She shot him in the shoulder, spinning him down.

The other medical staff rushed out to help him.

Through the scope, she could see the older doctor with wire rimmed glasses, the one who’d been taking notes.

He was looking directly at her position, though he couldn’t possibly see her.

“You are the ghost,” he called out.

“The one they whisper about.

” Ruth said nothing.

“I am Dr.

Ernst Hoffman,” he continued.

“What we do here is for the advancement of medical science, these children.

” She shot the doctor trying to bandage his colleagueu’s shoulder.

He dropped, clutching his thigh.

Release them, she repeated.

The last two guards tried to rush her position while she was talking.

She’d expected that, too.

Two shots, two bodies rolling down the hillside.

Two more cards to place later.

Just the medical staff left now.

Four men, two wounded.

She emerged from cover, rifle trained on them.

Up close, they looked smaller, older.

afraid.

Dr.

Hoffman was still standing, still studying her with those intelligent eyes.

“You don’t understand what you’re interrupting,” he said.

“Project A42 will change everything.

Human enhancement, disease resistance, the next step in evolution using children.

Children adapt better to the modifications.

Their cells are still growing.

Still Ruth shot him in the knee.

He screamed, falling.

“Where is A42?” “You’ll never find it,” he gasped.

“And even if you do, you can’t stop it.

” “It’s not just German research, your own people.

” She shot his other knee.

“Where?” He was crying now.

“All scientific dignity gone.

Northwest 40 km bunker complex.

But you’re too late.

The experiments are complete.

The subjects are already changing.

” Ruth looked at the truck full of children.

Through the small window, she could see their faces, terrified, confused, some no older than her youngest brother back home.

She unlocked the truck.

“Run,” she told them in broken French.

“Run and don’t stop.

” They scattered into the forest like frightened deer.

The medical staff watched their subjects disappear.

One tried to protest.

Ruth shot him in the stomach, the same place she’d shot the first SS commander weeks ago.

You’re making a mistake, Hoffman gasped from the ground.

Those children could have been the future.

Enhanced humans, stronger, smarter.

They’re children, not experiments.

She went through their documents while they bled.

Maps, medical records, detailed notes about previous subjects.

12 children already at A42 undergoing something called phase 3 modifications.

October 5th, 1944.

Ruth watched the medical convoy burn.

She’d drag the medical staff to safety first, let them live to remember, to spread fear.

Hoffman would survive if help came soon.

The others might not.

She’d placed cards on all the dead guards, two through 10 of spades, saving the face cards for something special.

In two days, she’d eliminated an entire SS medical unit, freed 20 children, and learned about a 42.

Control would want a full report, would want to send a team to investigate, but Ruth looked at the documents she’d taken, the photos of children in surgical beds, and knew she couldn’t wait for official approval.

40 km northwest, a bunker full of children being modified.

She had 60 rounds left.

Morrison’s rifle was still perfect despite everything.

The knife was sharp.

October 6th, 1944.

German radio frequencies were in full panic.

Durggeist had struck again.

Entire units were refusing to operate in small groups.

Officers were demanding transfers away from the region.

One woman, one rifle.

The Vermacht was restructuring its entire defensive position because of her.

But Ruth barely heard the chatter anymore.

All she could think about were those photos.

Children on tables, children in cages.

12 subjects already in phase three, whatever that meant.

She cleaned her rifle in an abandoned church surrounded by shattered stained glass and broken pews.

Tomorrow she’d start hunting toward A42.

Control had promised her backup when she found it.

A full squad to assault the bunker.

She didn’t believe him.

The OSS liked her working alone, liked their ghost being singular, mysterious, deniable.

But that was fine.

She’d gotten used to being alone, gotten used to the weight of Morrison’s rifle, the feel of Harrison’s knife, the sound of German panic on stolen radios.

The nurse was long dead.

The ghost was heading for A42.

And God help anyone who stood between her and those children.

October 15th, 1944.

10 kilometers from A42, Ruth lay in mud that smelled of rot and cordite, watching the SS checkpoint through her scope.

Six guards, one officer, a machine gun nest.

They were checking everyone passing through, even their own vehicles.

She’d been hunting toward A42 for 9 days, leaving a trail of bodies that had German command in full panic.

