2017-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

2

MICHAEL HAD SEEN PARIS in sunshine; he saw Berlin in gray gloom.

It was a huge, sprawling city. It smelled musty and earthy, like a cellar long sealed from light. It looked ancient as well, its stocky buildings the same shade of gray. Michael thought of tombstones in a damp graveyard where deadly mushrooms thrived.

They crossed the Havel River in the Spandau district, and on the other side were immediately forced off the road by a column of Kubelwagens and troop trucks heading west. A chill wind blew off the Havel, making faded Nazi flags snap from their lampposts. The pavement was cracked with tank treads. Across the cityscape spouts of dark smoke rose from chimneys, and the wind curled them into question marks. The stone walls of rowhouses were adorned with battered posters and proclamations, such as REMEMBER THE HEROES OF STALINGRAD, ONWARD TO MOSCOW, GERMANY VICTORIOUS TODAY, GERMANY VICTORIOUS TOMORROW. Epitaphs on gravestones, Michael thought; Berlin was a cemetery, full of ghosts. Of course there were people on the streets, and in cars, and flower shops, and cinemas, and tailorshops, but there was no vitality. Berlin was not a city of smiles, and Michael noticed that people kept glancing over their shoulders, fearful of what was approaching from the east.

Gunther took them through the elegant streets of the Charlottenburg district, where dwellings styled like gingerbread castles housed equally fanciful dukes and barons, toward the war-worn inner city. Row houses crowded together, grim-looking structures with blackout curtains: these were streets where dukes and barons held no power. Michael noticed something strange: there were only elderly people and children about, no young men except for the soldiers who swept past in trucks and on motorcycles, and those men had young faces but old eyes. Berlin was in mourning, because its youth was dead.

“We have to take my friend home,” Michael said to Gunther. “I promised him.”

“I was ordered to take you to a safe house. That’s where I’m going.”

“Please.” Mouse spoke up; his voice quavered. “Please … my house isn’t far from here. It’s in the Tempelhof district, near the airport. I’ll show you the way.”

“I’m sorry,” Gunther said. “My orders were—”

Michael clamped a hand around the back of his neck. Gunther had been a good companion, but Michael didn’t care to argue. “I’m changing your orders. We can go to the safe house after we get my friend home. Either do it or give me the reins.”

“You don’t know what a risk you’re taking!” Dietz snapped. “And us, too! We just lost a friend because of you!”

“Then get off and walk,” Michael told him. “Go on. Get off.”

Dietz hesitated. He, too, was a stranger in Berlin. Gunther quietly said, “Shit,” and popped the reins. “All right. Where in Tempelhof?”

Mouse eagerly gave him the address, and Michael released Gunther’s neck.

Not too much farther, they began to see bombed buildings. The heavy B-17 and B-24 American bombers had delivered their freight, and rubble choked the streets. Some of the buildings were unrecognizable, heaps of stones and timbers.

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