THIRD REICH THIRD STRIKE! Chapter 1-3

1

Third Reich Third Strike!!!

Death on Impact

30th April 1945

“Damn it, curse those cowards, I have been betrayed. They will not fight… Heinrich… You stabbed me in the back.”

His hatred reached its apex as he shouted “THE MOST SHAMEFUL BETRAYAL IN HUMAN HISTORY!!!”

Gun fire could be heard from above the bunker; artillery strikes were closing in. The Russians would arrive shortly; and vengeance would ensue along with their arrival. These last days had all been one big clusterfuck after another.

Eva began to cry. Tears streamed down her face. In a short moment she would be dead, along with him. He was made of sterner stuff. His exterior was icy. Emotions were of no use to him. All that mattered to him was what it had come to. Capture was not an option; suicide would be their end.

Even though it had come to this, she could die with the man she loved; that’s all that really mattered to her. She would stand with him till the end, and in their next life they would be together. She knew him so well and she adored everything about him. She even knew that he did not love her like she loved him, but that didn’t matter. His love was for his country, and she admired that.

He had agreed to marry her before the end; to reward her loyalty. So many had betrayed him, but she had stayed till the end; a testament of her love for him (she was Juliet, and he, her Romeo).

What if things had worked out for the best? She had thought about that a lot recently.

Up until the last days she hoped that the war would take a turn for the better. With each day that passed, her hope dwindled. Eva wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man; even if it was only for a few more days. But all she got was less than a minute

Adolf lifted the gun to side of his temple, Eva’s head beside his. The bullet would travel through both of their skulls, just as they would bite down on the cyanide capsules.

“This is it, they will not get me. I retire myself from this world!”

He squeezed the trigger gently.

Click!

The bullet hurtled through both of their skulls causing death on impact…

“Did any of us really have a choice?”

2

Angelo el Diablo!

El Diablo!

7th July 1955

“Un momento por favor” says the Mexican.
The Man responds “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
The Mexican gives him a solid stare, but the Man gives no inch.
“Okay, okay Señor. What do you want?” the Mexican questions.
The Man stands silent for a moment; he is purposeful with every action he takes. The Man wears all black, an ominous colour, especially when worn in the desert. His boots have no spurs, as he no longer rides horses. Wherever he goes, he now walks, and the Boy follows. His black hat is tilted slightly over his face, to hide who he really is, although, only the Boy really knows his identity (the Boy seemingly knows everything). He wears a long overcoat, to hide his many guns from his enemies, and from the view of the Boy. He carries a satchel to keep his memories safe inside it.
In contrast the Mexican wears a poncho and a sombrero. He has a bushy moustache. The Mexican carries a bag, inside is a large dead bird he has just picked up; dinner for his family.
The Man moves his hand towards one of his many coat pockets.
A drop of sweat trickles down the Mexicans face. The Boy notes the Mexicans stress.
“Here” the Man says, as he takes out a white powder from his pocket.
“I’m sorry; I don’t understand Señor … What is this?”
“Snow” replies the Man.

The desert was once covered in snow

“Señor, where did you get this? How has it not melted in this desert heat?” the Mexican is perplexed.
As if on cue the snow suddenly melts in the Man’s hand. The newly formed liquid pours from the Man’s hand and onto the hot dry sand where it will be quickly evaporated. The Man flicks his hand removing any excess water.
Fear begins to sneak up the Mexicans spine as he becomes aware of how pale the Man’s hands and face are.
The Mexican thinks that this is no man.
The Boy senses the Mexicans disdain, but the Man just stands there silent, waiting…
The Mexican points at the Man with an exasperated look on his face and with a raised brow he says “El Diablo!”
“I’ve told you I don’t speak Spanish” the Man explains.
“No, no! I will not talk to you Señor Diablo, I’m going now back to town” the Mexican shouts as he turns away from the Man.
The town is six miles away.
The Mexican begins to walk away from the Man. He has nothing but contempt for the Diablo.
“Wait” the Man speaks in a calm voice.
This does nothing to sway the Mexican who continues to walk away. Many years ago the Man would have been able to stop him, but not now. He no longer has that special aura. A presence so strong; that even from strangers he commanded respect.
He wasted it all those years ago, but back then he didn’t know where he was, or who he was.

