Read Online Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy by Dennis Detwiller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dennis Detwiller
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heartbeat like it was never there.
Bruning turned to look at Weber, and the look on Weber’s face was so starkly mad, so far removed from any human expression he had ever seen, that he unconsciously took a step back, his boots digging deep into the damp sand. A thousand options reeled in his mind, shaking him to his core. Never organized or realized, they spun on and on as the world continued forward, mindful of only its own pace. To Bruning it seemed he was simply observing as his body performed various preordained actions. It seemed events had taken on a life of their own and no time had passed between the landing at the airfield and the arrival at the Cap de la Hague Camp. How had he come to be here? Why? Why had the Deep Ones called a meeting so early, so far before the new moon when they had never done so before?
“Do not worry. It is not so bad.” Weber whispered to him in a reassuring voice through his madman’s smile, and for the millionth time Bruning wished he had never surrendered his pistol at the gates of the beach. Weber held up his right arm with a skull splitting grin, and slowly turned forward again to face the sea. A shout came up from the camp then, from behind Bruning, so close it sounded like the man was on his coattails:
“Watch the left!”
In the dark behind him Bruning heard the sound of men in heavy gear running up the beach. Why were they running? What was on the left? The questions ran around his brain like a rat in a trap, endlessly circling, eating at his sanity, but their repetition soon was drowned out in the lulling crash of the surf, and he found himself searching again, watching the water, dumbly fascinated. The terror was so real now, so tangible, he was sure he would perish long before he even saw the thing, and the feeling brought with it some small tint of relief. In his chest his heart beat double time. He was positive that it could not maintain such a pace for long. He was almost hoping it couldn’t. A cold sweat had risen, and fallen from his brow, stinging his eyes, but his hands were shaking so much he could not bring himself to wipe his face, for fear Weber, the madman, would see his dread. That the...things would see his fear and feed on it.
How was it that he came to be here? He found with stark amazement he could not piece together the series of the events which led him to this nightmare beach. Everything before this moment had disappeared in the gauzy, indistinct fog of memory.
The next sound was from ahead of them, from near the sea, and it was hard for Bruning understand. There was a thump—the sound of a body dropped on to a wet beach—and then another louder one, much closer. Only when the third noise sounded did Bruning realize the thing was leaping towards them, covering the distance from the waves to the lights like some giant frog. Just like in the report. He thought for a moment he might actually faint, or die, when he saw the thing. His brain was singing, his blood was pounding in his head, every iota of his being was telling him that this was the wrong place to be, the wrong thing to be doing. But somehow, he stood his ground, heady with the knowledge of forty machine guns trained at his back.
He had spent his whole life trying only to get by, and had ended up in the midst of true evil. Bruning had seen strange insubstantial creatures materialize and dance in unearthly colors in the bunker at Offenburg. He had seen scholars kill themselves over the meaning of a single passage in a musty book three centuries old. He had seen the dead rise and walk from the sleep of the grave on black and white film. He thought he knew what he was fighting. He thought he understood what the world was up against.
And then the Deep One was there with them in the kliegs and Bruning knew what terror truly was.
The smell that rose up off it was tremendous, and it brought to mind the fishmarkets of Bruning’s youth. That was all his mind
Bruning turned to look at Weber, and the look on Weber’s face was so starkly mad, so far removed from any human expression he had ever seen, that he unconsciously took a step back, his boots digging deep into the damp sand. A thousand options reeled in his mind, shaking him to his core. Never organized or realized, they spun on and on as the world continued forward, mindful of only its own pace. To Bruning it seemed he was simply observing as his body performed various preordained actions. It seemed events had taken on a life of their own and no time had passed between the landing at the airfield and the arrival at the Cap de la Hague Camp. How had he come to be here? Why? Why had the Deep Ones called a meeting so early, so far before the new moon when they had never done so before?
“Do not worry. It is not so bad.” Weber whispered to him in a reassuring voice through his madman’s smile, and for the millionth time Bruning wished he had never surrendered his pistol at the gates of the beach. Weber held up his right arm with a skull splitting grin, and slowly turned forward again to face the sea. A shout came up from the camp then, from behind Bruning, so close it sounded like the man was on his coattails:
“Watch the left!”
In the dark behind him Bruning heard the sound of men in heavy gear running up the beach. Why were they running? What was on the left? The questions ran around his brain like a rat in a trap, endlessly circling, eating at his sanity, but their repetition soon was drowned out in the lulling crash of the surf, and he found himself searching again, watching the water, dumbly fascinated. The terror was so real now, so tangible, he was sure he would perish long before he even saw the thing, and the feeling brought with it some small tint of relief. In his chest his heart beat double time. He was positive that it could not maintain such a pace for long. He was almost hoping it couldn’t. A cold sweat had risen, and fallen from his brow, stinging his eyes, but his hands were shaking so much he could not bring himself to wipe his face, for fear Weber, the madman, would see his dread. That the...things would see his fear and feed on it.
How was it that he came to be here? He found with stark amazement he could not piece together the series of the events which led him to this nightmare beach. Everything before this moment had disappeared in the gauzy, indistinct fog of memory.
The next sound was from ahead of them, from near the sea, and it was hard for Bruning understand. There was a thump—the sound of a body dropped on to a wet beach—and then another louder one, much closer. Only when the third noise sounded did Bruning realize the thing was leaping towards them, covering the distance from the waves to the lights like some giant frog. Just like in the report. He thought for a moment he might actually faint, or die, when he saw the thing. His brain was singing, his blood was pounding in his head, every iota of his being was telling him that this was the wrong place to be, the wrong thing to be doing. But somehow, he stood his ground, heady with the knowledge of forty machine guns trained at his back.
He had spent his whole life trying only to get by, and had ended up in the midst of true evil. Bruning had seen strange insubstantial creatures materialize and dance in unearthly colors in the bunker at Offenburg. He had seen scholars kill themselves over the meaning of a single passage in a musty book three centuries old. He had seen the dead rise and walk from the sleep of the grave on black and white film. He thought he knew what he was fighting. He thought he understood what the world was up against.
And then the Deep One was there with them in the kliegs and Bruning knew what terror truly was.
The smell that rose up off it was tremendous, and it brought to mind the fishmarkets of Bruning’s youth. That was all his mind
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