Death's Head in the High Desert

 

Arizona, 1945. Photo by Fritz Henle

The following is a play-report/micro-fiction I wrote for Karotechia prologue scenario Finn ran for us a while back. I think it might be overly long, but I'm generally pleased with it. Creative feedback would be appreciated. Without further ado, I present to you;

Death's Head in the High Desert

It is April 11, 1996. At an outpost in rural Guatemala, Werner Linz performs his regimen of morning stretches and calisthenics. Outside, he hears the movements of narcotraffickers and their ilk, shifting and stepping and shouting in unison. Drilled on the finer points of close-quarters-combat by one of his men in "ODESSA". They used this place to train some of the death squads on behalf of the Americans in the 80s. The Organization for Former Members of the SS. Really a catch all for numerous other organizations of Nazis who successfully fled and found positions for themselves in the Cold War. In reality, all of these networks have found themselves caught the in the web of something far more glorious and ambitious over the course of the last 30 years. He is one of the few who both know of and belongs to that august brotherhood. The Karotechia.

Werner Linz, Bischofe

Werner's workout routine takes no longer than twenty minutes and is comprehensive; targeting all major muscle groups in the human body. It will keep his heart and joints healthy and his muscles strong and flexible. Perfectly efficient, as all things must be. He concludes his exercise and is preparing to enter the kitchen for his morning coffee when his satellite phone rings. 

"Ja"

On the other end of the line, a voice he recognizes. Cold, professional. He knows the man speaking to him by many names. Many in the organization call him "ODESSA Actual", others "The Cannibal" or "The Aryan". He knows him as Galt, member of Der Dritte Triumvirate, the leading body of the Karotechia. "I'm en route to your location by helicopter and will be touching down shortly. Expect my arrival in two hours. You have an assignment. I want for you to alert three of the following men and have them prepared to receive their orders. Nicolas Turnau. Philip Korsch. Erasmo Vega."

"Jawohl, Oberfuhrer Galt." With that, Galt hangs up. As Linz's espresso machine churns, he calls out for his assistant. "Emil", he says. A Guatemalan teenager enters, awaiting his orders. "Fetch me Turnau, Kosch, and Vega. Have them come to my office." Two small rivers of dark black coffee pour from the machine. "Right away, sir".

The three men are Ritter, a tier above the Bauern, the pawns, that make up the rank-and-file of the Karotechia's strength. They are given more delicate, more taxing assignments. They are the ones that have been permitted to train at the group's headquarters in the Brazilian rainforest. They are each highly trained and efficient killers. Privately, Linz favors those Ritter his masters call "Die Untoten", raised from Essential Saltes. Many are proven war heroes, fearless for having already tasted death, but above all, perfectly obedient. With but a word they are reduced to the dust from which they came. The living Ritter fear death, even if they tell themselves and others they do not. Most balk at suicidal orders, whereas Die Untoten simply die when they are ordered to.  He knows the men well, however. Korsch and Turnau are former GSG-9 operatives from the old country, AWOL and wanted still by INTERPOL. Vega is a Chilean operator of exceptional tactical acumen, a shame he is of such lower breeding. He is grateful he has been given hand-picked Ritter instead of being thrown a brace of blathering idiots, which in his experience is the average Bauern cadre.

Linz has the three men silently stand at attention in his office while he drinks his coffee. He does this so he can send them out to wait once Galt and his men arrive, so they can wait some more before he tells them what he decides they need to know. Order, discipline, and hierarchy require constant reminders of everyone’s place. Linz is a believer in “Order” and “Discipline” and “Hierarchy” as values unto themselves and acts accordingly.