23 more kills.

The Jack, Queen, and King of Spades left on officers, the other suits for regular soldiers.

But this was different.

These guards weren’t standard Vermach.

They wore SS Medical Corps insignia, the same as Hoffman’s unit.

They were protecting something specific.

Through the scope, she watched a supply truck approach.

The guards checked papers, then something else.

They made the driver and passenger roll up their sleeves, examining their arms for something.

Ruth pulled back into the forest to think.

In her pack, she carried the documents from Hoffman’s convoy.

One mentioned security protocols for A42, special identification, tattoos that couldn’t be forged.

She needed one of those guards alive.

That night, she waited for the shift change.

One guard always walked into the woods to relieve himself.

Clockwork every 4 hours.

She’d watched for two days, learning their patterns the way her father had taught her to learn deer trails.

He was young, maybe 20, humming as he unbuttoned his trousers.

The knife was at his throat before he could cry out.

“Scream and die,” she whispered in broken German.

“Nod if you understand.

” He nodded, trembling.

She zip tied his hands, American Ingenuity Control had called them, and dragged him deeper into the woods.

In the darkness, his terror was palpable.

A 42, she said.

Tell me.

He babbled in German, too fast for her to follow.

She pressed the knife harder.

English kind.

She cut him just enough to draw blood.

English now, please.

Small English.

The bunker.

Medical kinder.

Children.

She understood that word.

How many? He held up both hands, then two fingers.

12.

She pulled out Hoffman’s papers, pointed to the photos of children in surgical beds.

These? He nodded frantically.

Ya ya experiments.

Burbesser.

She didn’t know that word, but his tone said enough.

Whatever they were doing to those children, even the guards were disturbed.

The tattoo, she said, pointing to his arm.

Show me.

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a small medical kaducius with numbers beneath.

She memorized it, then considered her options.

Kill him and take his uniform, but she was too small to pass for a male guard.

Let him live and risk him alerting others.

She zip tied his ankles, gagged him, and left him tied to a tree.

He’d be found at shift change, but she’d be past the checkpoint by then.

October 16th, 1944.

Dawn.

Ruth had smeared mud on her face, dirtied her uniform beyond recognition.

Just another refugee on the road.

The rifle was hidden in a burial shroud she’d taken from a destroyed church.

Just another person carrying their dead.

She approached the checkpoint with others fleeing the fighting.

Old women, children, a few wounded soldiers.

The guards were checking everyone, but casually.

They weren’t expecting their ghost to walk up in daylight.

Papierre, the guard demanded.

She produced the papers she’d taken from a dead nurse weeks ago, keeping her head down, shoulders hunched.

Just another exhausted medical worker.

He barely glanced at them, then grabbed her arm.

Mal sleeve.

He wanted to see her arm.

She rolled it up, showing nothing.

He frowned, called to the officer.

Ruth’s hand drifted to the knife hidden under the burial shroud.

The officer approached, studied her.

Medical personnel? She nodded.

“Which unit?” She pointed to her throat, mouththing words without sound, mute from trauma.

She’d seen enough shell shocked nurses to mimic the symptoms.

The officer’s expression softened slightly.

Another one broken by the war.

He waved her through.

“The medical convoy left an hour ago.

You’ll have to walk.

” She nodded gratefully, shuffled past with her wrapped body.

3 km beyond the checkpoint, she retrieved her rifle and disappeared into the forest.

The bunker was close now.

She could feel it like a weight in the air.

October 17th, 1944.

Ruth found A42 at sunset.

It didn’t look like much.

A concrete entrance built into a hillside camouflaged with vegetation.

Two guards at the door, bored, smoking.

A radio antenna suggested underground communications.

Tire tracks showed regular vehicle traffic.

She circled the perimeter, finding ventilation shafts and emergency exit, what looked like a pre-war drainage tunnel sealed with a metal grate.

Multiple entry points, but all guarded or secured.

Through binoculars, she watched the shift change.

12 guards total, rotating in 4-hour shifts.

Medical staff came and went.

She counted six doctors, unknown number of support personnel.

And once just before dark, she saw them.

Children at a window, three faces, pale, eyes hollow.