The Man reaches for one of his many guns.
He can stop the Mexican from running off; if not with words, with bullets. The Man will not allow for any delay. He is too close to the end, and he has travelled too far to leave it be. He grasps the gun handle; there will be no hesitation in shooting the Mexican.
The Boy senses this, he will not allow it. He has been through too much violence. He has been through too much war. The Boy needs the Man to make it to the end; he depends on the Man. He knows the Man just needs information, one last piece of a puzzle.
“Please come back” whispers the boy.
The Mexican turns, looks at the Man, and against his better judgement walks back towards him.
The Man releases his grip on the gun and lowers his arm, ashamed of what he was about to do. It is not in the Mans nature to do such things, but he is too close to the end. He can’t let anything or anyone get in his way.
“Okay Señor Diablo, I will help you. What do you want of me?” the Mexican says reluctantly.
The Boy nods his head at the Man.
“I want to know where I can find that” the Man proclaims.
“The snow?” asks the Mexican.
“Yes.”
“You want to find snow? I’m sorry but I do not know what to tell you. I have not seen any around here... Well until you showed me...”
The Mexican considers his next words; if he doesn’t tell the Man something, he might do something drastic.
“Two hundred miles north, there is a mountain. It is covered in snow Senor Diablo.”
The Man looks towards the northern horizon. He sees nothing but desert, and begins to walk.

The Mexican shouts at him “There is nothing but desert between here and the mountain, not even a Diablo can survive that!”
The Mexican stands and watches in disbelief, as the Man walks towards the northern horizon, towards certain death…

3

Action Blackson!

Maris Blackson don't do Nightmares Sucka!

24th August 2005

A creaking noise was heard down the hallway. The night was in full bloom, and darkness had enveloped the whole house. Maris slowly turned an old doorknob and entered the dark hallway. He flicked the light switch up and down, but alas... nothing.
The noise was coming from the room at the end of the hallway. As Maris approached the door, a familiar fear grew inside of him. The sound of crying babies could be heard; resonating from the walls or so it seemed. Drawn on the door was a yellow top hat? His hand quivering he opened the door. The crying stopped, and all became silent.
Inside was a nursery. The walls appeared to be oozing blood, and the floor was soaked in it. The baby’s head had been decapitated!
“What are you? Chicken, McFly?” said the dark figure in the corner of the room.
“You...” Maris said while pointing his finger.
The man walked out from the shadows. It was that same man who appeared a few weeks ago. The man who had caused all that destruction… Adolf Hitler!
Maris wondered to himself “Has this man returned to finish off what he had started? Has he come back to finish me off?”
That’s when Maris realised it was a dream... no... A nightmare!
Maris stared Hitler right in the eyes. His fear subsided.
“I’m not afraid!” said Maris
Adolf retorted with a Hitler glare, that same hate filled glare he had given Maris a few weeks ago.
“Maris Blackson don’t do nightmares sucka!” Maris shouted as he took out a 12 gauge shotgun and blew the guy to hell.

Maris awoke smiling. He had been having nightmares ever since the event took place. This was the first nightmare he had conquered. It was the only progress he had made in weeks to feeling somewhat normal again. He felt almost guilty for smiling.

No man blames anyone more severely than he blames himself

Maris Blackson had lived in New Orleans all his life. Maris was a detective, his father before him had been in law enforcement; and his grandfather a cotton picker had been enlisted into World War II. Needless to say he was a damn fine detective. But now he was struggling to keep it together. Maris was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. He was trying to act normal at work, and pretend to his friends that he was okay, but deep down he was dead on the inside. He had resorted to alcohol in an attempt to drown out his sorrow; it was a downward spiral. His nerves had been shattered, and he was falling apart at the seams.

# TO BE CONTINUED...

@RiskDebonair
Irish Writer, Poet, & Lover