Galt arrives and briefs Linz privately. He speaks in a bass monotone. "We have a situation we need you to resolve up North. Chihuahua State, Mexico. We’ve been operating a small facility in this region for many years, a former meat-and-dairy farm. It has been the site of a major operation, Aktion HARUSPEX, integral to the Reich’s…Galt looks mildly amused as if by some private joke…ancestral research. More importantly, it is a vital intelligence gathering operation. We've received word from the group's lead researcher, a Bischofe you know as "The Swabian", that there has been a mutiny. A fly-over done by local Bauern indicates there have been no survivors, and extensive damage to the facilities. You are to head to Chihuahua with the three Ritter and resolve this situation: You have been authorized to raise The Swabian from Essential Saltes, as with his research partners: a small cabal of occultists attached to the Program he has referred to in communiques as "Teopixqui". You will need this" Galt places a large freezer-case on the desk and opens it briefly for Linz to see its contents, five bags of human blood. "Once he’s raised, he will be very thirsty, make sure that thirst is attended to. You will investigate what happened and remove any mutineering elements. Additionally, we believe there may have been a breach of containment, and some of the "research subjects” may have gotten out. If that is the case, contain it." Galt then places a brace of what look like throat mics on the table. "Give these to your three Ritter. This assignment is sure to be taxing, Herr Linz. Should you need additional... power... use these. Dial this number on your satellite phone and a device hidden inside these microphones will inject any one of the ritter with a dart containing fugo -- blowfish poison -- the poison is lethal and fast-acting and will enable you to unspool the consciousness of these men should you need it. Any questions?"

"No, Oberfuhrer Galt." Linz replies with a shake of his head.

"Good. Have you men come in and brief them. It is 0900 now, be in the air by 1200. The pilot already knows the rendezvous. Which way is it to your kitchen?"

"Across the hall from us"

"Wonderful". Galt turns to one of his armed guards. "Bring in that local boy we saw. I'll start with him".

"Herr Galt, if I may?" Linz says timidly. Galt looks back. "Would it be alright for the men to keep track of who has been requisitioned for your meals? It will help sourcing replacements on my return". Galt looks to one of the men, saying nothing. The Commando looks and says to Linz "We'll keep you in the know, Herr Linz".

Werner Linz sighs inwardly. As one of the few Bischofe with no criminal record or known ties to Nazism, he has a freedom of movement afforded to him that the others do not. He is a grey eminence moving seamlessly through customs and immigration checkpoints the world over. He can even walk openly in the Fatherland as a free man. His discretion and discipline have been rewarded with most of his missions now taking the form of cleaning up other people’s failures. This would be the second mutiny he’s going to have to mop up in a year. An extremely sophisticated, lucrative, and useful organ harvesting operation in the Ukrainian city of Odessa (ironic, no?) went dark in a week. Apparently the Bauern…the cattle, discovered their bosses were sourcing amongst their friends and family for material. There was little satisfaction to be had by the time he arrived, the mutineers had torn their overseers to shreds and seemingly…disappeared. All that was left for Linz to do was recover what little remained and cauterize the gangrenous limb from the body of the 4th Reich, lest its weakness spread further. 

Linz clenched his jaw and slowly let out a breath. His honor is his loyalty, duty is its own reward, and now it was time for him to tell his three Ritter of their duty. 

These men were more than just highly trained killers; they had all been at least partly initiated into the deeper mysteries of the Aryan sciences. They had seen the dead speak, they had caught glimpses of the world behind and beyond this one. This is good, for once they reach HARUSPEX, they were going to not only see such things, but quite likely must kill them as well. Linz makes this fact clear to them; he sees no reason to lie about that. He tells them the mission is to recover “The Swabian” and secure any and all of his research notes. He tells them to assume any Bauern encountered on site should be considered hostile until told otherwise. He tells them to gear up and be ready at the airstrip for take off in 2 hours. He tells them to equip the encrypted throat microphones for interpersonal comms. He sees no reason to tell them the truth about that. 

Turnau, Kolsch, and Vega suit up in surplus South African Self Defense Force fatigues, H&K VP70s in their hands. They bring along knives and garrotes for stealth, ballistic shields, battering rams, zip ties, gasmasks, det-charges and flashbangs for breaching and entering. The only difference between a SWAT team and a well-equipped death squad is intent.

Linz dresses more casually, as if he’s about to go on a mountain hike. His consecrated SS dagger sheathed and place in his belt. In his breast pocket are vials of the specially created compound to rapidly expedite the process of reducing a corpse to its essential saltes. A miraculous combination of German industrial chemistry and Aryan metaphysics. In a leather holster strapped across his chest, he places an officer’s luger that once killed Untermensch on the Ost Front. A somewhat frivolous and archaic affectation, but a man of his stature can afford little symbolic indulgences. After all, there is power in that.

Gathering at the landing strip, Linz sees two of Galt’s Commandos leading young Emil into the kitchen. Dammit, he was a fine servant. Linz fears he will have to clean up the Cannibal's excesses upon his return to what he’s come to regard as his vacation home. The work never ends.

