Empire of Ice

By Ethan Somerville

During WW2 the Nazis conducted horrendous genetic experiments to try and breed a perfect race of super humans.

His search for the secret Superman Virus, leads FBI agent Joshua Brookes to the crash site of a downed WW2 plane that had lain undetected in a overgrown field for 60 years. He finds the plane empty, but suspects the pilot survived, as the farmer who discovered the plane died in a particularly gruesome way.

When she meets Julian Ritter on the side of the road, Angelika Heinmann, a university student on holidays, is unwittingly drawn into a nightmare world. The last thing Julian remembers is crashing his plane into a field as the Allies advanced across Europe, trying to get the Superman Formula to Berlin.

On the other side of the world The Hunter, a dangerous and elusive hit-man, also decides to follow the trail of the newly awakened pilot.

The neo-Nazi movement’s leader, the charismatic and strangely familiar Dr Glauer, also has visions of a new race of super-beings, and will stop at nothing to get his hands on the formula.

The Empire of Ice is an action-packed adventure spanning 60 years - with a race to unravel a mystery that could spell the end of the world as we know it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Sep 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301510023

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

Empire of Ice

By

Ethan Somerville

And

Emma Daniels

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Empire of Ice

Copyright © 2010/2017 by Ethan Somerville and Emma Daniels

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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* * * *

I swear to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and Reich Chancellor, loyalty and bravery. I vow to you, and those you have named to command me, obedience unto death. So help me God.

The oath sworn by members of the Liebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler in 1933, and after that by every new member of the Waffen-SS.

* * * *

Chapter 1

April 1945

A young man dressed in field grey, carrying an iron strongbox under one arm, sprinted towards the dusty fighter plane parked beside the runway.

Another soldier had just removed the blocks and checked the flaps, readying the aircraft for take-off. A look of relief relaxed his haggard features. Dear God - could you have cut it any finer? They’re practically breathing down our necks!

I’m sorry - the doctor had some last minute instructions for me. Breathlessly, the young man scrambled up the ladder into the cockpit.

Godspeed, sir!

Thank you – I think I’ll need it!

Depositing his precious burden on the floor between his feet, the young man began the ignition sequence. The roar of distant gunfire reached his ears. Glancing out of the canopy, he noticed the other soldier unshoulder his submachine gun and run back towards the hangar. Smoke billowed into the air from behind it.

He had only minutes to act. He might have been taught how to fly, but he had never been up in combat. Come on you old sow, he hissed, as the engine finally caught, and the props started to spin. Grabbing the throttle, he manoeuvred the small plane onto the runway. His heart hammered, blood roaring in his ears, but his hands were surprisingly dry. Shouldn’t they be slick with sweat by now? he wondered.

Carefully he eased the throttle back. The plane increased its speed, bouncing and rattling along the runway. Just when he thought he was about to run out of airstrip, and nosedive into the field at the end, the ageing fighter leapt bravely into the dawn sky. It tipped dangerously from side to side until he adjusted the flaps and lifted the landing gear. Checking the fuel-gauge he realised he would have enough to reach his destination - if he didn’t run into trouble on the way.

A frightening landscape of bomb-blasted buildings slowly unrolled beneath him as he climbed steadily. The city that had been his home for the past six months was already decimated. Only a few blackened shells still stood as a reminder that people used to live here. When he squinted, he could see enemy tanks advancing along the shattered streets. Nothing could stop them now.

If I fail in my mission, the entire world will die. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on the stick. He banked towards the verdant heathland in the east. Once he had delivered his goods, those invading bastards would all pay.

The early morning sun broke through the clouds, and his hopes lifted. Then an ominous shadow fell over his craft. A few seconds later machine-gun bullets rained down, tearing into the Messerschmidt’s hull. Something stung the pilot’s left shoulder, and he gasped with pain, realising that he’d been shot. But he had no time to check the wound. Through the canopy he watched in horror as an enemy fighter streaked ahead then banked, preparing for a second pass. He checked his own guns and found them empty.

Dammit! He thumped the console with a gloved fist. The action sent a shaft of agony jarring down the left side of his body. He groaned, his vision swimming. Hurriedly he locked both hands around the stick. Looking down at his shoulder he noticed a hole in his uniform, and a dark stain spreading downwards.

The enemy fighter streaked towards him spitting more bullets. He banked to starboard to avoid it, but a stream of fire ripped through the edge of his port-side wing. More agony shuddered through him, and his vision swam again. Momentarily, he saw double. A debilitating thirst accosted him, and suddenly he ached for water.

A bullet smacked into the glass canopy directly in front of him, and a spider-web of small cracks shot outwards, reducing his visibility still further. He watched the enemy aircraft sail past only metres away. He could even see the pilot inside, capped and goggled. He looked intent on bringing him down. Surely he didn’t know about his cargo! Only a select few knew what lay inside the strongbox on the floor. He had time to glance down, making sure it was still there, before the other plane swept round again. With a gloved fist he smashed out the rest of the glass so he could see, and an icy wind knifed into him.

Damn your polluted blood to Hell! He banked hard to the left, and the next spurt of bullets missed. But an ugly note entered his engine’s steady hum. He checked his dials, soon discovering the source of the problem; his fuel-tank had been punctured. Behind the dial’s grubby glass, the needle hovered on empty.

On top of his thirst and pain, he suddenly felt very tired. So bone weary that he was almost overcome by the seductive desire to sleep.

No! He gritted his teeth. If he could bring the plane down safely, he’d travel by foot. The cover looked dense enough; small forests dividing the disused fields. Maybe he could even stop and cut out the bullet with his knife.

The enemy plane swooped round for another pass. He saw its pilot grinning, enjoying the game of cat and mouse. The pilot could no longer hold the Messerschmidt steady; it was out of fuel and too badly damaged. Below lay an overgrown field, untilled since the start of the war. His wingtips see-sawed, then the engine coughed and spluttered, dying completely. The craft continued to sway drunkenly, clipping tree-tops. Suddenly the Messerschmidt’s nose dipped forward, propeller ploughing through the top of a tree, and he smacked his head on the console. He blacked out, but consciousness returned a few minutes later.

The plane had ploughed a great furrow down the middle of the disused field, and come to rest amongst thick greenery already reclaiming the untilled soil. In the distance he saw an abandoned farmhouse in desperate need of some tender loving care. Above the Allied plane made one more pass, and then roared away, satisfied with the result.

I’m ... still alive, the young pilot croaked. I can still make it ... He grabbed the metal box, which suddenly felt very heavy, and hauled it onto his lap. He slumped back against the seat, realising that its base was drenched with blood, his blood. He thought the bullet had embedded itself in his shoulder, but it must have passed right through him. Struggling to open the broken canopy, his gloved fingers shook uncontrollably. Oh God, it was too hard! His vision blurred again. He was thirsty ... so damn thirsty. The catch refused to yield to his pitiful fumbling. He gave up, and clutched the box close. Please ... give me the strength to continue!

He saw double again. Then his surroundings swam and darkness tugged at the corners of his vision. He flopped forward over the iron box in his arms. Blackness yawned wide and sucked him in.

August 1945

Life was slowly returning to the bomb-blasted landscape. Blackened, guttered buildings extended jagged fingers towards the smog-filled sky, and the air still reeked of smoke and death. The drone of earthmoving equipment and the clash of sledge-hammers filled ears which had until recently, been used to the rumble of heavy artillery and the scream of falling shells.

A tall, beefy man with receding hair and a bull-neck led his crew to an area beside the decimated military base. Tanks had made their own paths, but the roads were too full of rubble and choked with mud for normal supply trucks to plough through.

The city’s civilian inhabitants needed food, water and shelter before the autumn chill set in. The foreman knew just how urgently, since his own family still lived in a draughty basement with crates for furniture and blankets nailed over the doorways.

He ordered his men to work, and they started with picks and shovels, since there wasn’t enough machinery to go around.

Despite the back-breaking nature of the work, the men chatted and joked. After what they had been through this felt almost like a holiday. So what if they had to struggle to feed their families and live in ruins? They had survived the war.

The foreman tossed a load of bricks and dirt into his wheel-barrow and thrust his shovel in again. Rocks began to shift and tumble. He jumped back lest a sudden slide consume him. When the dust settled, he noticed something protruding from the rocks up ahead. It looked like a booted foot.

As he scrambled towards it, he realised it was a foot, clad in a filthy black jackboot of disturbingly familiar design. People were still uncovering bodies, so the foreman didn’t find this unusual. Grimly, he set to work digging out the corpse. I wonder who will mourn his passing tonight? he thought, trying to control his churning insides.

The body was surprisingly light and easy to move. The foreman recognised the tattered and stained black uniform, but the body was completely mummified, skin as dry and cracked like old leather. The wrists felt like twigs, and the foreman knew that beneath the ragged gloves, the fingers would be skeletal claws.

