The Atlantropa Articles Read online

“Just give me, one. That’s all I’m asking,” Ulric pushes. “It will give me something to do on the ship at least.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I respond. It is a convincing argument, as much as I hate to admit. Having Ulric away from the Bridge for once would be a relief.

  “Thank you, Ansel,” he says, reassured. His violet cape ripples in the desert wind.

  “After that sneak attack though,” I continue on, “I doubt the crew will let him stay alive for long.”

  Before Ulric can say another word, the radio crackles inside my helmet and I put up a finger to signify that he should be quiet.

  “Howling Dark, this is Camel 1, we’ve reached the ship,” a muffled voice announces through the static. “We’ve spotted a few Scavengers clinging to the ship. Some are running away. We’re in pursuit.”

  “Understood,” I swiftly respond, not wishing to waste any time, “proceed with caution Camel 1.”

  I attempt to tune out the wails and whoops from my men behind me. They are a jumbled collection of oxidized metal and tattered cloth. Under each and every helmet is a man anxious for revenge.

  They laugh as they see the vehicle barrel toward the burning mess of steel and flames. Dark ants scatter away from The Camel as it punches its way through the crowd. The clang of armor, rifles, and boots resonates from the radio.

  I assume this is the troops exiting the back of the Camel. There is an indecipherable exchange of commands, followed by silence. I tensely await a response.

  “The ship is intact,” the voice murmurs in an effort to remain unheard. “The outside vicinity is clear, we’re moving up.” More scuffling.

  I notice little flashes coming from the ants. Suddenly, a wild howl bursts forth inside my helmet as the radio buzzes with the crackling of passing bullets. Screaming, then commands, then more shots. Gunfire.

  “One of them is firing from behind the ship! Return fire! Return fire!”

  The next half-minute is an orchestra of gunfire. Even without the radio, we can hear the echoes of this exchange, which catch the interest of the crew. The earlier jeering has now been replaced by rumbling confusion.

  “What’s happening, Captain?” another man asks.

  “Quiet,” I bark at him, dedicating my entire attention to the radio feed.

  “He’s down,” another voice confirms.

  “Was anyone hit?” I ask.

  “No sir,” the main voice responds. “Enemy hip-fired at us, by luck only hit the ground around us. We’re moving into the ship, the back of it is blown out.”

  “None of our men were hit, it was just one fucker who couldn’t shoot for anything. He’s down now,” I announce to the awaiting crowd, which explodes into celebratory cheers.

  I listen further, as the voices from the radio ascend sharply into a fury of blaring commands. They yell at something, and the something yells back.

  “HANDS UP. GET OUT OF THERE WITH YOUR HANDS UP.” The command is repeated over and over by our men. I picture how terrified the battered and injured survivors must be inside that ship. Such an image makes me chuckle with satisfaction.

  “Five Scavengers are alive sir. They tried running to the ship, but we got them. Most are battered and bruised but appear alright. They surrendered and we’re loading them onto The Camel now. HANDS UP.”

  “Good work Camel 1, looking forward to the package delivery,” I congratulate them, and then spin around to the crowd of twenty or so helmets, each glowing visor peering at me. All they need is the news. My arms are outstretched in a grandiose display, the metallic one glinting in the sun. I howl loud enough for all to hear.

  “We’re having guests over, men!” I shout. They cheer.

  After The Camel arrives back, I order over the radio for the prisoners to be taken up to the deck. So that no Scavenger is unceremoniously bludgeoned by an enthusiastic sailor, I tell each and every man to stay calm when the captives arrive. If there is anything that can taint this day, it’s the boring effectiveness of mob justice. This had to be a theatrical affair. Entertainment for all on such a long journey. For the rest of the day, this ship will be the Coliseum—we the lions.

  “Bringing them up now sir,” a voice confirms.

  “Understood,” I respond back.