Take Off and Landing

The flight from the mountain outpost in Guatemala to a roughly cleared LZ in the Chihuahuan desert is roughly six and a half hours. The sun is just beginning to set as they make a rough touchdown. They are greeted by a small convoy of pick-up trucks and one battered but well maintained M35 cargo truck with a canvas covering. An ostentatiously dressed fat man introduces himself as “Don Flavio,” their local contact between the remnants of the Cali Cartel and the local Juarez Cartel. Linz can’t help but think of Goering’s tastes in fashion.

Don Flavio respectfully explains the current situation. Fires at the old ranch were noticed last night by nearby villages. The authorities were notified but he was able to use his influence to intervene, and instead the highway police have set up a roadblocks well out of view of the facility itself. The fires seem to still be burning even now, and his scouts have seen no signs of anyone having attempted to flee the ranch overland. 

It is night as the motorcade stops at the checkpoint and Don Flavio pays the police the customary bribe before the truck is waved through and trundles on the dirt road through the mountain until it reaches the edge of the walled ranch complex housing Aktion HARUSPEX. Don Flavio and the other Bauern remain at a distance while Linz and his three Ritter continue on foot and enter through the rot iron gate.

The generator is still working, as lights can be seen from inside the Hacienda and the converted barn serving as a motor pool, but the night is silent and much of the land is lit by the stars and moon. What’s more concerning is the column of smoke continually spewing from the smokestack that had been installed at the back of dairy processing facility the Swabian had converted into his labs. 

Linz sets the refrigerated medical case holding the blood bags on the ground as he instructs his Ritter to stop for a moment as he observes the situation. Performing an arrhythmic breathing exercise while repeatedly reaching his hands out in front of him before clawing at the air and dragging it towards his face, he mutters something guttural, inhuman and folds his fingers into a bizarre configuration that he brings to his eye to look through. Having cast the Voorish Sign, Linz slowly turns in place to survey the ranch. The smoke from the processing center becomes more concerning, as a second, green column of smoke is revealed to be making its way from the smokestack and spirals upwards higher and higher, seemingly into space, towards what Linz easily identifies as the star Cygnus. Yes. Containment has most certainly been breached.

He also notices what looks like small, green footprints leading from the converted processing facility towards the Hacienda. Taking a deep breath, Werner recenters himself and picks up the medical case. 

“Meinen Herren, let us make our way to the Hacienda first. I suggest sticking to the path, the fields have been mined, and you’ll be of little use to me without legs.” 

Following the dirt path, they come across a grizzly scene. There are four dead men, in the dress of local smugglers holding mac-10s and shotguns. One seems to have had his head blown off with a shotgun, the one holding the shotgun has been riddled with smg fire. The other two seem to have machine gunned one another. Many bare bizarre burns, like intense heat was applied to very localized parts of their bodies, leaving other parts intact. Reading the scene, it seems as if the four had rushed down the road to confront someone before turning their guns on one another. The burns are all post-mortem as far as Werner’s expert eye can tell. There is also the regular pattern of scorch marks in the dirt road leading from the lab and towards the hacienda. 

Observing the scorch makes in the dusty trail, Linz realizes they are the footprints of a small child. 

“Gentlemen, do any of you take any issue with the killing of children?” 

Kosch and Turnau think of the 14-year-old Algerian girl they ritually murdered with an SS dagger in a Berlin basement.

“No.”

“Whatever it takes for the victory of the Aryan race!” Vega’s enthusiasm is almost cute, almost grating. 

“Very good. We proceed onwards to the Hacienda.” 

Price of Atrocity  

Approaching the Hacienda, the number of bodies increases. It seems that a good deal of them were killed by machine gunfire from the second floor, most are locals, a few are Bauern of better breeding and quality imported from elsewhere. They’re noticeably better equipped and noticeably caucasian.

Entering the Hacienda, they are greeted by signs of slaughter all over. Most notably in the living room, where a mix of local help and Bauern lie dead on the ground, in the center is a corpse in a most remarkable ceremonial garb. His shoulders are draped with two severed arms nailed together from which a jaguar pelt hangs from. He seems be adorned in a suit of blackened leather armor, which offered little protection from being gut shot. This must be one of the Swabian’s Teopixqui, one of his skilled assistants. Linz has multiple vials of the compound for the expedited reduction and resurrection process, and this man will likely be able to answer many questions about what happened and is likely to be of use in completing the mission. 

