Deutchland, Wach!

[Prince Jason]

Do I even have to say anything, skilord?

[SKILORD]

Well, I'm back, apparently.

I'll be writing another bit of this soon.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Cool

[SKILORD]

Yeah, I'm trying to get around to it, i'm having a very long and busy week, and I'll be out of town again next week, so I'd better get to it, inspiration or no.

[SKILORD]

Oi! Still not 'A' work. (Real crappy dialouge at the end)
-

The anchorman stared, shocked at the boy who held out a new script, new lines for him to deliver. This had damn well better be important, he thought as he took the papers with a sneer.

He donned his most concerned features as he looked into the camera, glancing down at the paper.

“Breaking news here, it appears that this news station has received a tape from a certain individual claiming to represent a splinter of the German nationalist movement, the ‘Volk,’ who claims to have procured ‘Das ReichsSchwert,’ a German national emblem and claims to be preparing a revolution against, and I quote, ‘The British Slavedrivers of Berlin and her German Empire.’ The ReichsSchwert spokesman claims responsibility for the murder of Governor James Moore and Mayor Tim Thumbly.”

The anchorman stared up, an eyebrow lifted at the cameraman, “Honestly, my fellow Britons, I cannot say with any certainty that we should take this fellow seriously.”

The tape began to roll in the background.

-

There was a crowd around the excavation site now, forcing their way up to the opening, where suit wearing security guards would inform them that their presence was not required. These were men of all backgrounds, the curious, the German, the British, the uncertain, the angry, the hopeful, the conquered. These were the men who stood in front of the excavation site. It was not a protest, not a demonstration, just a curious on looking. It was a powder keg that wasn’t even aware that it was.

A kid with a black tee shirt, with the symbol of the German eagle forced his way up to the front of the crowd.

“Hey limey, why won’t ye let us in?”

The man in the suit ignored him, the kid’s curly hair began to bob as his pale features shook, “just like I thought, yer too afraid to let us open our eyes, too afraid to let us be free.”

The suit ignored him.

“Answer me.”

Silence.

“Answer me.”

The kid picked up a rock, threw it at the guards.

It struck one of them in the side of the head, he threw down his rifle and hurried after the kid.

Unnoticed another kid motioned for a few of the more anxious onlookers to take advantage of the confusion that was beginning to erupt among the guards and they slipped inside.

-

“F***ing kids,” the guard sneered as he returned from his search, “When I was that age...”

“You were just as bad, Thomas, and we both know that.”

Thomas shook his head, “When’s this s*** gonna be over?”

“It’ll blow over pretty soon, don’t worry.”

The kid began to glance from the second row of onlookers, these were different people, the crowd had been moving, rotating.

“Hey kid!”

The guard surged into the crowd, throwing people aside, grabbing the kid.

Thomas began to drag the punk successfully out of the crowd.

“Help, he’s after me because of the shirt, he’s oppressing me!”

A few people in the crowd began to notice, “Hey, put that kid down, what’s he done to you?”

Thomas shot a deadly look at the speaker, “It’s my own damn business, its between me and the kid.”

More stares were drawn towards him, Thomas’ death grip on the kid didn’t loosen.

“Put that kid down,” the first speaker stepped forward.

“No.”

“I’m gonna say this one last time, put him down,” it was a rather big man, confident enough apparently.

Thomas pulled the kid out of the crowd, to the safety behind the police line.

The big guy threw the first punch.

-

“Hey, what are you doing in here?”

The flash from the cameras was still illuminating the cave walls.

The guard approached even more quickly, “What are you doing here?”

The small group scattered, almost confused, leaving the guard without clue as to where to go.

His earpiece buzzed to life.

-

The guards were firing warning shots into the air, their handguns depleting their ammunition pointlessly, the crowd still surged forwards, kept only nearly at bay by the warning of bullets, they both knew that the bullets wouldn’t last forever, though, and the guards were starting to panic. There were only three of them, under an assault by rocks and sticks, their guns pointed harmlessly upwards.

The inside guards bounded out the door, he stared, shocked into the writhing mob, he held out his handgun, a few shots would end this.

He caught a man in the leg, dropping him, and the crowd was silent for a moment.

Then it thundered at him.