One had bandages around his head.

Another’s arm was in a sling that looked wrong.

The angle suggested the arm was longer than it should be.

Ruth felt the familiar cold rage settle in her chest.

The same feeling from Field Hospital 7, but refined now.

Focused.

She set up position on the ridge, plotting angles, counting distances.

The smart play was to wait for controls backup.

12 guards plus interior security was too much for one person.

But those children were in there now, suffering now.

She’d watched 23 Americans die while she hid in a closet.

She wouldn’t hide again.

October 18th, 1944.

2 a.

m.

The drainage tunnel’s grate was 60 years old, rusted.

Ruth’s stolen bolt cutters taken from the checkpoint, cut through in minutes.

The tunnel was narrow, partially flooded, smelling of decay.

She crawled through darkness, rifle wrapped in oil cloth on her back.

The tunnel opened into a mechanical room.

Boilers, water pumps, the guts of the facility, no guards.

Why guard a sealed tunnel? She moved through the basement, following pipes and electrical lines upward.

The building was larger than it appeared, three levels underground, maybe more.

She heard voices above, German, casual conversation.

A stairwell led up.

She climbed slowly, testing each step.

The first suble was storage, medical supplies, food, equipment.

The second suble made her stop.

An observation window looked into a surgical theater.

Inside, a child lay on a table, maybe 10 years old, unconscious, tubes running into his arms.

Two doctors worked over him, their hands bloody to the elbows.

They were putting something into his chest cavity, something mechanical.

Ruth raised her rifle, but the window was reinforced glass, bulletproof.

She could only watch as they worked precise and careful, like they were fixing a machine instead of torturing a child.

One doctor looked up directly at the window.

Ruth ducked, but he wasn’t looking at her, just checking the observation room clock.

They finished, began closing the incision.

She had to move.

Had to find the other children before footsteps in the stairwell.

Multiple sets coming down.

Ruth slipped into a supply closet as four guards passed, escorting a doctor she recognized from the photos.

Hoffman had mentioned him.

Dr.

Kger, the project director.

The new subjects arrive tomorrow.

He was saying 12 more for phase 4.

Will the current subjects survive? One guard asked.

Three will.

Perhaps four.

The modifications are intense, but those who survive will be.

Remarkable.

They entered the surgical theater.

Ruth waited until their voices faded, then continued up.

The main level was administrative, offices, communications, a small barracks.

She counted six guards, two awake, four sleeping.

The medical staff quarters were separate down another hallway.

But where were the children? She found them on the third suble, the deepest part of the bunker.

12 cells, each with a small window.

Nine were occupied.

The children inside were wrong.

One girl’s eyes reflected light like a cat’s.

A boy’s hands had too many joints.

Another child sat in the corner rocking, his skin modeled with patches that looked almost like scales.

Experiments, modifications, horrors that would have been called impossible if she wasn’t seeing them.

At the end of the hall, a larger cell, three children together, the ones who looked most normal.

They saw her through the window, eyes widening.

One started to speak.

Ruth put a finger to her lips.

Silence.

She tried the door, locked, of course.

The keys would be with the guards, but she couldn’t take 12 guards alone.

Not in close quarters, not without killing the children in crossfire.

She needed them to come to her, needed to thin their numbers.

October 18th, 1944.

300 a.

m.

Ruth placed Hoffman’s medical notes at the main entrance, waited with a playing card, the ace of hearts.

Then she retreated to her ridge position and waited.

Dawn brought the shift change.

The new guards found the documents, the card.

Panic erupted.

Radio calls, officers running, everyone focused on the security breach.

They sent out search parties.

Four guards in one group, three in another, leaving only five inside.

Ruth let the first group pass, then opened fire on the second.

Three shots, three bodies.

The survivors scattered, calling for backup.

The four guard group rushed back, firing wildly into the forest.

She was already moving, circling to their flank.

Morrison’s rifle sang its familiar song.

Two more down before they found cover.

Reinforcements poured from the bunker.

Exactly what she’d wanted.

The interior was emptying.

Guards rushing to defend against an external threat.

She counted.

Nine guards outside now, spread across the hillside, hunting for her.

Three, maybe four still inside.