Linz spreads out the compound over the dead Nahuatl death priest’s corpse, chanting in a vile inhuman tongue to lend spiritual energies to the chemicals causing the body to rapidly desiccate and be reduced to dust in mere minutes. The three Ritter break out in a cold sweat. Then the real “miracle” begins as Linz calls up the spirit from the Saltes and a dark skinned man with extensive ritual scars arises from death, looking as if he had just stepped down a Mayan pyramid a thousand years ago. 

“Vega, come here. I’ll need you to translate.”

The death priest looks around, his disorientation surprisingly short lived, particularly when he hears German being spoken.

“Ah, so you are from the Karotechia? Good.” 

Although slightly accented, the death priest’s German is superb. His composure post resurrection is laudable as well, only Vega seems unbothered by being in the presence of an ancient ritual perfected by Karotechia. Turnau and Kolsch are slick with sweat, but they maintain brave faces. It will suffice. 

"Yes, we are bound to the same Cause as the Swabian. I am tasked with recovering him." 

Linz chooses his words carefully while he removes a single blood pack from the medical case. The Swabian's lips seem to be a bit too loose for Werner's liking. This man, powerful as he may be, should not know that name, not least of all because of his racial inferiority. 

“I understand your thirst must be great, but I can only spare one of these, which will have to suffice. I imagine all of…these” Werner gestures to the corpses strewn about “have gone off.” 

The death priests had already sucked down nearly half of the pack by the time Werner finishes speaking. 

“Mmmm, yes. Coagulated.” His voice is level, but raspy, like prolonged death rattle. “They are of no use."

“Well, my brown friend, can you tell me what happened here and where I can find the Swabian?”

“Mmmm, yes, yes. My colleagues and I were working in the processing plant when we were…interrupted. A local arms dealer had stopped by earlier to make a delivery. He was very friendly with the local help here and stuck around after the deal was struck to drink mescal and share stories. I know not if tales were told or if the drunkards merely heard our work, but they made the foolish choice of investigating while we were working. The ignorant rarely react well to our methods and they opened fire, killing my compatriots and releasing the children in the process.” 

The death priest gets to his feet, stretching his limbs. 

“When I realized one of the Children had made its way out of the lab, and that I could not corral the others, I rushed here to find the Swabian. The entire facility had descended into chaos, everyone shooting everyone. Your imported men must have thought some kind of revolt was occurring as they started gunning down everyone. I had just made it into this room when that one…“

The death priest points to a caucasian man in black fatigues who appears to have shot himself in the mouth.

“…shot me in the stomach. I managed to get him before I lost consciousness.”

Werner is frustrated. It was a containment breach, not a mutiny. These idiots panicked and turned it into a wholesale slaughter. Indiscipline! Waste!

“And where is the Child now and where is the Swabian.” 

“Upstairs, I’m sure.” 

Very well, you shall accompany us then. If he’s dead I am going to need your assistance in raising him.”

“And we will most certainly neeeeed him.” The death priest looks out the window at the steady stream of smoke rising out of the chimney at the processing plant. “I fear the others have opened a gate to Xilcotl. It is an undessssirable outcome.”

Linz had expected something like this as soon as he was on scene. What a mess. Still, it is proving to be a good deal more engaging than cleaning up that mess in Ukraine. He couldn’t find enough of anyone to resurrect and interrogate, whereas this Nahuatl sorcerer is proving to be most agreeable. More than can be said for any slav he’s had to interact with. 

The Child’s footprints continue up to the second floor as expected. They lead down a hall towards a steel door in a concrete wall. A man in all black tactical gear lays on his stomach, many of his toes cut off. The sound of jackboots on the floorboards rouses him and he begins to struggle to crawl to his pistol across from him.

Vega is swift and decisive, kicks the gun from his hand “We have a live one!”

“Water, please, water.” 

English? Well, that’s interesting. 

Linz approaches the man, ordering Vega to provide him water from a canteen and for Kolsch and Turnau to secure the adjoining rooms. Finding a bathroom and a bedroom that had been converted into a weapons bunker. A dead man clings to a machine gun pointed at the approach to the hacienda, spent bullet casings all about him. A winch on the wall has already been pulled opening a trapdoor on the ceiling to the sky, under which sits a light mortar, likely pre-sighted. 