-

“In news today, a large gathering outside an excavation site described in the video of terror group, ‘ReichsSchwert,’ grew bloody as guards fired upon a mob which had become inconsolable. German barbarity, unseen since their conquest at the hands of our armies all those years ago, was unleashed in an unparalleled display that leaves four guards in critical care.

“Two members of the mob join them, interviews with their family members later on.

“Verification of the ‘ReichsSchwert’ video was also found in the cave, after a small group managed to break into the former excavation site and to take photographs of the apparent German writing therein. Yes, folks, look twice at your family lines because it turns out that Berlin did used to be a German town, perhaps even the Capitail.”

“More on that after a few words from our sponsors.”

The anchor sipped from his glass, motioning frantically for the makeup crews.

“What is this nonsense? Violence between Germans and Britons? This hasn’t happened for hundreds of years, this is absurd.”

“That doesn’t stop it from happening, sir.” The makeup fellow was powdering his cheeks.

“No, I suppose not. I’ll need a few stiff drinks tonight.”

“If this keeps getting worse, sir, we all will.”

“Worse? How can this get any worse? Two public officials murdered and a riot, you talk about ‘worse?’”

The hairdresser grinned, “I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid that Germany Lives.”

[Micha]

I like it!

Could you make it "Das ReichsSchwert" instead?

[SKILORD]

No problem.

Fixeded.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Its pretty good too Id say also.

This story is developing nicely SKILORD, I said all along it would be a long one and I think your pacing it well

[SKILORD]

I'm having a little internet trouble, and I have an exceptionally busy week coming up, but trust me, I'm trying my hardest to deliver.

[EQandCivfanatic]

looking good, waiting for more

[Paddy]

Originally posted by EQandCivfanatic
looking good, waiting for more

indeed

[vovan]

Originally posted by Paddy the Scot

Quote:

looking good, waiting for more

indeed

Most definitely.

[SKILORD]

Short and not the best, I'm going through a slump right now and forcing this out, but it will keep you happy/intrested.

-

The anchorman shot a concerned glance from the television, Damien flicked it off.

“It’s spreading to Leipzig, there was a riot on Bakers street,” a man in an old German army uniform looked to him.

“The British sent tanks into Berlin, the city is under complete lockdown,” Damien shot back.

The man in the uniform chuckled, “The British don’t know how to put down riots, tanks won’t last too long.”

“People are going to die.”

The man in the uniform shrugged, “These things happen, I think we should come out in support of this Johan fellow. He’s delusional, but maybe he can pull it off.”

Damien shook his head, “He’s arrogant, he’s just gonna get a lot of people killed.”

Another man leaned in, “I think that Damien’s right, we’ll have to put this down ourselves.”

“Thank you, Hans,” Damien slumped back into his chair.

“How do you intend to put it down?” The man in the uniform propped himself forward.

“We’ve hired an assassin,” Hans waved his hand, “we’re going to cut off the head of this snake.”

“What makes you think that this can be stopped that way?”

“We don’t have any other choices.”

“Yes, we do, let’s come out in support of the rebellion.”

“Who’s this assassin?”

Hans grinned, “Timothy Rommel.”

-

Johan stood in the throng, faceless, invisible. He pelted stones at city hall with the rest of the hornet’s nest of Germans and dissident Britons, Tanks prowled the streets looking for them, weary and suspicious after many a Moltov Cocktail.

Berlin had become a battlefield, the rebellion hid in houses, in cellars, waiting to ambush the British forces in the city. There was no peace to be found, women and Children trying to escape had been forced back in, to localize the rebellion.

Small arms fire popped insistently in the alleys as Germans fought from the dark. War was dirty, blood was cheap.

The excavation site had been seized by a small group of Germans who had inhabited the VolkGeffanis, but who had been broken out by who they called the ‘Kaiser,’ and the throne sat empty, waiting for the faceless man who threw the stones to become a king.

-

“Herr,” Rommel grinned, approaching Johan von Bismarck, “I’m still waiting for the next set of executions and the payments.”

Johan was huddled in a cellar, where the flasks and kegs had been opened and the rebels fortified their courage before returning to the fight.

“You haven’t finished the last ones yet, have you?” Johan grinned, “Rhodes lives, he’s at the British command post wielding this army against us.”

Rommel gritted his teeth, “I’ll get him,” he growled, “I always get my man.”

“You had better pray that you do.”

Rommel cracked a grin, “You had better pray that I don’t.”