Time to move.

The drainage tunnel was still clear.

She crawled through again, emerging in the mechanical room.

Above, she could hear running, shouting.

The skeleton crew inside was trying to coordinate the search outside.

She climbed to the third suble to the children.

The guard at the cell block never heard her coming.

Harrison’s knife, quick and quiet.

She took his keys, began opening cells.

Schnel, she whispered.

Quiet.

Follow.

Some children couldn’t walk properly.

Their modifications had damaged their legs, their balance.

Others were too traumatized to understand.

But the three normall-looking ones helped, supporting the others, following her toward the tunnel.

They’d made it to the second suble when Dr.

Kger appeared at the top of the stairs.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

him in his white coat, her in her muddy uniform, nine broken children between them.

He reached for an alarm button.

Ruth shot him through the wrist, then the shoulder, spinning him down.

The gunshots echoed through the bunker.

No point in stealth now.

Run, she told the children who could.

The tunnel go.

Guards were coming.

She could hear boots on stairs, weapons being readied.

She pushed the children toward the mechanical room, then turned to face what was coming.

Three guards rounded the corner.

Ruth dropped two before they could aim.

The third got a shot off.

Pain bloomed in her side, but she stayed standing.

Fired back.

He fell.

More coming.

Always more.

She backed toward the tunnel, firing at shadows, at movement, at anything that might be a threat.

Her ammunition was running low.

Five rounds left, maybe six.

The children had made it to the tunnel.

The older ones were helping the modified ones through, but it was slow.

Too slow.

A guard appeared in the doorway.

Ruth fired, missed, her first miss since taking Morrison’s rifle.

The pain in her side was spreading, her vision starting to blur.

The guard aimed, and his head exploded.

Control stood in the opposite doorway, smoking pistol in hand.

Behind him, American soldiers poured into the bunker.

Cutting it close, ghost, he said.

The children.

We’ve got them.

Medical teams are waiting outside.

He looked at her side, the spreading blood.

You’re hit.

I noticed.

Why didn’t you wait for backup? Ruth thought about the 23 Americans at Field Hospital 7, about hiding in that closet, about Morrison crawling under his bed.

I don’t wait anymore, she said, and collapsed.

October 28th, 1944, 10 days after the first assault on A42.

Ruth stood outside the bunker again, her side still bandaged but healing.

Control had wanted her in a hospital.

She’d refused.

The bunker hadn’t been fully cleared.

Lower levels remained unexplored, sealed doors unopened.

Command wanted to wait for specialized teams, but the children who’d survived had whispered about others, deeper, hidden.

The special ones, they’d said in broken English, the ones who screamed.

12 soldiers stood with her.

Harper, Wilson, Patterson, good men who’d volunteered despite knowing about the ghost’s reputation.

They’d all heard the stories.

the nurse who never missed, who never stopped, who terrified the Vermacht into restructuring their entire defensive line.

“Stay behind me,” she told them.

“Don’t touch anything.

Don’t open doors without my signal.

” They entered through the main entrance this time.

The bodies had been removed, but blood still stained the concrete.

Ruth led them past the administrative level, past the surgical theaters, past the cells where nine children had been kept.

At the back of the third suble, they found it.

a heavy door marked with biohazard symbols and one word srehandling special treatment.

The lock was sophisticated, but Harper had been a safe cracker before the war.

20 minutes of delicate work and it clicked open.

The smell hit them first.

Chemicals and something else.

Something organic and wrong.

Wilson vomited.

Patterson crossed himself.

Ruth pushed through.

The room beyond was massive, carved from living rock.

Laboratory equipment lined the walls, filing cabinets full of documents, and in the center, 12 glass tanks filled with murky fluid.

Things floated in those tanks.

They had been children once.

She could see that in the basic shape, the size.

But what had been done to them? One had arms that stretched too long, joints bending in impossible directions.

Another skull had been opened and expanded.

Brain tissue visible through transparent panels.

A third looked normal until you noticed the gills sliced into its throat, the webbing between its fingers.

“Jesus Christ,” Harper whispered.

Ruth approached the nearest tank.

The thing inside opened its eyes.

Human eyes aware, terrified.

“Alive! They were all alive.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »