Apparatus 33 by Lawston Pettymore (bearly read books TXT) 📕

of black treacle, taking on a pus-yellow color, coating me entirely and stinging my skin. I would have recognized Pyotr’s voice immediately, but I never once heard it. If he were conscious, he would have called out to me. We have never been this separated in our entire lives.

Except for the commotion on the other side of the door, the explosions had subsided, and I did not see nor hear anyone in at least an hour. Perhaps the escaping staff had convinced the Russians that nothing of value remained inside? Or perhaps everyone outside was dead, leaving me on this side of the door, and Pyotr, Kathe, and Dr. Todtenhausen on the other side as the only survivors on the planet?

My adrenal glands exhausted and dry, I slumped, exhausted, the hum of machinery lulling me into a deep, but troubled sleep, and I dreamed about hopeless and irrational flight narratives that one dreamed when under stress. A klaxon sputtered erratically, bringing me back to life to see corridors and this anteroom entirely lit by the red light of battery powered torches, the overhead lights completely exhausted. The Bunker was signaling to the remaining occupants that it was dying, just as my own body was signaling the same – tunneled vision, blood pounding skull pain, thirst beyond all reason.

I sat cross-legged on the asbestos tiles covering the concrete floor, the level of the fluids reached my knees. I tasted the fluid still rising on the floor, hoping some of it might be potable. It had a metallic taste, pungent and acidic, with a viscosity approaching that of custard. My stomach tried to vomit, but there was nothing but dryness to heave. I used what voice I had left to call out for Pyotr. Perhaps he could still be spared from whatever Dr. Todtenhausen and Sister Kathe were doing to him, and almost instantly regretted doing so.

My cry for Pyotr attracted an adult from the hallway. It was one of the scientists working at Die Kuppel on whatever it was that scientists worked on behind those closed doors, already having discarded his lab coat. “Zerrissen, Raynor,” was readable under the Eagle and Swastika of his ID badge still hanging on a lanyard around his neck.

On his shoulders was a young girl, her left leg in a brace—one of the polio trainees. Thus began my long acquaintance with this man, who, after the loss of my twin brother, procured for me a peculiar little sister, Halina, in his place.

AGGREGAT 2

THE AMERIKA RACKETE9

Dead Men Switch: May 1st, 1945

Little Halina wrapped herself around Zerrissen’ s head and shoulders like a balaclava while he prodded and poked at handles and doors, producing keys from his ill-fitting, ill-gotten, wool jacket. Halina, silent with the fearless innocence of a child, reached up to catch the cascade of bright sparks that occasionally erupted from the ceiling light fixtures - harmless as fireflies in her mind.

With one hand, Zerrissen managed to open a padlock on a steel door and swing the door open, motioning me through. He ducked slightly to clear little Halina’s head through the oval threshold above and did not bother to close the door—what was the point anymore? We had entered a portion of Die Kuppel that I had never seen before. The floor here was not yet covered by the fluid seepage, and the air was a bit easier to breath, though the detonations, which had resumed, sounded much closer. We must have been near the surface.

Zerrissen stopped and pulled me back at the sight of dimly lit figures ahead of us, moving jerkily in the flashing ceiling lights like an old silent movie. I recognized one of the shapes as a dog. A German shepherd. It was Geronimo, Todtenhausen’s constant companion, but whose condition was no better than Die Kuppel itself. It had open sores, matted fur, parasites, and bleeding gums; all manner of grief that descend on a malnourished canine. The impression of his ruined coat would return to me, years later when patronizing a pornographic movie house and the house lights were suddenly turned on by the local police, stripping me of my anonymity, being arrested for crimes against the State. Seeing the infirmed carpet on the theater floor for the first time, I could not avoid thinking it a statement of my condition, as it was Geronimo’s now. But that is getting ahead of the story by half.

Despite what must have been chronic pain, thirst, and hunger, Geronimo was completely prepared to defend his master, baring the two or three incisors that had not yet fallen out. Standing beside it was Sister Kathe, draped in fresh vestments, a set she must have been saving for a special occasion, minus the swastikas.

Zerrissen took in the scene but reached the same conclusion as I did. If Geronimo were here, Todtenhausen could not be more than a few meters away. Lights from the ceiling remained on long enough for us to take in the scene. There was a corpse on the floor, its clothes mostly removed, with an adult male hovering over it, going through it pockets with urgency.

“Todtenhausen,” whispered Zerrissen.

Hearing his name, Todtenhausen stood up, tossed a now empty wallet on the corpse, smiled thinly, and nodded. In a flicker of the light, I recognized the corpse on the floor. It was Herr Arzt 10Gorgass, one of the few actual medical doctors on staff in the Bunker, a pediatrician, and rather kindly. He would tend to us when we needed dental work, or a pill, or a shot. He was gentle. He would give us candy.

Glancing at Halina and me, Todtenhausen seemed amused. “Zerrissen,” he said, his gaze taking in Zerrissen’s attire. “I see civilian clothes are all the fashion this season. Are you a shopkeeper now?”

“I see Swastikas are out of fashion this season,” Zerrissen retorted, referring to Kathe’s clean clothing, never taking his eyes off Geronimo, whom he knew would attack upon a single command from