Rommel turned to the door, flipping it open and climbing up the stairs.

Johan shook his head, pondering Rommel’s last words, slipping the last bit of his drink down his throat and picking up his handgun.

He knew where he had to go, the rebellion was beginning to fade, to loose hope.

-

Johan von Bismarck approached the stone throne, sword in hand, he lifted his foot and stepped up on it, lifting himself up where the dirty and frightened crowd could see him, “From this throne, we will free our Fatherland, we, one people united in purpose and in strength. I offer this cave to all of you who have wives and daughters, sons and mothers, as a refuge, as a Haven from the fighting. This is not a cave for the King or for nobles, this is not a palace for the few. This is the hall of freedom, where all men are equal. This is the heart of the Fatherland, where all of Deutschland’s children may find refuge.”

The crowd cheered wildly, waving their hats and guns in the air, Johan grinned and stepped down off of his throne, lifting the sword high, he began to wade into the crowd, before it split before him, chanting his name and following him to the battlefield.

The former members of the Honor Guard, the last survivors of the biggest breakout in British penal history, picked up rifles and obeyed the orders of the man who had freed them, standing at the doors and frightening away the war, that the children may sleep.

[SKILORD]

The tank’s engine growled , frustrated, as it stood in the street, rolling aimlessly back and forth.

“Sir, still nothing here.”

The man on the other radio was rubbing his five o’clock shadow, there were Germans somewhere there, he knew it.

“General, call your men back, you’re more likely to stumble on an ambush than to do anything useful.”

The general looked up from the radio at Agent Rhodes, he bared his teeth briefly. He was not a diplomat, he had no polite words on his tongue to dispense to Mr. Rhodes. Though he allegedly had a rank in MI6 he hadn’t felt it necessary to share that with the General or anyone else in the occupation force, he had simply taken control quietly and confidently, tearing it away from more competent hands, in the General’s opinion.

“When are you going to be sending those forces to Leipzig, Agent Rhodes?”

Rhodes frowned, walking jerkily across the tile floor, “I won’t be sending any forces to Leipzig, General. I’ve told you that already.”

“There are more rebels in Leipzig, Rhodes,” the general spat out the name, “the forces are needed there.”

Edward slammed his fist down on the desk, causing the radio to jump, “We can’t end this in Berlin with all the men we have, how can they help in Leipzig?!”

The general was quiet for a moment, a subtle grin lifting the corners of his mouth in a sinister expression, “Leipzig is a far more valuable city than this one.”

Edward glared at the General, tugging his jacket into place, regaining control of himself, “When we have subdued Berlin, then I will hear this talk.”

-

Timothy shrugged in his uncomfortable uniform, the assorted and colorful decorations on his breast meant nothing to him anymore, he tried hard to think of the officer who had once worn them, the young and enthusiastic soldier in his queen’s service. A man who had followed her from the Finnish Isles in the short police action to end the Norse-Swedish civil war to the Deserts of Germany, where he had died.

All the hope and promise that had once clouded those eyes had parted when he saw the Geffanis, when it became more than a whispered legend. When he realized that Germany and England had never made peace, when he had dragged his tank away with the few other disillusioned souls that had been ashamed and frightened of what they saw, even the little they saw, a dark monolith reaching high into the sky, the screams of a tortured German pouring out, when these terrors had stabbed his soul mercilessly, this was when Timothy Rommel, the man who had worn this uniform, had died.

The uniform stank of death to Rommel now as he walked confidently, exchanging no eyes with the others in the hall. The gun was in its holster, nothing was out of place.

The radio room, he shot his eyes in briefly. It seemed less populated than the other rooms, there weren’t any major missions on right now. He could start his work there unimpeded.

Timothy placed his hand on the door handle.

-

“But this rebellion is in more cities than just Berlin, Rhodes, we must fight it on every front.”

“Berlin is more important, trust me, now call your men back.”

The door clicked open, drawing Edward Rhode’s suspicious eyes to it.

-

Recognition flashed suddenly on Rommel’s face, and his hand shot out for his pistol, twirring it out, Rhodes had already squeezed off a pair of shots, forming a pair of holes in the door.

Rommel lunged to the floor, forcing his finger down on the trigger.

There was a gasp on the other side of the room. Timothy dropped himself suddenly towards the tile, bullets piercing the air above him.