  The hatch in the central deck springs open, and the crowd becomes restless. I bellow for calm, and their voices die down. From the hatch comes the first one of our men, armed with a rifle and clad in his armor, a red cloth slung over his right shoulder. He barks down into the hole, pointing his rifle before proceeding forward. In his wake follows a group of five small, brown creatures, all chained together in a line. Each stumbles onto the deck.

  The Scavengers’ eyes are wide in shock. The whites of their eyes contrast like the full moon in a night sky against their charred complexions. I’ve never seen them so up close before. The man in the red cloth jabs the one in front and the line hobbles faster toward the bow of the ship, where I await them. Jeers and insults permeate from the crowd; however, by my orders, nobody else lays a hand on them.

  “Remember that we can study them,” Ulric says in a last effort.

  “I told you we will see,” I retort, my temper reaching a boiling simmer like this desert heat.

  The line of hunched-over captives navigate through a parting in the crowd. Some hang their heads low toward the metal deck; others look around in confusion at the situation before them. All wear tattered and bloodied clothes. The red-cloaked man points his gun again and gestures for them to kneel. They understand that gesture and comply.

  I raise one hand up and my men go silent. Only the rumbling of the treads and the whistling of the desert wind can be heard. I ponder what might be going through their minds at this moment. Are they terrified? Are they confused? Do they even understand existence like a human, or are they reacting more on instinct like frightened cats? Fuck, maybe Ulric had a bit of a point.

  My mind wanders to how this situation might appear from their perspectives. Every man is covered in rusted armor. We tower over them all. The visors of our helmets are alight with the colors of red and blue. What a sight that would be to them.

  They all are sweating profusely. Each armpit is soaked with perspiration. Being exposed to the Kiln’s heat for so long must be an agonizing experience. We’re in a basin, a cooker. The heat is incomparable to anywhere else. Not even wildlife can adapt to it. After a few minutes the hallucinations will set in, after thirty minutes comes heatstroke, and after an hour follows certain death. However, these savages won’t be lucky enough to live that long.

  As I contemplate this, I hear through the silence a desperate, hushed voice and turn my head to the Scavenger farthest to the left. His head is pressed deep into his chained arms, and he is whispering a series of strange words. I can only make out a few…something about…a yasue…an Ala?

  With a heavy stomp of my foot, I stroll slowly toward him. He is shaking, though he does not lift his head. What is he doing? I stand over him, his head just above my knee. I imagine stomping on him with one solid crunch, yet convince myself not to do it. Instead, I simply kneel down, reach out my metallic arm, and grab him by his coarse black scalp.

  He lets out a cry and stares right into my dark helmet.

  “HE…PRAYING!” a ragged voice desperately blurts out beside me…in broken German.

  The sound cuts through the ship like a rock, and the crowd goes truly silent. A few gasp, and whispers spread like fire. I stay crouched down, confused at what I just heard. Did I just hear German words? I turn to face a grey-haired one, leaning forward with hands outstretched, staring right back at me.

  “He is…what?” I angrily mutter, straightening up.

  “He…praying. He… scared…” the greying Scavenger pleads. He has the pigment of bark from a tree. Years in the desert surely have done their work on the wrinkled skin and baggy eyes of this old man.r />
  I turn to Ulric, confused. “How the hell is this Scavenger speaking German?” Before Ulric can respond, I bark to the old man.

  “How are you speaking German?” I repeat to him. He recoils at the sound and holds a hand up to his face. Pathetic. What is this?

  “I…study…from…books…” he croaks.

  “Books? What do you mean books?” I ask, with the inflection of a python’s hiss.

  “Books…they…come…from…big…towers…”

  Eagle Nests, he’s talking about Eagle Nests. How the hell did he get books from Eagle Nests? Did he steal them? Did he kill women and children to get to them?

  “He’s a fucking thief, cut his head off!” a voice yells from the back of the crowd, which responds in agreement.

  “Wait!” Ulric pipes up, quickly moving toward me.

  “He stole books from an Eagle Nest, he might have killed our own,” I conclude.

  “Keep him alive, we could find out something,” Ulric pesters in a hushed voice.

