Posted by Ric delCampo on January 06, 2004 at 20:27:23:
Part Two: Der Ubersoldat.
by Ric delCampo
Danielle tiptoed into the dungeon later that night and came right up to my cell and hurriedly unlocked it. She rushed into my arms; her slim body was trembling in anticipation. We embraced, we kissed, she reached down and felt my rock hard cock and shuddered. “Oooh, I can’t wait for you to be inside me.”
I unzipped the tight-fitting leather jacket she wore; it had a feminine cut to accentuate her full breasts. I untied her black tie and wrapped it around her delicate throat. I delicately unbuttoned her white blouse. She wore a French cut, lacy black brassiere. I kissed her breasts, felt her nipples stiffen. My left hand was on her back, pressing her body tightly to mine. Her head was back, her back arched, her eyes closed as she savored the foreplay. My right hand cupped a full breast, teased an erect nipple, then drifted down to lift her tight, leather mini-skirt. One finger probed at her moist pussy till she moaned, “No, no, not that finger!”
Then my finger found her erect clitoris and rubbed across it gentled, she moaned with pleasure. “Ooh, I love that!” My hand slid down her long leg. She wore a dagger on her left calf. I slipped it out of its sheath. “Death before Dishonor” was the inscription on the slender blade.
I kissed her full on the mouth. Her tongue probed deep.
I slipped the razor-sharp dagger between her ribs, right below her left breast. Thrust it in slowly, up to the hilt. Thrust it into to her wildly beating heart. I could feel each heartbeat transmitted the length of the dagger to my hand.
Her eyes popped open with startled shock. Danielle stared in horror and pain into my merciless eyes. I rotated the blade to slice her heart in half.
She tried to moan, but my lips pressed on hers muffled her moans.
I held her in a lover’s embrace while she bled out internally. Her lithe body trembled as it grew cold and weak. Her knees failed her. Her arms, wrapped so lovingly, so lustfully, around me, grew weak and slipped to her side. Her bright eyes grew dim and sightless. She slumped in my arms and I gently lowered her to the straw.
Danielle sighed and her last breathe escaped her lungs.
“She’s just dead in your arms, isn’t she?” Peter jokingly said from his cell.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
He suddenly shut up as he watched in stunned silence as I withdrew the dagger from Danielle’s dead body.
“You fuckin’ killed her!”
I wiped the blade clean on Danielle’s blouse. “And if you don’t wish to join her, you’ll keep your mouth shut.” I locked the cell behind me and headed for the stairs.
I didn’t know what lay ahead. I hardly remembered descending into this hellish dungeon, and I had been partially blindfolded; the rest of the castle was a complete mystery to me.
One thing was certain: My time for revenge had come at last.
Just up one flight of stairs there was a small room, with a wooden table, a stone fireplace with a small fire for warmth and a single torch for light. Two young women sat facing each other at the end of the table, warming themselves by the fire. Their Schmeissers lay on my end of the table. They were in uniform: crisp white blouses, black leather skirts, black boots, and garrison caps.
“When do we start having sex?” one girl asked impatiently. “This is my idea of duty. Fucking and having sex.”
“Don’t know,” replied the other. “You gotta remember, we’re supposed to get pregnant too.”
“I’m not getting preggers,” the first said. “My body is too spectacular for me to ruin it, just so I can give birth to some red-faced selfish, screaming brat.”
Just then the second girl’s eyes went wide with fear. Blood sprayed on her face. The first girl looked down to see the source: The tip of my dagger had emerged form her blouse, just between her magnificent tits. With every beat of her sliced heart a bit more blood spurted from the exit wound onto the interior of her blouse. A trickle of blood ran down her abdomen, between her breasts, to pool around her pussy and ass.
I had driven the dagger into her back, severing her spine, traversing her heart, and penetrating her sternum.
I clapped my left hand over her mouth to suppress a scream, then tossed her aside. Her voluptuous body lay quivering by the fire.
“What about you?” I asked the stunned second girl; “You wanna be pregnant?”
“Yes, sir,” she stammered, as she stood. But she was too frightened to step away.
I stabbed her right below her belt buckle. One firm thrust.
“Too bad. Just ruined your baby oven. Sorry, but you won’t be cooking any little super heroes in there.” I viciously yanked out the knife.
She bent slightly at the waist and hugged herself. Blood trickled between her fingers. She appeared to be on the edge of tears. She moaned.
I stabbed her again. Right through her left tit, into her heart.
“No milk for the super children.”
The Nazi girl clutched at her ruined breast. Her mouth opened, but only blood trickled out. Her blue eyes rolled back and she collapsed, dead, onto her friend.
I rearranged them into a lover’s embrace, threw a blanket over them. To buy a little time, perhaps any one stumbling upon them with leave them in private, thinking they were sleeping together.
I bent the barrel on one Schmeisser and took the other and all the magazines for myself.
Off one side was a small dormitory. Six beds. Three sleeping beauties.