He stole a glance upwards as he rolled towards cover, Rhodes still stood tall, he must have hit the other man.

Rhodes was pounding bullets into the floor, leaving scorching holes.

Rommel stopped rolling and propped himself up on one knee, the gun was in front of him, the shot was perfect.

The door swung open again, “Freeze,” an authoritive voice commanded, Rommel grinned.

“Or what?”

“I have a gun aimed at your back, don’t test me.”

Rommel chuckled softly, “And I have enough explosives wired to me to make anything you were planning to do with that gun a mistake. What sort of fool would walk into the enemies camp so brazenly without a backup plan? You shoot me and I promise you that the I won’t die alone.”

The gun clicked behind him, “I don’t believe you,” the authoritive voice was gone, replaced by a more timid voice, one accustomed to taking orders, a grin cracked across Rommel’s face.

“So what? I’m just warning you that if you shoot me, you limeys aren’t going to stay in Berlin for very long. Your actions here have consequences, big consequences. For the world, you have the history of the world sitting in front of you here. What will you choose, to take a chance and risk betraying your nation? A man can betray his nation, trust me, I know.”

Edward Rhodes stood silently at the front of the room, “ He might not be willing to take that chance, Mein Herr, but I am perfectly unafraid.”

The bullet lanced out, landing with a meaty thwack in the flesh of Edward Rhodes, dragging him to the floor.

“I’m going to leave now, Let’s not have a mess, I won’t blow up if you don’t shoot me.”

-

Edward Rhodes’ eyes burned as the bullet ached in his side, he watched the man who had shot him stand up and turn around, his gun was out of reach, he didn’t know how it had fallen so far away.

The darkness closed in on him as he stared into the doorway, watching Timothy Rommel disappear into the base.

He bit his teeth together, determined, Rommel would pay ever so dearly.

Edward Rhodes inhaled. Edward Rhodes breathed. Edward Rhodes lived.

-

The handgun was pressed against the back of his skull, Johan grinned to this.

“Now we can see where your loyalties lie, Timothy, with your nation or with the pound.”

“I have no loyalty to you Johan, don’t confuse yourself.”

“To me? I ask for none from you, why should a man be loyal to another man? I am not looking for a dog, Timothy, I am looking for a German. Your finger is on the trigger now and its your decision, will you kill the leader of the revolution now, will you slit the throat of Germany as it is born, all for a precious thirty silver?”

“They paid me in pounds.”

Johan grinned, “It’s a figure of speech, Judas took thirty silver.”

“The Volk are Germans too.”

“Germans?! They betray Germany every day with their cowering. We are weak, we cannot fight. These are their psalms, these are their songs of comfort, We are weak, we cannot fight. I too am weak, we too are weak, but we are Germans, and we cannot be insulted forever. We are not strong enough to win this fight, but we are strong enough to die free. That’s all I ask, that’s all that the men out there who are roaming the streets, we want to die German, we want to die free, with our faces to the enemy and our guns in our hands.

“Germany has for too long been the victim of the petty fears of miniscule men, I’m asking you to free her and to take your finger off of that trigger.”

The hammer cocked back.

Johan grinned, facing death’s hollow eyes, free, “But a man can always betray his nation.”

-

The hatch flipped open and the tanker peered out into a parking garage above Berlin’s broken streets.

“Sir, no sign of activity, should we return to base?”

The static was still there as it had been for the past hours, noone was manning the radio, but the tanker would be damned before returning without the General’s orders. He had told them to stay out and they still had plenty of fuel, since much of their time had been spent with the engine off, hiding in the shade of parking towers like the one they had presently mounted. They had sent to infantry into a neighboring building to investigate it for Germans.

“Sir,” he trailed off, loosing faith in the radio.

A bullet shot out of nowhere, the tanker slumped in through the hatch.

A gruff hand grabbed the body and tossed it out, pointing a handgun down into the tank.

“I’ll be taking this,” Timothy Rommel informed them.

[vovan]

I must have missed that one chapter you posted right after my previous reply.

Well, what can I say... Great installments. Always good to see stuff from you, SKI.

[Metaliturtle]

wow, finally got around to reading this and I am hooked. I had a good chuckle though how like more than half of your intros are "this isn't really gonna be as good as the rest" then it gets better.

[Micha]

You´re lowering the amount of German language your characters are using, huh?