In addition to the machine gun, mortar, crates of ammunitions and guns, is a single undeployed SPG-9 recoilless rifle. 

Linz approaches the mutilated American after he’s had some water.

“And who might you be? I wasn’t expecting to hear any English on this operation.”

“Raines….Dustin Raines from Branson, Missouri…They brought me down here for guard duty. Same with Charlie in the next room over”

Ahhh, American recruits. The training centers over there have been working well enough, makes for logistically convenient sourcing…but what about real competency.

“Don’t worry, all will be well now. You just need to answer a few questions for me. What happened here?”

“Those fucking wetbacks turned on us. They let something out of the lab, probably trying to steal supplies and it all went tits up. We started cleansing the site of ‘em once the gunfire started.”

A subtle twitch of a sneer quickly suppressed on Werner’s lip.

“I see. And did you take this cleansing action on your own initiative or were you explicitly ordered to?”

Linz asks calmly, almost fatherly

“My own initiative. There wasn’t time to get to confirm with the Standartenfuhrer, we were under active assault”

So the Swabian is going by the old ranks with the recruits. Truly a nostalgic soul. 

“And the Standartenfuhrer, when did you last see him.”

“Just after that…that thing came up the stairs. I was ready to fire but it…it said something to me…it told me to…” Dustin looks to his mutilated feet, toes clear hacked off with his own knife and teeth marks of a child left around the stubs. Poor thing must have been hungry

 “Oh fuck man, oh god my…”

“Shhhh, my son. Everything will be alright. We’ll take care of you. Now what happened to the Child?”

“Uhhh, the Standartenfuhrer came out of his bunker and called to the thing, called it to him, and they both went inside and shut the door. I passed out after that.”

That death priest did mention there being a working relationship between themselves and the “Children.” If either are still alive, they’re likely in there. 

Linz leans in close to Raines, stealthily sliding his ceremonial SS dagger from its sheath 

“So you thought to begin the liquidation of this entire facility without confirming anything with your commander who was down the hall from you?” 

“I...” 

Linz grabs Dustin by his hair, holding his head up as he slits his throat with the dagger 

“You useless fool, it wasn’t a mutiny, you just wasted all of this on your simian instincts when your place is to take and follow orders!”

Linz lets out a loud whistle and shouts downstairs

“Mein brauner Freund! Dinner!”

The death priest is rushing up the stairs before the sentence is even finished, bounding on all fours at speed. To Vega and Kolsch, it almost looks like watching a video tape of the same action sped up. 

The death priest pounces up Raines, ravenously feeding on the life’s blood gushing from his slit throat. 

Linz calmly walks over to a nearby bathroom to wash up in the sink. Whistling tunelessly.

Kolsch, Turnau, and Vega try to avert their eyes from the undead modern primitive feasting upon someone who’s supposed to have been a brother in arms. But this is the price of failure, child of the greatest of all sins, weakness. But why does Linz seem more comfortable with this degenerate? No, such thoughts are treason. It isn’t their place to question. 

Linz emerges just as the death priest gets his fill. Attempting to contact the Swabian on the other side of the bulkhead proves fruitless, and the death priest informs him that the retinal scanner to open the door was only keyed to the Swabian’s eyes. 

“You know, I’m beginning to tire of these titles and pseudonyms. You worked closely with him, what his real name?”

“Immanuel. Immanuel Toth. And I am Flaying Wind.”

Linz smirks. His real name wasn’t the most guarded secret, but it was a secret.

“Kolsch, we require an entrance. Apply your skills to this task.”

After blasting open the bulkhead, the three Ritter are sent in to clear the room before Linz and Flaying Wind walk in behind them. They are greeted by a mix of Teutonic medievalism and cutting-edge communication and surveillance arrays. An alchemist’s lab augmented by thermal analyzers and mass spectrometers.  

In his study, at his ornately carved mahogany desk is Immanuel Toth, the Swabian, slumped over dead. Under the desk is an inanimate husk of a brutalized child, soot from smoke covering the area in and around his gouged-out eyes. Toth’s left wrist is slit, hanging limply above the blood covered face of the now truly dead child. In Toth’s write hand is a fountain pen and under his head are copious notes, written in haste.

Werner has Toth’s body moved to the center of the room while he inspects the notes and other materials. Apparently, after sending the SOS to La Estancia, Toth fed the child his blood so he could transcribe all it could tell it about what was about to happen. The notes are an almost moment for moment description of everything that occurred in and around the ranch, including the arrival of Linz and his team. He realizes he’s dying from blood loss but also knows he will be resurrected. The last entry is simply “Hello, Werner.” 