The foreman turned, searching for his workmates. He noticed a couple of shirtless forms within hollering distance, and opened his mouth to call them over.

Before the words could leave his mouth, something manacled his ankle.

He spun, expecting to see a cheeky colleague, and blanched. The emaciated corpse he had dug out was clinging to him. Mouthing silently, the foreman tried to shake its fingers off, but they were inhumanly strong, keeping a firm grip despite his frantic kicking.

It reached out with its other hand, catching the knee of his trousers. A desperate croak escaped the stricken worker’s throat, but his distant friends didn’t hear.

The monster continued to claw its way up his body. Its face resembled a skull covered in a paper-thin layer of grey flesh, cheeks sunken into dark caverns, lips peeled back from grotesque, fanglike teeth. Most horrifying of all were its staring eyes, very much alive and blazing with alien hunger.

Help! the foreman gasped, struggling to push the disgusting thing away from him. His big, strong hands should have snapped ribs as thin as matchsticks, but the scrawny body remained intact, and managed to wrap its wiry arms around his shoulders. It pulled him close in an inhumanly strong embrace. As he tried to cry for help again, its sharp teeth ripped into his throat.

October 1956

The first sensation to infiltrate his consciousness was pure, unadulterated terror. He didn’t know why he woke to such an overwhelming emotion, considering that he didn’t even know where he was. All he knew was that something was horribly wrong.

And then he remembered. The enemy had captured him, as he’d suspected they would. Realising that they were going to kill him, he had bit down on the capsule hidden behind his teeth.

A commotion ensured as the Allied doctor and his assistant tried to wash the poison from his mouth and inject him with cardiac stimulant, but the cyanide - and the formula mixed with it - took its deadly toll. He experienced the dizzying sensation of falling into blackness, and ... then ... nothing.

Until now.

He tested his limbs, and discovered that he couldn’t move. He felt frozen, locked in darkness. He didn’t even seem to be breathing; he couldn’t feel the regular rise-and-fall of his chest.

When he tried to draw a breath, nothing happened. If anything, the weight of the darkness increased, like tonnes of earth were pressing down on him...

His terror returned, banishing his fledgling curiosity. He understood the cause of his fear all too clearly.

He had been buried alive.

What in Heaven’s name had the formula done to him?

By God - he had to get out of here! But how? He was probably buried under six feet of soil! As well as terror he experienced hunger, so much Goddamn hunger - it boiled up from the pit of his belly to fill his throat, unlike any craving he had previously experienced.

It felt ... alien ... unnatural.

He flexed his muscles again, desperate to escape, and to his surprise and relief, he felt the dirt begin to move around him. Not even sure if he was moving in the right direction, he thrust his arms up into the soil, fighting against it like he was swimming through treacle.

He had no idea where his power came from, but it enabled him to drill through the earth and burst out into a clear night. He tossed his head back and took a deep breath, more out of habit than necessity. Then he hauled himself up through the hole he’d made, and flopped on the damp earth, shaking with a mixture of relief and need. Cold night air caressed his naked flesh.

His fear subsided, but the hunger remained, to nag insistently at the pit of his belly. He sat up to survey his surroundings. At first he thought his ability to clearly view the encircling hills was due to a full moon, but when he cast his gaze heavenwards, he only saw a few fuzzy stars. Somehow he could see as though it was daylight. He lifted his hands, rubbed his eyes, but his surroundings didn’t change. He turned to look at the hole he had escaped from. Dirt had already tumbled into it, filling the space he’d left behind.

A shudder of something he couldn’t identify convulsed through him, and he bowed his head. The bastards had buried him in an unmarked grave - a most unceremonious end for one such as him.

He clenched his hands into fists of rage, and felt claw-like nails stab into his palms. He lifted his hands to examine them, shocked by their skeletal thinness and the bestial length of his filthy nails. Tentatively, dreading what he would find, he lifted his fingers to his face, exploring it. Ravaged skin covered his skull, and his hair seemed to have disappeared altogether. He shrieked in fear and disgust.

He was a living corpse!

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flicker of movement in the trees closest to his burial site. His howl of terror must have alerted someone to his presence, and he jumped to his feet, noticing that his toes were also capped with dirty claws.

Revulsion battled with the powerful hunger burning through his ravaged body. He started purposefully towards the trees. Despite his cadaverous state, he moved quickly, reaching the thicket within seconds.