Btw: Could you please insert the missing "s" in "Deutschland" in the headline of the very first post? Thanks

Edit:
Ah, I see you already have edited the headline, but the threadname isn´t affected...
Well, never mind then.

PS:
Great story, maybe you should make a novel out of it once it´s finished...

[unscratchedfoot]

Okay, I'll try to add more than just "Great story". I read your chapter and felt it wasn't quite up to your usual standard so I'm gonna mention a couple of points you may wish to consider. Basically, there is some unnatural use of verbs and repetitive grammar mistakes.

The radio room, he shot his eyes in briefly, it seemed less populated than the other rooms, there weren’t any major missions on right now, he could start his work there unimpeded.

When I read "he shot his eyes in briefly" I am not lying that I had an image of Jim carrey in 'The Mask' when his eyes came stretching way out of their sockets when he saw the neighboring woman with a mud mask on. This same sentence is actually a run-on sentence with 4 seperate sentences and a sentence fragment all connected by commas. You do not want to let your literature teacher to see this.

There was a gasp on the other side of the room, as the tile rushed up to meet Timothy’s face, his hand quickly tossed in front of it.

Another run-on sentence (2 full sentences) but the main problem here is 'the tile rushed up to meet Tim's face' is a very hackneyed expression which gives your story a tired feeling. Better to use normal english (he dove for the floor) if you can't think of a creative phrase to use. For something creative maybe try something like: "He performed a dive which would be the envy of any dolphin and his teeth snapped together nut-cracker style when his chin met the floor tile." Or if you want to be a little decorative try, "He threw himself down with enough haste that the hardwood bellyflop almost disgorged the spinach linguine he had for lunch and his head hitting the floor sounded like a coconut falling from a palm onto a L.A. drag." (The 2nd example is not so good because L.A. is in a different country so 'beachway' could be used instead).

The second sentence 'his hand quickly tossed infront of it.' is very clunky and strange. It sounds like his hand was blown off by the gunshot and went flying infront of 'it'. Does 'it' = gasp, face or tile?

Sorry to sound picky, but trust me, in university the red ink vultures known as english profs will feast on this. I've been there cause I made the cardinal error of taking some sort of advanced literature class in first year allowable to students who get an A on their graduation english exam. That's why I spot these errors so fast cause those profs made me paranoid of grammar errors. Well, actually if I took the class now it would probably be a blast cause I'm more into writing and stuff now. I used to study all of 20 minutes every couple of weeks in first year university. Woops, getting off-topic...

Let me know if this helps or you don't like it or you'd rather I shut-up or what okay?

[SKILORD]

yeah, Micha, a little. As for the first post I said something back on the first page about needing a mod to fix it, their too busy to bother with me.

Anyway, scratch, thanks for the advice, runons have been a problem since my youth (my youth... ... I speak of my 'youth' at 17)

Anyways, mebbe I'll slip in a new chapter, :shrug: nmothing better to do right now.

[SKILORD]

Allow me to introduce this chapter

First of all it's a bad idea to kill of your main character, and so I left it hanging there in the last chapter, so that I could have Rommel change his mind if he had to. He didn't. I don't expect to be able to control my characters and though I thought it a mistake Rommel delivered on his contract. It wasn't my idea, I don't think, and I blame Hans (Ch.13) for the whole damn thing. Furthermore I wrote this and got it up pretty quick, huh?

-SKILORD

-



The hatch was open and Timothy Rommel was peering out of it into the eyes of a particularly unfortunate highway guard.

“I’m bringing in a tank from Berlin, reinforcements,” the words commanded belief, the eyes humbled all doubt.

“One tank?” the British soldier, his rifle hanging from his shoulder as he stood in front of a feeble guard rail meant to stop the traffic that was afraid to break it.

“The bloody krauts ambushed us, we’re all that’s left.”

“A major, in a tank?”

“A man gets away from an ambush, he rarely cares how. Now I can do you a favor if you’ve forgotten how to lift that rail there and I’ll break it apart. Are you going to keep us out here away from the fighting with you?”

The cowering guard stepped back and lifted the rail, shaking his head, the tank charged forward.

“Hell of a job there, sir,” one of Rommel’s men looked up to him.

“Yeah, just drive the f***ing tank.”

“You do an awfully good impression of a limey officer.”

“Drive the f***ing tank.”

