The Eye of Odin

Part 8

"Jesus, Lieutenant," Reynolds voice came from behind me, horrified. "We fell back when we saw them dropping in, but..." He pushed one of the closest Germans over with his boot, and coughed into his hand. The man had a bullet hole directly through his forehead. I stared mutely up at the burly courier, and whatever he saw was apparently disconcerting. "...Hell, Masters, what are you?"

"You aren't helping, Reynolds." Wes's voice was more even, although there was a hard edge to it as he pushed Reynolds to the side and pried the trench spike from my hand. "Chance?"

"I'm fine." I said quietly. "How many left?"

"Here? Not a god damned one. You killed them all," Reynolds said, taking a step back from myself and Wes.

"Ours, not theirs," I snapped, feeling emotion flood back in. "How many of us left?"

"Doyle took a hit and went down; we dragged him back to the supply carts," Wes explained, looking out over the carnage that filled the trench. "We're all that's left."

"Us and that tank," Reynolds said, somewhat smugly. I stood, my legs shaking, and looked out across the top of the trench. There were scattered groups of torn and mangled soldiers, burning wreckage, and no sign of movement. I grabbed the edge of the trench wall and pulled myself up onto the solid ground. Wes and Reynolds followed. The tank had pushed forward, settling into no man's land easily, the hatch popping open to expose a self-satisfied looking British commander.

"Huns never can stand up to this kind of firepower, eh?" the commander said, laughing, and I offered a tired smile.

"We couldn't have done it without you," I agreed, looking across at the field of dead and dying. "We need to find Schuntzel. If he was killed in the fight, I need it confirmed. We can't assume the problem is dealt with."

"That's it, then?" the tank commander said lazily, leaning back against the edge of his hatch. "We'll head back, I'm going to need more shells if--" His response was cut short as the tank was suddenly thrown from the ground in a violent burst of localized, unnatural and deadly storm. The several ton vehicle cartwheeled away into the air as if it had been kicked by a giant, flipping and careening through the air before bouncing off the ground behind the trenches. It rolled down into the valley below, crushed and mangled, smoking heavily.

I turned, mouth agape, to see a man standing in the swirling dust and smoke of no man's land. The barbed wire and mangled, skeletal trees provided an appropriate backdrop as he stalked across the dead ground towards us. Reinhardt Schuntzel wore a dark gray German uniform, with a heavy woolen greatcoat flapping about his legs with the stiff breeze. He held a C96 in his right hand, but his left hand was entirely encased in stone. The strange gauntlet was completely covered in Norse runes, pulsing softly with an inner light.

"I dread to think what would happen if America entered the war," he shouted across the deathly silent field. "If the average American is even a fraction of the gunfighter that you are, Masters. You spend enough time in the trenches; you get used to the average horror." He risked a glance over at the Entente line. "Then, well... then you see something like that."

"Shut your mouth, you Hun bastard," Reynolds growled, lifting his rifle. Schuntzel fired once, the round digging into the ground between Reynolds and me.

"I wouldn't act so threatening," Schuntzel said coldly, "I could wipe the three of you from the face of the Earth in an instant." He brought his left hand up, his fist still clenched tightly.

"It looks like you've managed to contain the Eye. How many times were you knocked to the ground before you figured it out?" I taunted, holding my hands out open to either side.