Ten or so minutes after the initial phone call, Burgandy had begun to plan just exactly how he would beat his own boss to the taking and get his job done earlier than planned. He wouldn’t get in trouble for it, and if he did, then sucking up would be as easy a cheap “I’m sorry.” Duvall valued his Supervisor far too much to get mad over trivial things like this― unless he made a lot of trouble, and Burgandy would never do that.
Despite how unlikely his success seemed, his plan was to spy around and see if he could spot the missing weapons. Drive his Reich-issued, gleaming black SUV as far down the serviceable road as he could. Change out of his uniform and into civilian’s drably tan-colored pants and tank top. Sneak over enemy lines, low as a dog, and cross into the town of Callbey. Instead of conducting a sweep that moved forward, he was going to sweep backwards in his search. Alone, he wasn’t much of a butterfly net, but all it took for a little butterfly to get caught was for one of its spindly legs to get snagged in the cross-weaving.
God knew he wasn’t scared. Burgandy was never scared. And that, in the end, often proved to be a negative thing rather than a positive one. Where the fox stood now, up against a half-broken tree in the town center, the shadows of silvery green leaves crisscrossing his face, hands behind his back, cigarette in his mouth, quietly burning into brilliant amber ashes…he should have been scared.
At least a hundred- if not more –Liberation soldiers hustled and bustled around him.
A miniscule, tiny little wrong move…and they would all turn and shoot him through with bullets. If he was lucky, that is, and they didn’t want him for questioning.
In fact, it was miraculous none of the fools recognized him.
“Oh dear lordy,” he mulled, pulling his arms up and back into a stretch. His muscles almost sighed with relief. He then took out his cigarette, which was more than half gone, and let out a breath of noxious smoke. “What…a…day.”
Previously, he had made the necessary phone calls to both Jean-Claude Mareouge and Mitchen Walsh, his bestest of friends back at Camp Himmler. He now knew not only the children’s names, but their appearance, their psyche, and even what their voices sounded like, thanks to the miracle of modern technologies― these two had apparently been questioned a lot, even more so after each time they proved super-powered and incapable of dying. Most of those interrogations had been recorded on tape and later transferred to computer file.
But the girl was different in that she acted mute and spoke by method of pen and paper. She had only talked aloud to her keepers once in her entire life. To an interrogation official back in Germany. Three years ago.
It was two little sentences, in such a dark tone it chilled even Burgandy, who had heard this sort of stuff from others before, but at least her first-ever words had been saved: “I wish someone would reach in your mouth and rip out your tongue, just so you would never, ever speak to me about that again. I wish you’d die, just so no-one else will have to cry.”
The second he had heard it, the first word out of his mouth was: “Damn.”
He really-really-really did not want to know exactly what was asked of the child that would inspire her to say something as wicked as that. Jean-Claude didn’t tell him, either, claiming the only importance of the clip of the girl’s voice was for record-keeping.
A bird landed on a tree branch overhead, shaking it. Several dead leaves fluttered to the ground with diminutive whispered melodies.
“Excuse me, sir?” A woman in a brown khaki uniform called, her army-issued boots clunking heavily on the cement as she walked towards him, cement dusted a chalk white from the bomb’s ruin. “Can I help you with something? The canteen is right over there if you’re hungry,” she said, and pointed. Burgandy’s eyes followed, trailing over the church (false institute of religion), its humble clock tower (quite amazing that it was still in place), finally resting on the canteen (tiny tin can of death), which was not but a tin mill-house laid on its side. Inside, he could see multitudes of soldiers conversing at tables, by the yellow light of oil lamps.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Well, you look lost to me. Actually you’ve looked lost for quite some time. If you want, I could show you around.”
Her voice was sweet, despite having a tinge of redneck to it. Both her fur and her hair, tied at the nape of her neck, were blonde, and her eyes a sea blue.
Burgandy had never been attracted to anyone but himself. Blinking, tail swishing, he again pulled his cigarette from his mouth, blowing the resultant smoke right into the woman’s face. “Please go away. I’m not interested in you.”
Eyes gleaming, the woman spat: “I never said I wanted a date, you freak! $%@!# you!”
Smiling, proud of himself, Burgandy watched her stomp away. At least she had no idea he was a Nazi, or her reaction would have been even more violent.
Then his eyes caught something.
White fur. But a handful of yards away, lost in the crowd. A flash of luminous, snow-white fur. He stepped back, shielding his gaze from the rapidly setting sun, and turned his head to look more properly. It took a moment, but soon a feline soldier shifted to the side just enough to reveal one of the unusual children. Next to this child was the other.
“By golly, well there I have it!” he exclaimed giddily. Instantly, he reached in his jacket for his cell phone and called back to Camp for his report. He failed to realize that a force had been mobilized already, and that this job should be made much easier because of it.
