War For The World

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The snowy mountainous landscape did little to hide the black speck trundling through. Unphased by the cold, Seargent Michaels crouched down as he came to the edge of the tall mountain.

The drop off was steep, though he figured one might survive a slide down. He needed to weigh up every and any option presented to him now, considering what lay a few miles down below.

Sitting at the base of the mountain and nestled in the snow was the camp.

Originally a castle for ancient European royalty, the place was taken by the Nazis during one of their many sieges and retrofitted to become General Braltrs personal play house.

During his travels over what seemed to have been the longest week of Michaels life he had heard stories of the place. People whose relatives had been captured and shipped off to the camp had all agreed on the fact that one never returned from such a place. Roaming travellers visiting nearby had said they heard eerie screams emanating from the place at night, and defecting soldiers had told grim tales of experiments too ghastly to recount taking place inside the castle walls.

The rumours were there, oh sure. Stories of howling werewolves stalking the ground and the sort of dastardly experiments done to the prisoners. Michaels had initially shrugged it off as scare tactics used to put children to bed, however as he peered down at the foreboding frozen castle he began to wonder whether any of those stories had held a lick of truth to them.

A chill grew up the back of his spine that had not developed due to the cold. His friend was in there, his last remaining soldier. The Seargent had given up everything in search of rescuing that man, of ridding his conscious of this weight. What good was a man's word if it were buried in the snow.

He understood the fact that Benson was more than likely dead by now. This was ok, he had come to terms with it. The driving force behind Seargent Michaels actions seemed to be at the very least revenge. If he got down there and found his friend in a body bag, he'd make sure Braltr left in the same one.

Michaels breath came out as steam and began to fog over the lens of his binoculars. He pulled back from the Cliffside to lay on his back, rubbing his palm against the fogged glass lens as he went over his plan once more.

Over his travels he'd met many a people, in such travels he'd found himself drunk late at night playing poker with some rather unsavoury fellows. The benefit to this however was that the rewards to such games were often times not your usual cash injection. As such his bag currently held a freshly folded Nazi uniform ready and waiting to be worn. He hadn't asked where the man had got it from, only if it'd fit a medium.

The camp was spread out not too dissimilar to that of a fortress. A large square shaped castle became the outer shell of the camp, with labour tents and buildings located in the middle

He could see tiny spots moving too and from the castle border and the camp within. Guards he assumed, and there were lots of them.

The road leading up to the castle seemed less treacherous, a winding path leading to the entrance of the castle. Only a few guards stationed there. They must've thought not many people would venture this far north.

He couldn't help but avert his gaze for a moment to the towering behemoth in the distance.

His other enemy, the Martian war machine, stood amongst the snowy mountaintops observing. They'd been doing that for a while, simply standing motionless and observing. Michaels had been overjoyed initially, assuming they'd given up or died off. Now he simply felt ill. Whenever his enemies' actions were unknown to him, that's when shit truly would hit the fan.

It was too far away to see him yet close enough to make him think twice. Committing to his prone stance he made his way back from where he came and slowly down the mountainside.