“Almost like it was the olds days, almost like we4 were out there, turning our backs on all of the struggles and pain.”

Rommel slid down into the tank, fists slamming into the driver, drawing blood and cracking noises from the flesh.

The gunner pulled him back, “Sir, cool it, we need him.”

“The driver fired an angry glare up the tank, “He doesn’t give a f*** about what we need, Derik, Timothy Rommel is only looking out for himself, and f*** everyone else. Why can’t the rest of us have gotten caught in the ambush leaving this lone Major limping through the f***ing desert on his own? He’ll kill us without a second thought.”

“Karl, you’ve been with me through all of this, you know me better.”

“I know you better? I damn well thought I did, I took you for a patriot, for a man who gave a f*** for his country. I knew that man, who the f*** are you?”

Derik’s grip tightened on Timothy, “Karl, stop it, Rommel isn’t gonna kill us, let’s just get to the Volk and pick up our payment.”

“I don’t want it, I don’t want to take the blood money for killing my Fatherland.”

Rommel’s foot shot out to Karl’s face, catching him squarely and causing Derik to pull him up even further.

“Is everything alright here?” called the guard from the ground, where he looked up at the tank that had been sitting motionless on the road for a few minutes.

Derik let go of Rommel, letting him slide himself up, straightening his uniform. He smiled confidently at the guard, “These men have just lost the rest of their Division, we’ve lost a lot of friend, you can’t expect them to get through it without question.”

The guard chuckled, “Sounded like insubordination in there. I smell a court-martial.”

“Things don’t always work out like that on the battlefield you green eyed son of a b****, maybe you should get out there and do some real soldiering someday, or would you like to sit there and tell a major what to do instead? Must be awfully convenient to know so f***ing much without ever having had to go through what I did to get these f***ing bars, I imagine that’s why you’ve been assigned to this proud post here.”

The guard stepped back, shuddering. He turned to the guardhouse and started walking.

“Drive,” Rommel commanded.

Karl forced the tank forward.

-

Timothy Rommel stood in front of the Volk, watching them bring up the briefcase and slapping it down on the desk.

“Four hundred thousand, just like we agreed.”

The case flicked open, the queen’s image, confident and snobbish, stared at him.

“You guys have awfully lax security here, considering all that money.”

“You plan to try something, Rommel?” Damien picked up a revolver and placed it in front of him on the desk next to the briefcase, “Go ahead, you’ll get a couple of us sure, but you’ll die.”

Rommel grinned, “What’s so bad about that?”

“Death?” Damien snorted, “From a man who deals in it! Haven’t you ever looked into the faces of your victims, the terror, the horror?”

“Johan had none of that.”

Damien snorted again, leaning forward, “I knew the man, he did, I assure you. All men fear death.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, take your money and go.”

“I want to know what’s so special about death. Why’s it so f***ing fearsome. Everybody does it, you think we’d be used to it by now.”

“Major Rommel, I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, yes it’s funny that men fear death, alright. That doesn’t change the fact that they do.”

“I’m not a major,” Rommel stepped forward, “never call me that.”

“Delightful, Mr. Rommel, now please leave.”

“Why don’t you answer my question.”

Damien took a deep breath, “It’s a silly question.”

Rommel pulled out his pistol, pointing it at Damien, “Are you afraid, Herr Konsig?”

Damien looked into the handgun’s barrel. He was silent.

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Everyone has to die. This bullet is coming for you, why does it matter how long it takes?”

“You don’t have it in you, Major Rommel.”

“I kill men like you for a living, Herr Konsig,” Rommel spat out the words, “frightened little bastards like you. I haven’t met more than one man who accepted it when he realized what was inevitable. I’ve been fought, the men who fancy themselves brave retreat that way, some have pleaded, but their all cowards, Mr. Konsig. All of them are running away from it. I’ve met one man who stood up and faced it. One.”

“Major, put your gun down,” one of the other men picked up a handgun and pointed it at him.

Timothy Rommel laughed like a madman. One hand in front of him, holding the handgun, the other shoved into his jacket. A wild grin spread across his face.

“Don’t fear the reaper,” Timothy Rommel pulled both triggers.

-

The briefcase was on fire, it sat on top of the table and Hans was watching it as he lay on his stomach in the middle of a puddle of blood and gasoline. All of the Volk were dead or dying, Rommel stood in the door, pouring more gasoline around the room.