Kamaradschaft

Linz has already spent a great deal of his own energy of Will getting himself and the team to this point. The Nahuatl, Flaying Wind, can contribute much to the ritual, but it’s about time that he tests the mettle of these three Ritter’s souls. All join hands in a circle around the fallen Bischofe. This time the men cannot simply attempt to avert their eyes to the work the Cause demands. No, they must see, they must give part of themselves. 

Once again, the half-breed Vega [note, Vega easily passed for white] show a fortitude of will that Linz approves of. Turnau is visibly shaken but maintains his dignity. Kolsch will prove to be a problem.

As the corpse of Toth desiccates and collapses into dust in mere moments, the chants change and Kolsch feels a part of that ineffable but fundamental part of himself that some call a soul pulled from him. The dust begins to re-hydrate into a horrible mass of viscera, formless yet taking form. Bones form, sinew connects and pulls the fleshing mass together, blood finds its way into new veins. And then the man is whole. The Swabian, Immanuel Toth, lives again. 

Before he can even sense it, the vomit is already rising through Kolsch’s throat and he double over vomiting directly into Immanuel Toth’s lap. 

Kolsch looks up just long enough to see the barrel of a luger leveled at his face before Linz turns that look of bovine stupidity into a still mask of death with the pull of a trigger. For a moment there is silence, Linz's face contorted into scowl of hatred, this waste of flesh has embarrassed him in front of a peer! The silence is broken by the earnest, mirthful laughter of the Swabian, and as the rage drains from his face, Linz cannot help but join in the laughter at this absurd scene. A rare pleasure for one such as he. 

Kolsch’s two brothers in arms remain still and silent. 

“Hello Werner, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long, Immanuel.” Linz smirks as he casually reveals that he knows “The Swabian's” real name. 

Immanuel "The Swabian" Toth, Bischofe

“Now, you must have a terrible thirst. I have four blood packs in this case, I had to give one to your assistant here. Though there is an option for something more fresh.”

Toth smiles and waves to the surviving Ritter and Flaying Wind to pull the corpse off him. 

“I actually prefer it served cold, I find it more refreshing.” Toth says this as he calmly sips from the blood bag like a child with a juice box as Flaying Wind clears the desk and has Kolsch place over it before slitting his throat and letting the blood drain into a large copper bowl. 

“My colleague Flaying Wind is a bit more of a traditionalist with such things. It’s one of his many charms.” 

At this point, Werner Linz is feeling truly exhausted. He collapses into a finely crafted chair of red velvet and oak, he orders Vega and Turnau to fetch him the schnapps he spotted on the bar cart in the corner then sends them out of ear shot to guard the entrance to the sanctum. Flaying Wind helps Toth clean himself off.

“You know, you never get used to it. Coming back, that is. I remember the first time I died clear as day. Chocked to death at dinner. Can you imagine? A Bischofe laid low by an under chewed portion of schnitzel? I thought for sure they’d leave me for the worms, but Dr. Bitterich resurrected me himself.”

Werner bursts out in laughter 

“Oh that is absolutely his sense of humor. Any person at La Estancia could have performed the Heimlich maneuver. They let you choke to death just so they could resurrect you”

Toth joins him in laughter. “My god, you’re absolutely right. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before” 

The two monsters laugh. It’s been such a long time since Werner felt real Kamaradschaft with another person. This exact moment feels as if it has justified everything he’s had to do today. Even Flaying Wind seems mildly amused by these two old men laughing like boys. 

With a joyful sigh, Toth sits on his leather office chair. “So, we’ll have to make a point to catch up later, but we do have a pressing concern. We must seal the gate to Xilcotl.”

Flaying Wind lifts his mouth from his copper bowl of blood “Yesss, it’s been long enough that one of the Ahmo Motta has certainly slipped through. It will need to be dealt with. We’ll also need to the death your men if we’re to have enough power to seal the breach. It matters not how they die, I have meansss of preventing deaths going to waste.”

“This Ahmo Motta, as you call it, how resistant is it to material fire power?” 

“We know that it bleeds when we cut it.” 