I quietly slit the throat of all three. Under normal circumstance, I may have left one alive; to awaken to a terror-filled nightmare upon finding herself the only survivor, and with no apparent reason, alive to spread panic among the rest of the garrison.
But I intended there to be no survivors among this garrison. I intended that there be no one left to panic.
There were a few more chambers off the room with the fireplace, all empty. I found another staircase and continued up two more flights. I found myself on the ground level of the castle, passed through two more huge rooms or chambers, and into a huge foyer with two sweeping staircases.
Lounging against a pillar, a sentry was lazily smoking a cigarette. I snuck up behind her, seized her head in my arms, and with one violent jerk, snapped her neck.
Her body went limp in my arms and I dragged her into the shadows. She got what she deserved for being such a lousy sentry.
I started up one of the staircases and was almost to the next floor when I sensed some one behind my. It was delightful to have such heightened senses; and I discovered another one: I could see in the dark.
It was Ariel, the nurse, some fifty feet behind and below me. She hadn’t noticed my presence yet, she seemed to be sneaking around herself. I hugged a wall, partially obscured by a twenty foot wall tapestry, and patiently awaited her.
Ariel wasn’t wearing her crisp white nurse’s uniform; rather she wore an elegant evening suit with a definite feminine cut. Her blouse had a low décolleté and I could see the soft crescents of her two full breasts. Her skirt came to just above her knees. She wore thigh-high stockings and high heels. A stylish hat was rakishly tilted to one side of her pretty head.
I startled her.
“Oooh!” she sucked in air. “What are you . . . You aren’t . . .” She seemed to be stunned into speechlessness; but then threw herself upon me. Her fists landed several blows on my face and chest; I shrugged them off.
Ariel was on the verge of screaming when I grabbed a velvet rope from the tapestry, wrapped it around her delicate throat, and threw her over the handrail.
Ariel started to scream, I could hear the first vowel emit; then all sound was cruelly cut off as the rope caught and jerked.
It didn’t break her neck instantly. Her feet stopped just inches from the floor below and dangled and jerked in a danse macabre as she slowly strangled to death. One high heel shoe dropped off and fell four inches. Four inches: the difference between life and death.
All struggle ceased and her limp body slowly rotated back and forth.
I pulled her back up and laid her on the stairs. I was seized by a sudden urge to rip off her clothes and rape her.
Not yet. No time.
I picked up her limp corpse and carried her to the top of the stairs. There was a large chamber, open on this one side. Two huge hearths on either end. No fires.
A woman sat waiting. She had a glass of wine in one hand, a silenced Lugar in the other. She wore a black lacy balconette bra, black panties, and a matching black sheath dress, knee length, with a low U-back. Black stiletto high heels.
It was Justina—“call me Jocelyn,” one of the guards who had taken such a delight in fucking me.
“Is that you, Ariel?” Justina whispered. “I have a surprise for you.” And even softer. “Bitch!”
“I’m sorry, Ariel can’t answer.” I laid the pretty corpse at Justina’s feet.
Justina let slip an evil smile. “Bitch stole my man!”
Apparently she suddenly realized who she was speaking to, for she rapidly brought up the Lugar and fired point-blank into my chest.
I returned her evil smile.
I took the Lugar from her cooperative hand.
“My turn.”
‘Twerp.’ went the Lugar.
A 9mm slug ploughed into Justina’s left breast. She sat down hard into her seat.
She struggled to breathe. Her lung was filling with her blood. She squirmed in her chair. She wanted to scream, but her lungs failed her. She was desperate for air. Couldn’t breathe. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her voluptuous body shuddered, went rigid and died.
I carried both lovely corpses behind one of the hearths. I laid Ariel’s corpse on top of Justina’s, lips touching. “You two girls kiss and make up now.”
I went into the hall on the left. I hadn’t gone far when I encountered another furtive girl. It was Sandy, the young Greek Fascist. She wore a white bra, white, v-shaped panties, and stiletto high heels, and nothing more. She carried a wine bottle and two long stemmed glasses.
The bottom of the V attracted my attention.
‘Twerp!’
I plugged her right in the lower belly.
Sandy gasped and dropped the bottle and glasses. She gave a startled moan and clutched her bleeding pussy. A trickle of blood ran down her long leg.
“Twerp!’
I plugged her right through her bellybutton.
“Ohhh!” Sandy moaned and arched her back. Her long blonde hair hung behind her back and her head fell back.
Sandy sank to the floor moaning and writhing. Her tender young body trembled and quivered.
“Aren’t you dead yet, Sandy? Here, let me fix that for you.”
‘Twerp!’ I plugged her in her full left breast. Sandy arched her back, then sank to the floor. Her head lolled to one side. Her eyes were open and staring. A trickle of blood issued from the corner of her mouth.
I laid Sandy’s lovely corpse face down on top of Ariel.
Returning to the hall I checked the first bedroom I came to.
There was a woman in there. It was ‘Kris’ the rice burning girl: the young Japanese woman.
“I to’d you, Sandy,” Kris said, in accented English, “I’m not interested.”