He parted the bushes directly in front of him, startling a large wild pig searching for food. It backed off, baring its tusks. In the strange light that allowed him to see so clearly, it seemed to glow as though red fire instead of blood filled its veins. A grunt started in the animal’s throat, but the man leapt on it before it could react. His hunger so intense, all he could think of was sinking his teeth into the pig’s throat. He locked his bony arms around it, pulling its big, smelly body close with disturbing ease. It pulsed with life, life he so desperately needed.

The pig had time for one sharp, desperate squeal of terror before the man’s sharp fangs tore into its furry skin. He realised then that his craving had been for blood, not food ... sweet, warm, life-giving blood. It filled him with mind-blowing ecstasy, many times more powerful than his best sexual experience. He wanted it to go on and on, but all too soon the pig was a limp, dead bundle of fur in his arms, most of its ribs crushed inwards by the force of his embrace.

He dropped its mangled body to the ground, and stood, staring at his hands. They were covered with blood, but had filled out to look almost normal. He explored his face, and realised with joy that it too had returned to the visage he remembered. Only his hair felt lank and lifeless. But at least now he had some.

The blood had saved him! The hot, pulsing life of the pig. Did that mean he was now a ... vampire? His ability to see in the dark, the speed with which he had moved across the grass to the forest? And what about the way he had dug himself out of his own grave?

He spun on his heel, returning to the hole in the ground. Just in case the men who had buried him here came past, he kicked in the dirt and stomped it down. Then he directed his gaze to the distant horizon, where the faint lights of a town burned.

Softly, and then with increasing vigour, he started to laugh. He had done it! He had survived - proof of his mastery!

September 2005

Holger Schild cracked his knuckles and picked up his chainsaw. He had a big job ahead, but was looking forward to it. He had paid a minimum price for this rundown, overgrown old farm. Already the house was habitable, its rotten beams replaced and reinforced.

Judging by the jungle-like nature of the foliage surrounding him, it probably hadn’t been cleared since the Second World War. Holger suspected the reason it had remained empty so long was because of its proximity to the old east-west border.

The descent of the wall had been the best thing to happen to Holger and his family. It had enabled them to taste a little of the affluence of the west. Holger remembered how his wife Inga and their son Max, had joined other Ozzies on the side of the road to hitchhike into the west, where they had been overwhelmed by the bright lights, abundance of shops and people in expensive clothes.

The neatness of the western countryside had surprised them. Near their home town of Osterweik, the roads were lumpy and full of pot-holes. In some places they had been worn down to the original cobblestones, laid some time during the eighteenth century. Trees hadn’t been pruned in years, and weeds flourished everywhere. Buildings abandoned for over half a century still stood with their windows boarded over and roofs falling in. But in the west even the factories gleamed. Few fields lay fallow, and weeds were regularly hunted down and eliminated. Rubbish hadn’t been allowed to build up in ditches and alley-ways.

And yet, grubby old Osterweik had become something of a tourist destination, as though westerners yearned to compare the difference. The little town was an odd mixture of old and new. Derelict, half-timbered houses still stood wedged between beautifully restored buildings, some untouched for decades.

Holger smiled as he slung his heavy-duty chainsaw over one brawny shoulder, and marched out into the cool September morning. At least it isn’t raining, he thought, hoping the clouds would remain free of moisture for at least one day. Holger hated stopping work for the weather. He intended to continue on the closest field, where he’d already cleared a large swathe of undergrowth.

Being a large man with a barrel chest, strong arms, and a bull-neck, Holger wielded the chainsaw easily, and didn’t tire as he sawed through the gnarled, intertwined branches and trunks.

Suddenly, a bright geyser of sparks fountained from the edge of the chainsaw. A shrewish wail of rending metal was quickly followed by a snapping sound. The saw’s chain flew back with deadly velocity, missing the farmer’s face by centimetres.

Sweet mother Maria! Holger dropped the still spinning saw and stumbled back, falling onto his backside on the muddy ground. His heart galloped like a frightened mare. Another fraction of a centimetre, and that chain would have torn off half his face. The saw sputtered and died, leaving an almost thunderous silence behind.

Holger mopped his brow on his sleeve and pushed himself to his feet. Abandoned bits of metal buried in his field would make his job a lot more difficult, not to mention the cost of a new chain for his saw.

Thrusting his way through the foliage, he found the cause of his frustration. He had cut a long trench down the side of something large, bulky and rusty, stopping only when he reached a thick supporting strut.

What the devil is this? he growled out loud. Tearing away some more stubborn plants, he discovered a window, still with a few shards of opaque glass wedged in it.