  “What if this is a trick?” I retort.

  “How is speaking our language a trick?” Ulric whispers, confused, “and even if it is, we can get information from him. Study him.”

  “How did you obtain the books?” Ulric asks the quivering Scavenger.

  “How…books?” he mutters in puzzlement.

  “How did you get the books?” Ulric simplifies himself, making a gesture of holding a book.

  The man continues his nervous shaking, and his eyes dart from one helmeted face to another.

  “Bought…from market…merchant said…book…for children in…big towers…”

  “A German schoolbook for kids,” Ulric says to me.

  “Yeah I can connect the dots,” I say. “So they steal our stuff and sell it to their own people, the thieves.”

  “We need to keep him alive, keep him captive.”

  “No, Ulric.”

  “You don’t understand how much of a waste it would be, imagine how much we could gain from knowing their twisted psyche? We could find out where they hid more of those trinkets. Keep him isolated and I’ll talk to him.”

  “Are we killing them or not?!” another voice rattles out, and the men grow restless.

  “Hold on I’m fucking thinking about this one,” I shout back, pointing an armored finger to the kneeling Scavenger.

  “So what do you say?” my brother asks me.

  “I say you’re an idiot. But I admit I’m a bit curious as well. This better not fucking backfire on me.” I argue.

  “Thanks,” Ulric says. “Do with the rest as you want.”

  “I plan on it. Let me ask him one more question,” I conclude, turning to the Scavenger.

  “Why did you attack us?”

  He looks at me with worried eyes and stutters attempting to conjure up the words.

  “We…we…attack…because…” he blubbers out, looking at the floor, crestfallen.

  “Thank you for that confirmation,” I say. “We’ll take care of your friends and you can stay with us. Take him away.”

  I motion for the red-cloaked guard to separate him from the group. The old Scavenger looks around, confused and shocked. I think he caught on to what I was saying. He screams in a foreign, blistering tongue to the rest of his kin, who begin to wriggle around, attempting to escape. They cry out in panic and anger, staring at my helmeted crew with dagger eyes.

  With a swift motion, my fist connects with the closest one, his jaw cracks, and his head spins sharply away. Blood and teeth ooze from his gaping mouth. The rest of the prisoners quiet down, their brows now narrowed in anger—most are still shaking.

  The old man is dragged away by the guard, and Ulric follows. The crowd parts for them and closes once again, hiding all three from sight. I have four culprits left before me who must pay for their crime. They cannot speak German; they are of no use to me.

  “What should I do with them, men?!” I call out toward the mob, which meets this cry with a barrage of colorful suggestions.

  “Gouge their eyes out!” one suggests.

  “They can’t shoot a gun without arms,” rallies another.

  Not recognizing our language but comprehending the tone of the crowd, some of the culprits wriggle uncomfortably in their chains. One of them looks at me with a sullen face. He seems perhaps Witzel’s age, but his young face is engulfed in a ragged curly beard. One of his eyes is swollen shut and even though his skin is dark, large parts of it are bruised. As I face him, his expression evolves into one of pure contempt, as he growls under his breath in a string of incomprehensible gibberish. The message is clear, however—he is cursing at me. I guess we’ll start with him.

  “Unchain this one,” I say to another crewmember who came from The Camel. His orange cloak trails behind him, fluttering in the wind. He unlocks the handcuffs from the young Scavenger and, with a forceful lift, he pulls the savage up onto his feet. As this happens, his friends’ heads swivel from side to side. Some attempt to spit on me, while others plead in words I can’t understand.

  I grab the small neck of the Scavenger and yank him toward me. He pitifully attempts to jab at my armor with his fist, but instead grabs onto it in pain after colliding with my chest.

  My hand tightens.

  “I know you cannot understand me,” I speak in a plain, calm voice down to the pirates, “however I still feel the need to tell you all why you are here today. You are thieves. Leeching off of the efforts of civilization, meagerly and cowardly scarfing down table scraps like dogs. You cannot survive on your own without us, so you cling to our borders. You pillage our people, rape our women, and children and slaughter our men. I’ve seen your barbarity.”