“Sandy won’t be making it tonight,” I told her.
Kris’s eyes grew fearful when she saw the Lugar pointed at her belly.
“Prease, don’t ki’ me.”
Kris’s lithe and petite body was quaking with fear. She had pert little titties in a cute little bra and a g-string like panty.
“Okay, I won’t kill you.”
‘Twerp!’
I shot her right through her cute little bellybutton.
“B-b-but y-y-you said . . .”
“I lied. Remember Pearl Harbor?”
Kris looked down. Yellow pee was running down her leg. Her cute little mouth made an O shape and she covered her mouth with her fingers, as if she were embarrassed. “Ohh!”
Kris slumped against the wall and slid down into a seated position.
“Prease,” she begged, “I don’ wanna die.”
I shot her right through the heart. To put her out of her misery.
I put her to bed and tucked her in.
I checked the next bedroom. It was empty.
Sinead, the red-headed Irish Fascist was in the next. She was laying in bed, dressed in sexy lingerie. She looked up and didn’t seem too surprised to see me.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” she smiled. “I thought you were only to fuck the German girls. This is really going to be fun!”
Her button nose crinkled. “But, could they have least given you a bath first. I know these Germans are not big on bathing, but . . .”
“I knew a lotta Irish guys back home,” I told her. “They were really fun guys. I’m going to do the Emerald Isle a favor.”
“What’s that?” Sinead asked.
‘Twerp! Twerp!’
“Ooh! Ooh!” Sinead gasped as two bullets impacted on her full breasts. One in each nipple.
A look of absolute surprise crossed her face. Dying was the last thing she had expected.
“Ohno! She cried out as her red hot steamy blood pumped out of her. She squirmed and quivered as the pain racked her voluptuous body. She writhed in pain.
She arched her back, then fell onto the bed, spent. Sinead lay almost still, small tremors raced through her body as it closed down.
Her head slumped to one side. Her eyes were open and glazed over. A small trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth. A lock of red hair fell and covered one empty, staring eye.
I reloaded the Lugar again and checked the rest of the bedrooms on that level. The rest were empty. I head over to the other wing.
The first two bedrooms were empty, not even furnished. The third was Major Karlotte’s.
The good Major was admiring herself in the mirror. A glass of wine was on the mantelpiece and an empty bottle on the bed.
She wore her officer’s cap, rakishly to one side, her grey officer’s blouse, cut to exetuate her full breasts. A tie. Some ribbons over her left breast pocket—self-awarded no doubt.
But no skirt or pants. She wore a lacy garter belt and thigh-high stockings. Knee-length black boots. No panties.
“Am I not beautiful? Am I not sexy?” Karlotte asked me. She was clearly drunk. Her words were slightly slurred.
She held a riding crop, which she extended toward me. “Ya wanna fuck me with this?”
“No, I’d rather fuck you with this!”
I held out the Lugar.
“Ohhh!” Karlotte said in awe. “That’d be fun.”
She wandered over to the bed and fell on it. She spread her legs.
“Fuck me!”
I followed her. She moaned in pleasure as I inserted the silencer barrel into her cunt.
“Deeper! Deeper!”
‘Twerp! Twerp! Twerp!’ The shots were extra muffled this time.
Karlotte was dead almost instantly. Her body slumped into the mattress. A trickle of blood dripped from her pussy; but there were no other signs of violence on her sexy corpse. Her eyes were closed and she looked peaceful. Asleep.
I explored some more, but couldn’t find a way upstairs. I went back to the room in the middle, the one with two hearts, and saw that I had missed a pair of large doors. They lead into an even bigger hallway. At the far end were another set of stairs. Lots of rooms and halls to explore before I went upstairs though.
I found a dining hall. Behind that, a kitchen. Behind that, a small servant’s quarters. A single girl was asleep there. I cut her throat with a butcher’s knife and buried it in her breast. She never woke up.
Next was the infirmary. A medic was sleeping on duty, her head resting on a table. She had long blonde hair. I debated killing a medic, then saw the pistol holster at her side. I stabbed her in the back.
She sat up with a start. Her bright blue eyes popping open. Then her head thudded against the table. Dead.
Next was a P/X. Empty. But lots of packaged food. I’d return here latter.
I crossed the hall.
The sentry at the armory wasn’t any better than the one I encountered on the main level. This one wasn’t smoking. She was sitting down on a chair, her leather skirt pulled up to her waist, her panties down around her ankles. She was inserting a large, freshly peeled carrot into her cunt. The carrot glistened in the dark, wet with fresh love juices.
I snuck up behind her. It was Sara.
“Having fun?”
“Oh, yes, “she cooed, her eyes closed as she moaned. Her back arched and she squirmed in her chair trying to press the carrot against her clit.
“Let me put something longer, harder in there.”
Sara was so lost in her rapture; she didn’t know what she was saying.
“Please do.”
I laid her out on the floor, spread her legs, and manually stimulated her until she was totally relaxed and into the sex. I reached over and took down a twelve inch bayonet.
“Okay, I’m coming in,” I told her.
Sara still had her eyes closed. “Fuck me! Fuck me deep!”
I sank the bayonet into her cunt.
“That deep enough for you, bitch!”
Sara shrieked. Her whole body jerked once. And she collapsed, dead almost instantly. I left the bayonet protruding from her crack, a small trickle of blood issued forth.
The room next door was another dormitory. Unfortunately, Sara’s death scream had awoken the two occupants.
Anna was quickly dressing in order to investigate when I walked in. Eva was cowering in a corner.
Anna had pulled on her short leather skirt and was buttoning her crisp white uniform blouse; a black lace French brassiere was visible through the open blouse. She also was wearing her high-heel, rather than her uniform boots.
Anna drew her Lugar and fired the entire clip at me—point-blank. And she missed seven times. In a panic she threw the weapon at me. It went over my shoulder.
Anna ran to me and embraced me, rubbing her pert breasts against my chest.
Please don’t kill me. I want to live.” She passionately kissed my face. Stepped back, pulled open her blouse to show me her breasts.
“Don’t I have great tits? Don’t I have great legs? I’m a sex machine. Please don’t kill me and I’ll make love to you all the time.”
Her trembling voice wavered. Anna appeared to be are the verge of tears. “Please don’t kill me, I don’t want to die,” she begged pitifully.
“I just wanna put something in you, Anna,” I said.
“Nicht Wahr?” Anna said, with some renewed hope. “Really?”
“This.” And I sank the dagger into her belly.
Anna looked up at me, wide-eyed and astounded. She fearfully looked down at the wicked blade impaling her. Anna was mortally wounded and she knew it.
“Oh no!” she cried out. “I’m dead!” She slid off the blade and collapsed on the floor. Clutching her wounded belly, she was writhing in pain while she bled out. It was a slow, pain-filled death. Eva and I silently, patiently watched her die.
Eva approached me, a wicked grin on her face. “You going to kill me too?”
“Yes.” I said curtly.
“I want it in the guts too,” Eva said seductively. “That was a sexy way to die.”
Eva was dressed in a baby-doll nightie and a V shaped panties.
She reached down to pull the knife out of Anna’s guts.
“I think I ought to do that.”
She respectfully stepped aside. “It’ll be just like being fucked with a knife,” Eva said.
She wrapped her arms around me as Anna had done and whispered seductively into my ear. “Kiss me while you kill me. Stab me low, right where my panties narrow to a V.
I was more than willing to oblige her. We passionately kissed and I stabbed her in her lower belly.
“Mein Gott! It hurts so much!” Eva cried out. “I never imagined I’d love it so much!”
Her lithe body trembled in agony as she stumbled away from me, clutching her bleeding belly. Blood ran from between her nether lips, down her long sleek legs.
She could barely speak now, she was so weak and the pain so intense. “Oh, I love it!” Her body stiffened, a last tremor of pain rippled through her. “I’m a dead woman,” Eva proclaimed and dropped dead on the floor.
Her blue eyes remained staring. A slender trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her smile.
Anna’s last breathe rattled out of her dying lungs about this same time. And her pretty head slumped to one side. I closed her eyes and carried her to her bed. Took off her shoes and tucked her in. “Guten nacht, meine schotzie!”
I did the same for Eva. I closed her eyes and she looked so peaceful.
As I entered the hall again; my intention was to similarly hide Sara’s corpse. It was too late; the gunfire had aroused the guards.
The first two to arrive were Nordic goddess: Tall, long legged, waspish-waisted, full-breasted, blonde and blue-eyed.
They wore the provocative uniform of the Frau Doktor’s troops: black garrison cap with skull and crossbones insignia, crisp white blouse with long sleeves and a red armband with a swastika. The cotton fabric stretched tight by their voluptuous breasts, barely contained in black, lacy, French cut brassieres. A narrow black tie. A short black leather skirt. A black leather belt around their tiny little waists. White cotton panties. A lacy garter belt and black thigh-high silk stockings. Black, knee-high leather boots.
These two carried Schmeissers.
All pretense of stealth was passed.
I unslung my own Schmeisser and machine-gunned them in their guts.
They gave out surprised girly cries of pain and clutched their riddled guts. Both weapons clattered to the floor. One blondie’s tall body stiffened up, she almost went to her tippie-toes, she gave a semi-twirl and collapsed onto the cold stone floor. The other slut, hunched over at her waist, sank to her knees, then fell onto her back, her sexy body twitching.
A third girl, a red-head, came rushing down the stairs, in such a rush; she apparent hadn’t had time to dress. She wore a red and black brassiere, red panties, and red, high-heel stilettos. I stitched a row of bullets across her chest. She cried out, threw up her arms, and tumbled down the steps to land in a sexy, bloody heap.
Three more uniformed girls appeared. I dished out more of the same, emptying the Schmeisser’s magazine into their lovely bodies. They screamed and shrieked and cried out, their bodies danced and jerked and twitched and squirmed. Wet, red blossoms splashingly appeared on their clean white blouses. They stumbled and collapsed and fell, their bodies writhing in gut wrenching pain.
As I slammed in a fresh magazine four more Nazi chicks began their march toward me. And behind them six more, and behind them eight. On they came, very disciplined, seemingly fearless, relentless. Marching in perfect unison, like a drill team. Like good, pretty parade soldiers.
Like untested, green troops.
As I gunned down the first wave, almost ecstatic in my blood lust; it came to me: They seemed to be enjoying this almost as much as I was.
I had gone berserk. Animalistic isn’t accurate as animal don’t kill for fun. I was absolutely orgasmic as I sprayed hot lead into these sexy vixons’ lovely bodies. Rational thought had fled me. I was no longer a human being; I was a killing machine. Driven by my insatiable thirst for revenge and the lustful, inhuman thrill at slaughtering such beautiful creatures.
The girls, on their part, seemed to be more concerned about looking good, looking pretty, beautiful, even sexy, than in killing or capturing me. Their uniforms had to be immaculate, perfectly tailored to exhibit their perfectly sculpted bodies. Their walk had to be deliberate, haughty, posing, and exhibitionist. Panic or fear wasn’t sexy; at least it wasn’t until one had already been shot. Then they were allowed a modicum of fear to show, but not enough to contort their lovely face into an ugly grimace.
They had to be freshly washed, make-up perfectly applied: Uniform blush, highlighter, rouge, red lipstick, eyeliner, and eyelashes.
Hair in perfect order. Fingernails cleaned, trimmed, and painted a uniform red.
Even the girls themselves were uniformly statuesque, wasp-waisted, swaying hips, long legged. Uniformly fair-skinned. Only their hair color, blondes in the majority, but light-haired brunettes and redhead, and their eye color, blue, hazel, green, gave them any variety.
They even seemed intent on dying sensual. Each one had to daintily drop her weapon, her delicate hands fluttering about to clutch at her wounded body, give a girly squeal or cry, bat her eyes, show some haughty indignation at having her perfect body riddled with lead. Death poses were a must. The longer she could hold her quivering, violated body up-right, the better. She had just one more chance to show off her beautiful body before it became a corpse and she took it. There had to be a death twirl, a slow sinking to the floor, a long last, sad look at this cruel world. A whimper or a sigh. A slow resignation to her fate: Death.
The girls piled up in heaps in front of me. I killed the first four. Waited till the next rank stepped over their twitching, squirming bodies, and machine-gunned them too. Mowed them down. Harvested them for the ol’ grim reaper.
Their cries of pain were as theatrical as real. Their final movements were extremely sensual, seductive, feminine. Yes. Theatrical. That was the word for it. Their deaths were a command performance. And while each tried to die more spectacularly than her sister-in-arms; I was their only true, appreciative audience. No one else lived longer enough to appreciate their final performances.
The third rank was slowed by the piles of quivering, sexy corpses and the spreading pools of blood. Since their return fire was sporadic, ineffective, poorly aimed, and with no enthusiasm, I killed each girl, one at a time, to give each her shot at performing her death for the survivors.
Their bright eyes and eager smiles and seductive, sensual bodies seemed to say: “Look at me; I’m the most important girl in the world.”
And, each girl, as I shot her dead, was the most important girl for me, in the world, at that moment. Each girl, as I shot her, as she died in the most spectacular, sensual way she could, was one less Nazi slut, one less breeder of Nazi progeny, one less anti-Semite, one less racist, one less supporter of genocide, of world domination, of the elimination of liberty and free will.
Of course, at that point I wasn’t killing them to free the world; I was killing them because it was dammed fun. A county fair shooting gallery. With sexy, evil young Nazi women as targets instead of tin bunnies and ducks.
And no bent air rifle neither.
“I have more girls than you have bullets,” Jessika called out. She was hiding behind a stone pillar directing yet more Nazi girls into the fight.
“Send ‘em all,” I called back enthusiastically.
The floor of the hall was covered with dozens of sexy corpses. They had fallen into every sexy pose imaginable. The few survivors went their way toward me, gingerly stepping over the dead and dying bodies of their sisters-in-arms. When one would find a clear space on the floor, she would fire a round in my direction, to attract my attention, then assume a sexy, defiant pose, awaiting anxiously my mortal shot initiating her death scene.
So I would oblige her. I loved the pouty hurt look on her face as she feigned displeasure at being killed. She would purse her pouty lips; her eyes would grimace in pain. Her delicate hands would desperately clutch at her violated body, vainly seeking to staunch the flow of her life’s blood.
Loved the little burst of red mist as each bullet punctured yet another lovely body. The wet red blossoms which appeared on each girl’s clean white blouse were an unique work of fatal art.
Each girl’s face was a work of art; each was more beautiful than the last. Their bodies were utter feminine perfection.
After I had killed the last girl of the forth wave Jessika had directed toward me, two more girls ran down the stairs, one dressed in a baby-doll nightgown, the other in a brassiere and panties. Obviously, they were late for the fight. I shot them as they reached the mid point on the stairs and their riddled corpses rolled down to land at Jessika’s feet.
“Any more?” I jovially asked.
Jessika stepped out from behind the pillar, her Schmeisser at her side, pointed down.
“Just me.” She sneered. “And you’re out of bullets.”
I wasn’t, and didn’t have any idea why she thought so. However, upon seeing her lower her weapon, I lowered mine to my side.
We faced us each, across that vast hall, with dozens of sexy Nazi girl corpses between us. A few were still twitching, a couple were squirming in their final death throes, and couple were moaning as their lives ebbed away.
“I’m loaded with armor-piercing bullets,” Jessika announced. “The Frau Dokter invented them just in case her secret ever fell into enemy hands.”
“I’m going to kill you. I am going to beat you to the draw and gun you down like the useless jew-lover you are.”
Jessika thought she could out-Texas me?
“Less talkin’, more killin’,” I replied.
And out drew her.
Her gun barrel wasn’t even at a forty-five degree angle when my first shot plugged her right in her love box.
Her gun barrel dipped. She looked down with utter disbelief at the blood, seeping from her punctured pussy, running down her long leg, into her boots.
My next shot took her in her belly button.
“Ooompf!” Jessika groaned. And dropped her weapon. There was a stunned look on her face.
“You can’ kill m-me!” she whimpered in disbelief.
I shot her in the right tit. “Why not?”
“I’m a Goddess!”
I put a final bullet through the Goddess’s left tit.
Jessika grunted as the slug violated her tender flesh. Her long legs trembled. She tried to lift her arms, but they refused to work.
Her pretty eyes fluttered. Her pouty lower lip quivered. A tremor of pain rippled through her lithe trim body. A knee buckled. She attempted to keep her feet, then sank to her knees.
Her eyes were wide and staring in shock. Her mouth open in voiceless protest. She tried to breathe. It wasn’t working.
Jessika fell backward, her lovely hair haloing out behind her.
I gingerly stepped over the fallen corpses of the Nazi girls.
One girl was still alive. “Help me,” she begged, clutching her bleeding stomach.
“Certainly,” I said. I shot her dead through her heart.
Jessika was barely still alive when I reached her. Unable to move, her eyes searched out my face. “How?” she mouthed.
I held the Schmeisser’s muzzle to my mouth and blew away imaginary smoke.
Jessika expired.
I have no idea why she believed she could win an old west gunfight.
I checked her weapon. The tips of the bullets were painted green, like the Teflon, armor-piercing bullets of today. Of course, the name Teflon hadn’t even been invented yet.
I climbed the stairs so many had died to stop me from climbing.
I found a laboratory. I was too unschooled to even recognize most of what it contained. Thinking back on it, the one thing it lacked was computers. What it had instead were blackboards, slide rules, and mechanical calculators. The blackboards were covered in notes, none of which I understood. Along two walls there were selves and selves of leather bound volumes of hand-written notes.
I left the lab and after extensive searching, I found the Frau Doktor Viktoria’s quarters.
The good doctor was waiting patiently for me, sitting in a plush armchair, sipping cognac, by a pleasant, warmth-giving fire. She was very self-assured.
“You’ve killed them all?” she asked, as if she already knew the answer.
“Not quite all.”
“Oh, you won’t kill me. You may have caused me a momentary set-back. But you won’t kill me.” Viktoria was very smug.
“And why not?”
“Even in your enhanced state, you are nothing but a mere mortal next to my genius. Mere mortals have not the right to interfere in the destiny of genius.”
“You shall return to you cell to await my further instruction,” she ordered.
“Sorry, Ma’am; but I’s jest a poor, dumb country boy. Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout no genius.”
I slapped the drink out of her hands; when she tried to stand, I pushed her back down into the chair and tied her in place with some of her own silk stockings.
“What do you think you are going to do now?” Viktoria demanded. “Kill me? You can’t kill me. It’s not my destiny.”
“You’ll see.” I left her alone, and soon returned with an armful of her notebooks. I chucked them into the fire.”
“No!” she gasped. “No! No! You don’t know what you’re doing. That’s a lifetime of knowledge in those books.”
I brought in another armful. Armful after armful, the fire grew bigger. Twice I had to pull her back to keep from roasting her alive. The fire spilled out of the hearth and onto the stone floor.
Finally she was broken. Sobbing.
“What’s in your head, it’s worse than what’s in those books,” I told her. “Now, it’s time to kill you.”
I took a silk stocking from her armoire.
“I want to feel this one. I want to feel you die.”
I wrapped the silk stocking around her delicate throat and tightened it.
I sat on her, straddled her, pressed my body next to her so I could feel her breathing.
Viktoria pressed back, grinding her breasts into my chest, thrusting her cunt against my manhood. Undulating her body, trying desperately to seduce me. It only made the experience of strangling her to death all that more pleasurable.
As the silk garrote slowly cut off her air, Viktoria fought wildly. She bucked and jerked like a bronco trying to throw me off. I’d done a bit of amateur rodeo and rode her like wild horse.
Face to face, she stared directly into my eyes pleaded with her eyes for her life. I tightened the garrote.
Her lungs struggled to gasp in air. There was no passage for life-giving oxygen. They failed
I watched with grim satisfaction as her intense eyes glazed over.
Her struggling faded away. Her athletic body grew limp, motionless, powerless.
The last light faded from her eyes.
Viktoria was dead.
I tossed her corpse onto her bed, savagely ripped off her dress, spread her dead legs, and blew my wad into her dead cunt.
“Fucked by a superman, isn’t that what you wanted?” I howled at her corpse.
Viktoria didn’t answer, her dead eyes were staring into yesterday.
I heard a whoosh and hurled myself off of Viktoria’s corpse just as an arrow embedded itself in her dead right breast. I rolled off the bed as a second plowed into her left breast.
“Damn you, hold still!” It was Vanessa and she was really pissed that her arrows had violated her Mistress’s body instead of mine.
I peeked up. “You don’t need to do this,” I said. “I can get you home. Maybe we can find your family.”
“Fuck you! You murdered the woman I adored, the woman I worshiped. I’m going to fucking kill you!”
Vanessa notched another arrow, raised her bow, and released at me.
I stood up, snatched the arrow in mid-flight, and hurled it back at her. This, of course, was inhumanly possible; but, remember, at this point, I was no longer a human being.
The arrow took her right in her belly button. Penetrated her lithe waist, shattered and severed her spine, and pinned her thrashing body to the heavy wooden door behind her.
Vanessa looked down in utter shock at the shaft which was pinning her helplessly to the door. A thin rivulet of blood ran down from her belly, stained the seamless pantyhose she loved so dearly, and pooled just below her dangling feet.
As she bled out, her hands grew weaker and she dropped her bow and last arrow. I walked up to her. “Satisfied now?”
“Please,” she implored, her pouty lips trembling, her lovely body quivering, “Please, place my corpse in bed with my Mistress.”
I worked the arrow from her belly, trying to cause as little pain as possible. Lowering her from the door, I carried her to the bed and laid her next to Viktoria.
“T-thank you,” she struggled to say. Her body was wracked by painful spasms. Her head sank into the pillow and her bright brown eyes glazed over. Her last breath wheezed out of her lungs. Then her sexy body was still.
It was ironic: Vanessa’s last wish was to lie next to her Nazi Mistress. Little did she suspect, I suppose, that this was be the very last thing a Nazi like Viktoria would wish: To lie next to the corpse of an ‘inferior’ race. Out of respect of Vanessa, I didn’t laugh at the irony of it all.
The infernal fire roared behind me as I left their tomb.
As I descended the staircase and gazed upon the heaps and piles of dead Nazi girl corpses, I think my blood lust, my unquenchable thirst for revenge, was finally sated.
A bit of humanity returned.
Behind me, the lab was in flames.
I returned to the dungeon. I had a flame thrower strapped to my back.
“I don’t know if I can kill you with this thing,” I said to Peter, “But I assure you I can cause you an awful lot of pain.”
I tossed the keys into him.
He eagerly snatched them up and released himself.
“They’re all dead?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And me?”
“Let’s get out of here. I’ve set the lab on fire. And set a detonator in the armory.”
“What about them?” he indicated the rest of the prisoners.
A few were dead. All but one were comatose: the head-banger.
In the three plus months I had been here he had never ceased to pound his head against the iron bars of his cell. What ever madness, what ever mental or physical torture was driving him to thoughtless self-destruction; I had no cure for.
The head banger hadn’t eaten in three months. His body was consuming itself. He weighed less than seventy pounds and there was nothing left of him but ashen grey, desiccated skin stretched over a skeleton.
“I hope they die soon,” I said, “but I can’t bring myself to kill them.”
Outside we watched from a safe distance as black smoke poured from the castle.
“What now?” Peter asked warily.
“I don’t really want to lug this damn thing around,” I said, “I don’t really want a prisoner to watch.”
“You were on your way home when they caught you. Officially, I guess, you’re dead. They won’t be looking for you. Go home.”
“Sehr dank!” Peter exclaimed and warily backed away from me. When he decided he was out of range, he turned and ran.
I stashed the flame thrower into some bushes and headed west.
Two days later I was picked up by some scouts from Patton’s Third Army. They were picking up a lot of escaped prisoners, so my story—I was an escaped prisoner—was plausible. I was shipped back to France while the army confirmed my identity.
By then Hitler had killed himself and the war in Europe was almost over.
As a former POW, they shipped me home.
Other than perhaps the Lady in New York harbor, her torch held high, I had no family.
I stayed in the Army.
I spent three years in Korea during that war, and seven years in Vietnam.
Went into Grenada with the Rangers. ’83.
Did three tours as a Green Beret in El Salvador during the mid-Eighties.