Shit - it’s the cockpit of a plane!

Anger dwindled into amazement as Holger cleared more foliage from around the canopy - the only part of the aircraft still above ground. The rest appeared to have sunk into the soil, leaving plants to reclaim the rest.

Clearing away more vegetation, he examined the rest of the plane’s canopy. Bullet-holes pocked its sides. It had been well and truly shot up before ending up here.

Did it come from the last war? Had it lain here all this time? Holger’s heart started to race again, this time with hope. If he reported this, he would get more than fifteen minutes of fame! He might even get a reward.

Is there a body in this thing? he wondered. A long dead fighter pilot? Do I really want to know? Yes, his exploring hands answered as he returned to the canopy. He searched for a catch to open it, but it appeared to be rusted onto the plane’s body, and he couldn’t budge it. Clenching one gloved hand into a fist, he smashed out the last of the glass and looked in.

The powerful stench of age and decay rolled out, and Holger stumbled back, one arm flying up to protect his nose. But curiosity soon overcame disgust, and holding his breath, Holger resumed his exploration. The cockpit’s interior was shrouded with dust and cobwebs. Roots and vines had pushed their way through cracks in the floor and bulkheads. The single seat was still intact, but its cover and stuffing had decayed, or been removed by animal invaders. The dead pilot’s clothes hung from his body in tatters, and his bowed neck looked like a wrinkled strip of leather. He was wearing some kind of dirty grey cap.

His breath catching in his throat, Holger extended a trembling hand. He had to touch that figure, make sure it was real. Had he really uncovered a World War Two plane, complete with dead pilot? His fingers touched the body’s shoulder, and it shifted easily, as though it was made of straw. Cautiously Holger pushed the body back, and it flopped against the remains of the seat. Holger gasped. Although the uniform was faded and tattered, Holger still recognised it. He’d seen enough photos in books and magazines. Those runes on the collar, that armband - the spread-winged eagle badge with a swastika clutched in its claws.

It was the uniform of a Waffen-SS officer.

Holger’s gaze dropped to the corpse’s skeletal hands, capped with evil-looking claws that looked more like bird-talons than human fingernails. They clutched an old iron strongbox with the same swastika-bearing eagle stamped on top. The soldier looked like he’d been trying to protect it with his life.

Now his secret was Holger’s.

Imagine – long lost Nazi documents! Maybe they would change the course of history!

He reached for the old box, closing his fingers around cold metal. He pulled, and the corpse’s bony fingers came with it, locked around the box. Holger cringed. He didn’t want to touch those evil looking digits. He released the box, and the body’s head lifted.

The face was little more than a skull, cheeks wrinkled and sunken, ropy lips pulled back from horribly elongated teeth. But worst were the eyes, perfect and unaffected by the years of decay. Those white, staring orbs seemed to bulge from the corpse’s sunken eye-sockets, irises a piercing, crystalline blue. The ancient cap tumbled from its head, revealing wisps of white hair, still clinging to the wrinkled scalp.

Holger thought the fresh air wafting through the cockpit must have disturbed the corpse enough to make it sit up on its own - until those skeletal hands lifted from the box and reached for him. Holger tried to jump back but the heel of his boot caught on a tree root.

He stumbled, arms flailing, and with blinding speed, a claw shot out and caught the collar of his shirt. Holger screamed and beat desperately at the hand, trying to dislodge it. How could something so fragile and stick-thin be so strong? How the Hell could it move on its own at all?

The creature pulled him forwards with phenomenal strength. Desperation forced the farmer to grab the arm to dislodge its grip. Although little more than bone, it felt like a steel bar. He couldn’t budge it!

That undead face came closer, bulging eyes filled with an unspeakable need. Mouth open, fangs like razors, the stench of death became like a great fist closing around his head and chest, choking him.

Le’me go! Holger gasped in terror.

With a final convulsive jerk, the claw yanked Holger forward, and he lost his footing, falling face first into the cockpit - with that thing! He screamed again, scrabbling desperately for purchase on the rusted metal. It tore into his fingers, but the pain only increased his desperation.

The corpse’s arms wrapped around him, imprisoning him in a grip of iron. He found himself pressed against the soldier’s xylophone chest, ribs like bars grinding into his own. That horrible mouth, with its bestial teeth, brushed against his bare neck.

He quaked in terror. What the hell was going to happen to him now? He kicked in desperation, trying to struggle free - and then the thing’s teeth sliced into his flesh, biting into his jugular vein.