  When I was a young man in the military, I remember storming that Eagle Nest to retake it from an infestation of Scavenger raiders. By the time we arrived it was already far too late. Most of the Nest had been depopulated. These creatures murdered a healthy colony of innocent people. That sickness I felt observing the hundreds of mutilated remains surges back into my stomach. They showed no mercy toward those children, and I will show no mercy today.

  “Men,” I speak to the crowd, “we aren’t just punishing these things for their attack on our ship. We’re avenging the countless lost in the raids on our people. Look at these Scavengers, some are old, imagine how many times they’ve attacked women and children. They have gotten away with their crimes for far too long.”

  I face the Scavenger whose head is at my chest. He is struggling to get away, perhaps jump over the side of the ship to safety, or what he thinks is safety. I lower my voice to only speak to him. He glares angrily into my glowing visor.

  “Crimes do not go unpunished.”

  And with that I take his hand, the one that struck me, and contort it slowly and methodically, like the turn of the treads. On instinct, the Scavenger’s body moves with it, trying with all its might to bend along with the force I am exerting on his limb. Bone crackles and his mouth goes agape as he is wracked with pain. My grip closes around the hand. There is tension as the bone tries everything to hold, but it is to no avail. It gives out. His hand jerks backward with a sharp distinct snap, followed by an animalistic wail of pain. My crowd explodes into whoops and hollers. The pirate leaps away, clutching at a dangling hand now only barely connected to his forearm.

  As he raises his head away from his wound, I elbow him in the face and he collapses to the ground, raising his mutilated arm in defense. Some of the pirates struggle to writhe out of their chains, but they can’t get free. Blood flows like a fountain from the nose of the kid. The crowd laughs as he attempts to crawl for the edge of the ship, yet I descend on him before he can do so.

  With a heavy blow of my metallic arm, I split his leg in half at the thigh; the lower half of his ruined leg springs upward in an unnatural fashion. More wailing, more angry cursing from the pira
tes, more hollering from my men. The kid has stopped crawling now, holding onto the stump of his mutilated leg with his only good hand. I walk over and stomp his jaw with the heel of my heavy boot. Blood sprays onto the deck and flows into a puddle. Before he can spit out his broken teeth, I follow through with another kick, then another, and another—a pendulum in a way.

  He sobs like a woman in that annoying tongue, white eyes bulging against a canvas of crimson. I raise my foot high and bring it down with all my weight onto the kid’s head. A final satisfying crunch. My boot sinks into brain matter before I lift it out. Blood has stained my soles. The kid goes limp. His arms collapse onto the floor, outstretched and broken. That face is entirely concave. The skull is a bowl of blood and flesh, his features no longer recognizable.

  His comrades go quiet, except one who begins to sob deeply. I grab the tattered scruff of the kid’s shirt, and heave the limp body toward the edge of the ship.

  “He wanted to escape, everyone. So let’s allow him to escape.” I announce in a theatrical manner, tossing the mangled mess over the edge of the ship. It falls like a stone into the cloud of dust. Out of sight.

  As I turn around I notice Ulric has come back to join us after delivering his little friend to the holding cell. The men around him hold up knives and guns in celebration of the kill, yet my brother simply watches me. I wonder what is going on inside that helmet.

  He walks over to me, keeping his voice down low.

  “What the hell was that?” he asks.

  “It’s called retribution,” I hiss, wiping off the blood from my armor.

  “Aryans aren’t supposed to be capable of that. He was a kid.”

  “Who attacked us. Who attacked Aryans.”

  “So you act like a bloodthirsty savage? How can you be capable of doing that? We shouldn’t be able to do that as civilized people.”

  “They are savages. They did this to our own kind. Step aside.”

  “We shouldn’t stoop to their level,” Ulric whispers to me.

  “You don’t know how things are on this ship. This is how we deal with enemies.”