Was in on the invasion of Panama. ’89.
By Desert Storm, I had to doctor my records to erase my WWII and Korean history. Spent that war scud hunting with a Special Forces team.
Was with Delta Force in Somalia in ’93.
Back with the Alpha –Teams, did a tour in Haiti in ’95 and another in Bosnia in ’99.
And so you have caught me doctoring my military records again.
That’s my story. I understand you have already confirmed most of it.
So, I ask you: Why shouldn’t I go to Afghanistan?
My team is depending on me. Why send some one else in my place?
Do I look like an eighty year old man? I’m in perfect health. But I do posses eighty years of experience.
Really, it comes down to this: Is there any one more qualified to go than I am.
I have no other place to go.
***
Post Script Number One:
News Item: Houston Chronicle: AP. Dated April 16, 2002. The Dept. of the Army reported today that Master Sergeant John Miller, formerly of the San Antonio area, was Killed in Action yesterday in Afghanistan. Pending investigation, it appears Sergeant Miller, nicked-named “The Flying Dutchman” by his team mates, was killed by friendly fire. Sergeant Miller, a twenty-five year plus veteran of the Army, leaves no family behind.
Post Script Number Two:
The doctor returned to the recovery room to talk to his patient. She wasn’t a regular patient of his; he was covering for a colleague who happened to be out of town when she delivered. So he didn’t know her very well. She was a stunningly beautiful girl, in her late twenties, in perfect health. She had bronze colored skin, silky jet-black hair down to her waist, an aquiline nose, and exotic almonds shaped eyes.
She was suckling her baby.
“I just want you to know that you baby is in perfect health,” the doctor informed her. “He’s the healthiest bay I’ve ever delivered.”
She thanked him.
“I’m sorry your husband couldn’t be here.”
“I’m not married,” the baby’s mother told him. “His father was a soldier, killed in Afghanistan a few months ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He warned me that it might happen, he tried to prepare me. He even encouraged me to marry if he didn’t come back.” She smiled weakly, “he suggested a widower would be the best.”
Post Script Number Three:
The insurance examiner spied a familiar name: John Miller. He was certain he had seen that name before. Three days later he had his report ready and walked into his supervisor’s office to deliver it. There was a stranger there, sitting patiently. The examiner believed him to be one of the company’s VPs and was hopeful for a raise for having discovered what he suspected was a case of fraud.
“I have thirty life insurance policies all written on a Sergeant John Miller, who died last year in Afghanistan. Each policy names a different woman, and her unborn child, his children, as beneficiaries.”
The stranger stood up. “May I see that report?”
Approaching the desk, he showed the examiner his Federal ID card. “These policies were written in good faith. Sergeant Miller paid all the premiums in full up until the time of his death. Your company is healthy, its profits will dip no more than one or two percent when you pay out these policies.”
“This report was not written. It does not exist. And, one more thing,” the stranger said as he left, carrying the report with him, “I was never here.”
Post Script Number Four:
The soldier had finally reached the summit. Brilliant sunlight glinted off snow capped peaks. The view was stark and unforgiving. There was almost no vegetation at this altitude; just bare rock: boulders, stone poking through a snowy crust.
Some nature lovers may have described it as beautiful. They didn’t have to live here. He wondered how the inhabitants of the villages below described it; if they did at all. Probably, they were too busy scratching out a meager existence. Perhaps, if they weren’t so mistrusting of strangers—their custom was to kill all strangers on sight—their lives may improve. That wasn’t his place to say.
He took a drink from a canteen. He had two. He carried ninety pounds of equipment, much of it in a Russian knapsack on his back. In there was every thing from a GPS locator to an Arabic copy of the Koran. He wore civilian hiking boots, of the highest quality. Two pairs of socks. Gray and black camo’ pants, a dark green Pakistani army sweater, black thermal underwear, a mottled green army field jacket, an Afghani scarf around his neck, and a dirty-gray turban on his head. A Marine K-Bar knife was strapped to his left leg, and he carried an M-1911 .45 APC in a leather holster on his right. Nothing better for close-quarters combat, in his opinion.
He carried a Russian AK-47, and five hundred rounds. He preferred the accuracy of American weapons, but the Russian rifle could take a beating and still function. There was nothing better for this terrain, this mission.
His skin was tanned dark and leathery, his black beard scraggly and graying. Though it may have been an illusion, the gray was merely his true blond showing through the black dye-job.
Behind him was Afghanistan. Before him: Pakistan.
Down there, in those wild west villages, was another stranger or two. Some one who was welcome there? Or perhaps not?
It was his mission to find out.
For a fleeting moment he thought about his girlfriends. His children.
His friends called him: “The Flying Dutchman.” Very few knew the truth behind that nick-name. He suspected that he really wasn’t immortal; even feared a bit that this mission would prove it. He warmed a bit with the knowledge he would leave a bit of himself behind to carry on.
‘Enough of that,’ he thought. He started down the path, to his destiny.
What else could he do?
THE END.