Holger opened his mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. He was paralysed, locked in the creature’s deadly embrace. Hungrily, it drained his blood as fast as it gushed from him.

Please! Someone help me! Holger prayed.

But no one came to save him from the vampire in the plane.

* * * *

Chapter 2

Angelika Heinemann tapped her steering wheel in time to the heavy beat of the Scorpions as she followed the long trail of traffic crawling down the narrow, pitted road. No Autobahns here, but Geli didn’t mind the slowness of her trip. The mid-semester break had just begun, and she could take her time getting back to her apartment.

Originally, her family heralded from Braunschweig. They had never experienced Communist rule, but after the fall of the wall, the east had drawn them in, and they decided to make a new life for themselves in the medieval mountain town of Quedlinburg. Her shrewd parents had seen the area’s potential for tourism, and bought a rundown top floor apartment in a narrow little street known as Die Hölle. With the building’s other two occupants, they had restored the old dwelling, turning it into a shining example of the Lower Saxon style. It would now be worth ten times what the Heinemanns had paid for it thirteen years ago.

Unfortunately, Maria and Peter Heinemann were no longer alive to enjoy to fruits of their labour. Having Angelika later in life, her mother, Maria never fully recovered from the traumatic labour at forty-eight. Her health had continued to deteriorate until a little over two years ago, when she succumbed to breast cancer diagnosed too late.

Peter had always been a heavy drinker but the loss of his wife exacerbated his alcohol problem. Geli tried to save him from his self-destructive slide, but her pleading failed to penetrate his deep despair. He died of liver failure a mere six months after his wife.

At twenty four, Geli had inherited the family house and all of its memories. Now the only relative she saw on a regular basis was her eccentric grandmother, Oma Sandra. The rest of the family regarded Geli as an outrageous hippie. Oma Sandra had told her they resented her because she could now afford to live the bohemian life of a uni student. The fact that she’d lost two much loved parents to achieve financial independence didn’t seem to have crossed their minds.

Angelika wore her long brown hair in numerous braids, threaded with beads and other decorations. Gold chains rattled and clicked around her slender neck, and bracelets chimed around her wrists. A baggy jumper hung off one shoulder, all the colours of the rainbow. She wore little make-up, simply because she simply couldn’t be bothered. Her dark features were smooth and regular, and didn’t suffer from lack of cosmetic adornment. The most she needed was a little lipstick on her full lips, blusher on her high cheekbones, and some powder to tone down her long pointy nose. So what if her appearance wasn’t what most men liked? Geli had long since given up worrying what other people thought of her. She had spent the first few years out of school doing what her bosses had asked of her, and dressed to suit the corporate image. Her parents hadn’t been able to afford to send her to uni then, but Geli had saved enough to see her through her degree in teaching long before her mother discovered she was dying.

The light signifying roadworks ahead finally turned green, and the traffic containing Geli’s bright yellow Volkswagen began to snake forward. She managed to squeeze through before the light winked back to red.

Daylight faded from the overcast sky, and the relentless drizzle finally eased. Geli yawned, looking forward to relaxing in front of the TV, a glass of wine in one hand. She still missed her parents, but rarely felt lonely. Geli liked her own company. After all the horror stories about group living from her university friends, advertising for a flatmate never crossed her mind. She mixed enough while on campus. Quedlinburg was her escape, her sanctuary from the hectic life in Göttingen.

Her Scorpions CD finished, and clicked onto the radio in the middle of the news.

...died while clearing a field behind his house. Holger Schild’s chainsaw snapped on the metal strut of a plane which is believed to have lain buried there since the Second World War. He was almost decapitated when the broken chain flew back into his throat. The aeroplane, a Messerschmidt Bf 109G-6, was found to be empty save for a cap. Obviously, the pilot had managed to escape after crash-landing in the field.

Geli remembered reading about this incident in the paper she’d picked up before leaving Göttingen. After sixty years World War Two paraphernalia was still surfacing with frightening regularity. Geli would have preferred if Nazism had never taken place, for all the pain it had caused her grandparents.

Unfortunately, since the unification of east and west, and more relaxed border control throughout Europe in general, fascism had resurfaced amongst some of the young people of today. They only saw the slick uniforms, the impressive ceremonies, and Hitler’s frenzied speeches. They preferred to overlook the concentration camps and mass graves of those who hadn’t fitted into Hitler’s vision. Some even believed that the Final Solution hadn’t happened, that it had been a plot by the Jews to condemn the Nazis.

Geli