“You saved so many lives, why do you regret it?”

Timothy looked down at the dying man, “All men die, few live. I certainly kept a great many from a faster, less convenient road to death, but will they ever live? They lived for these moments, now they will merely die slowly.”

Hans stared up at him, “You’re mad.”

“Perhaps,” he grinned, “But I’m alive.”

He finished pouring the gasoline and tossed it at the briefcase, walking calmly out of the inferno.

-

Karl and Derik sat on top of the tank as Rommel walked out of the Volk’s office.

“How’d it go?”

“It was refreshing.”

“Where’s the money?” Derik asked.

Rommel grinned, “It’s on fire.”

The fire began to grow in the office behind him, eating at the door.

“Rommel, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not a comedian, Derik.”

Karl started to laugh, “You’ve done your country a favor.”

“A man can’t betray his nation forever, Karl. Let’s get this tank going.”

-

Edward Rhode’s stomach was covered by bandages, “What’s the damage.”

“You have a few broken ribs, sir. One of your lungs was grazed. You made it through it pretty well considering. You’re lucky he didn’t have a bigger bullet.”

“Any idea as to where the sonovab**** is?”

“He supposedly murdered Johan von Bismarck right after he was here.”

Edward shot up, causing him to fall back to his bed in pain, groaning before saying, “What the f*** who’s he fighting for?”

“The revolutionaries blame us, sir. They want him dead, but they blame us.”

“I didn’t hire him.”

“None of us did, sir. The Germans don’t care, they decided that it was us.”

“I want him dead. I want to see every German sonovab**** dead," he paused, out of breath and dizzy, "but I want Rommel first.”

“I know, sir, But you need your rest.”

“I’ll be fine," he was out of breath again, "I have a nation to serve.”

The doctor grinned, “We all do, sir,” he placed the needle into Edward’s arm and sent him to sleep.

[unscratchedfoot]

You still got the runs, you illiterate bugger. There sure is a lot of animosity in that chapter, it kinduv reminds me of the last contest runoff, so is rommel ever gonna get offed, he sure deserves it, he's pretty rude, you know you are still cooking without herbs & spices, you always want to serve the same, if I can be allowed to say, bland cuisine, I think not so why not try some experiment and fantasy for a new flavor?

[SKILORD]

?

I know, I'm still slumping, give me a break, but I'm getting good at forcing it out anyways, curing my Conrad disease. (Conrad would never write when he didn't have his 'a' game so it took him a loong time to write anything)

Sorry, anyways, for the lack of spice, I'll see what I can do.

[Metaliturtle]

bumpiddy bump bump bump hey SKIMEISTER, we gonna see some more activity soonz?

[SKILORD]

yeah.

[Metaliturtle]

;-)

[SKILORD]

Well, I'm having trouble taking this anywhere, now that I've killed off my main character, and I'm considering doiung something really sleazy with the story....

Anyway, I'm working on it.

[Paddy]

indeed... sounds interesting

hope it comes together for you

[SKILORD]

Unless there are continuity errors between this chapter and previous ones that I simply didn't notice then you are about to witness one of the most remarkable revivals, one of the nearest catches, everin the history of Literature. Sorry if the dialouge is imperfect.
-

Several days Earlier.

Johan von Bismarck lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, a wound wrapped on his side, “You think you got enough blood?”

The other man grinned, “Quite enough, mein Kaiser.”

“You sure this is the only way?”

“They meet rarely now, they won’t meet me to discuss the terms of the contract, only to pay when I collect.”

The blood was being splashed across the wall, splatters that even a trained detective couldn’t tell that they were spread and not shot, but that wasn’t necessary since there weren’t any police coming.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“There have been occasions, remember to drink a lot of fluids.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I have a safehouse, you should be able to come back in about a week, you’ll know when.”

Johan grinned, “I hope.”

-

Johan von Bismarck squinted in the sunlight, he had grown a ragged beard while in the battered old cellar, a pistol hung alert at his side as he squinted into the alley, unless the radio had been wrong it was safe.

The British were cheering on all of the official channels, an entire German nationalist group had been found dead, brutally slaughtered, in Leipzig.

The Volk.

Johan ran his dirty hands through his now ratty hair. He realized how much he needed a bath.

“Hello Berlin,” Johan grinned, “Let’s see if there is life after death.”