“Well, I see this as a fine opportunity to conduct a live fire exercise to test the efficacy of our weaponry against the Ahmo Motta. I’ll have Turnau and Vega deploy that recoilless rifle and order them to kill it. We’ll mop up whatever’s left however it goes.”

“Ah Werner, that’s something I’ve always admired about you, you always find a way to make any situation productive.”

Werner smiles as he finishes his schnapps. It’s gratifying to have ones virtues recognized by a…yes…by a friend. 

“I’ll have my men prepare. There’s a hillock nearby that will provide a good position where we can observe.”

Hail Victory

Everything is in position, Vega mans the SPG-9, Turnau readies himself to open the double doors to the processing facility turned occult lab, three heartless men stand on a nearby elevation watching and waiting. The April moon is high overhead.

On Werner’s orders, Turnau swings open the doors. Smoke billows out, he notices amidst this dense smoke are strange motes of light, then he notices that one of these motes is at the end of a tube of displaced smoke, and that it’s rushing towards him. 

Turnau feels the heat and his clothes begin to catch aflame, but he manages to rush out of the way providing an opening for Vega to fire. He makes it a safe distance thanks to his athleticism, but as Vega fires he jostles the recoilless rifle and the right supporting leg sinks into the sand, re-angling the gun at the perfect position to blow off Turnau’s legs. 

“Not to worry, I can make use of that” Flaying Wind says as he begins drawing Turnau’s soul into his amulet.

While Vega reloads and repositions the rifle, the smoke bursts forth towards him. Linz and Toth take the opportunity to start peppering the Ahmo Motta with their pistols.

Vega fires again, missing a direct shot and blowing a hole into the lab’s concrete walls, but also peppering the creature with shrapnel and displacing much of the smoke it needs to cover itself in.

Feeling the heat of the Ahmo Motta’s tendrils reaching out for him, Vega abandons the gun and let’s out a full burst of his H&K while fleeing to a safer distance. Between this final hail of bullets and the continued pistol fire from Linz and Toth, the Ahmo Motto goes still. 

“Well, I think we can be confident that they’re susceptible to small arms fire. A more competent heavy weapons operator would probably make short work of such things. We’ll have to make note of that.”

The four men reconvene at the lab entrance. Vega doffs his gasmask and reloads his H&K, ready to take point in entering the facility, but Linz stops him for a moment.

“Vega, it was unfortunate that Turnau was killed, but his death was a sacrifice for the Cause.”

As soon as Vega hears the word “sacrifice” he knows what’s coming, just not how it will come. He does not rebel, he does not run, he braces himself.

“Thank you for yours.” Werner punches in the numbers in his satellite phone that activates the fugo poison injector in Vega’s throat mic.

Vega’s eyes bulge with pain, his limbs go rigid, and he collapses to the ground. But this is for the Cause. An Aryan faces death with stoic determination, and he knows he shall be granted access to Valhalla. But something is wrong. Even as his vision darkens, he feels himself, his essence, being pulled not upwards, but towards the death priest called Flaying Wind, his soul being shredded as it is drawn into an obsidian idol around the Indio’s neck. Erasmo Vega meets his final reward; more fuel for the fire.

Werner is impressed by the way Vega accepted his sacrifice.

“To think, he was the most Aryan of them all.”

“You’ll find the Blood sometimes presents itself in the strangest of places.”

“Indeed. Flaying Wind, do we have enough now?”

“Yesss, We should act swiftly, lest more of the unseen attempt to break through.”

The three men proceed into the dairy still choked with smoke, the smell of burnt flesh and the forms of slaughtered chil

I'M DONE!

Agent NANCY breaks from her monotone recitation of the memory from Werner Linz’s devoured brain with this shout, her face contorted in grief and horror.

“That’s enough, that’s all you need to know. It’s bad. It’s children. I don’t want to remember it. I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO REMEMBER IT!” 

An intercom crackles to life 

“That’s alright NANCY, we’ve got what we need. You can go.” 

Agent VIRGIL steps away from the receiver on the other side of the two-way glass in a restricted access annex of Fort Bliss, he turns to the nameless stenographer he brought with him.

“Did you get all that? Because I don’t think we’re getting a second interview anytime soon.”

The sandy haired man nods in the affirmative. 

“Good.” VIRGIL turns to face V-Cell “Well, I’m going to make two copies of this. You’re going to want to pour over this one VICTOR and start planning, because we’re all in for a long night at the opera.”