-

The tank peered down the street, a German eagle on its side, “Derik, load up.”

Derik was a professional, he was already ready to perform the command, “Fire in the hole, sir.”

The British tank still sat there silently, not bothering to look into the broken down storefront with its miraculously surviving glass. The inside walls hadn’t been so lucky, they had needed to be removed to allow Karl to navigate the tank into, and hopefully out of, the store, Karl wasn’t there now.

“Derik, I think it might be almost time to make this rat dance.”

Derik grinned, “Fire?”

“Wait for it.”

Another tank rumbled loudly down the street, three up, Rommel figured that that would leave at least two more behind, they drove blithely down the middle of the street, Rommel shook his head, “Amateurs,” he muttered to himself.

“Fire.”

The storefront exploded, and the shell lodged itself right between the tank’s body and the cupola, “Load.”

The word was calm, as was Derik as he smoothly reloaded the gun.

“Fire at will.”

The second shell left little of the first tank, the rest of the group was beginning to notice the ambush, the first tank commander decided to take his chances without the rest of the group and immediately shot off. Rommel grabbed the top mounted gun. Letting it loose into the commander of the second tank who had yet to get down from his hatch.

Outside, an explosion rocked the storefront again, rattling the remaining shards of glass that hung futilely to the panes.

“Karl’s made his move,” Derik noted, sliding up from rotating the tank’s cupola.

Another round had already been loaded and even through the limited drivers slit he had been able to guess the position of the second tank, its commander hanging limply from the hatch.

The shell drove itself where Derik knew the shell case to be, the shattering of glass betrayed the Moltov cocktail that had just been thrown into the street, Rommel figured that that would be the end of the last tank.

“Take her out into the street,” he commanded.

“Sir, I’m not even sure we can make it.”

“Damnit, Derik, take it out there, we aren’t about to leave a survivor.”

The tank growled forwards, crushing toppled mannequins and shattering already broken shards of glass.

The tank crawled up the display window, tearing down the flimsy metal bars, before hopping out onto the street.

Rommel squatted before the cannon, shooting his head up to perceive his target, “Take us to him.”

“He’s turning down that street, sir, he could loose us pretty easily, or even lead us into an ambush.”

Rommel shook his head sliding down to the cupola and sending off the shell, loading another one.

Derik rotated the cupola.

The second shot didn’t miss, it tore out most of the other tank’s left tread, leaving the other tank motionless, Rommel pushed the cannon up a bit, finishing the job.

“Derik, go back to those other tanks, see if there’s anything we can salvage or siphon off, we’ve got a ways to go.”

“Berlin, sir?”

“Yeah, there’s a revolution to finish.”

-

Johan von Bismarck crouched behind a checkout counter as the Brits went into the supermarket. He realized that they were probably as hungry as he was, and there for the same purpose. There was no law in Berlin, only guns. Johan’s pistol was in his hand, there had been a shotgun back in the cellar, but he hadn’t thought that he’d need that to reach the rebellion’s base.

But the Brits probably hadn’t counted on him either.

A grenade was in his jacket. It had seemed compact enough to be worth his while as he had been loading up for this expedition.

He pulled the pin out and tossed it towards the produce section, where he had heard the noises of boots.

He ran down the nearest aisle, staying low and hopefully under the sights of the British guns.

The Grenade exploded as he reached the other side of the aisle, turning quickly to the right.

The Brits were predictably firing into the smoke of the explosion, Johan’s pistol took three of them without a pause, the fourth turned quickly enough to get off a couple of shots and causing Johan to dive for cover before finishing him.

The door to the back room swung seductively open, bothered by the noises and hassles in the produce section, Johan stood and dashed towards it, bullets kissed the wall behind him as he dove in.

There weren’t any soldiers in the back, but he could hear them coming. He fired bullets into a storage rack filled with aerosol cans of bug spray, filling the room with the spray.

He slipped out the back door to the sound of British soldiers coughing and sneezing.

Right into the arms of James VonHoltz, one time officer in the British police force of Berlin. His uniform was stripped of insignias now, except for a German Eagle that had been panted on a sleeve.

A machine gun hung in his arm at his side, and a group of German rebels stood behind him.

[Metaliturtle]

Duuuuuuuuude.... awesomesauce, what's reploading? ;-)

[SKILORD]

it's a failure on the part of Microsoft Word.

I think I'll sue.