Flawed (14 page)

The door of the barracks swung opened and pounded against the wall. Icy air rushed through the opening, sapping away what little warmth the potbelly stove provided. Two soldiers walked in, wearing long, wool coats and helmets held secure with chinstraps; rifles hung over their shoulders.

Like Pavlov’s dogs, everyone scurried to the front of their bunks and stood at attention. Fear of pain and death was what moved the inmates with more zeal than they showed when alone—an effective, albeit immoral, way to program people.

Mathew moved just as fast as the others and stood with his fellow prisoners. The guards moved through the line, then turned toward him. Their helmets cast half of their face in a shadows where their eyes hid.

“Are you the one they call Doc?” asked the broader one on the left.

Mathew’s mouth dried at the question. Ellyssa’s sister had been the last one to address him by his nickname, and then had led him into a storage room where she’d burned his insides. When he didn’t answer right away, the thinner soldier on the right moved his hand to the crop he had holstered to his belt.

“Yes,” Mathew squeaked. Actually squeaked, and the sound of his voice shamed him. He forced himself to swallow, then lifted his chin. “Yes,” he restated, a bit more loudly.

A mocking smile spread across Mr. Broad’s mouth, apparently finding amusement in Mathew’s mouse-like behavior. If he had a gun, he would’ve blown the smile right off Mr. Broad’s head, see what he had to smile about then.

“Come with us.” Mr. Thin stepped to the side, affording Mathew room to step between the two of them.

This was it. He’d refused to play the informant, and these two soldiers were going to lead him to his death. Funny how life worked. Just a few minutes ago, he’d wallowed in his suffering, the idea of giving up tantalizing, and now, the thought of dying fed horror through his veins. He didn’t want to die, not in this godforsaken place.

He lifted his chin and stepped between the deliverers of the dead man walking.

Mathew thought he’d been surprised when the guards led him past the old storage room, where pain had been lashed and burned into his mind. But when they’d led him past the little square building where smoke puffed from the small chimney—where four prisoners had fed the incinerator a few days ago—toward the rectangular building of the Commandant’s office, surprise didn’t even begin to cover how he felt. More like astonishment along with a deep-rooted sense of dread.

He couldn’t imagine why they would take him to see the Commandant, but a dark corner of his mind screamed that death would’ve been a better alternative. Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good.

The two soldiers pushed him through the door, and Mathew stumbled into a warm room with a tiled floor polished to a glossy shine. A young man with honey-blond hair stood from behind a desk where papers were stacked in neat piles. Every metallic part, from the insignias to the buttons of his navy tunic, glinted under the lights.

Honey-Blond’s mouth pulled into a grim line, and his look spoke disgust as his blue eyes flicked the length of Mathew’s body. “Is this him?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Broad.

“He’s filthy. Take him under the hose.”

Rime coated Mathew’s muscles and froze him in place. He’d been under the hose once before when he’d first shown up on the doorstep to hell. The pressure had filleted his skin, an experience he didn’t want to repeat. And with the sub-freezing temperatures? An involuntary spasm shot up his spine.

By the look of the soldiers, they weren’t too happy about it, either. Mr. Broad’s jaw clenched as if trying to lock away choice words.

“Come on.” Mr. Thin grabbed the scruff of Mathew’s shirt and shoved him toward the door.

The smooth soles of his prison shoes slipped out from under Mathew, and his butt met the floor hard enough that his teeth clicked together. Before a punishment could be dished, Mathew scrambled to gain his footing, but the waxed surface of the tiles fought him every step of the way. His legs slipped out from under him again, and he found himself back at square one.

Mr. Broad’s nostrils flared in irritation. “Get up, maggot.”

Mr. Thin stepped forward and grabbed Mathew by his shirt collar, his eyes glinting with crazy sadistic joy, evidently enjoying the prospect of delivering pain. The larger soldier lurched forward, the riding crop already fisted in his hand, and swung. Pain exploded in a burst of stars when the soldier brought the leather handle down across the top of Mathew’s head. Images spun in a blurry whirlpool, and bile rose in his esophagus. Mathew gagged.

“Stop it,” a deep voice boomed.

The hand holding Mathew released him, and Mathew crumpled to the ground on his hands and knees, head hanging. The floor spun.

Leather soles shuffled, and a series of
Heils
followed.

“Your orders were to bring him unharmed.”

Through the ringing in his ears, the voice sounded like the Commandant’s, but that didn’t make sense. Wasn’t the concentration camp all about harming? Mathew shook his head and blinked his eyes. The floor slowly stopped the spin cycle.

“He was unwilling, sir.”

“When I give an order, it is to be followed,” The Commandant said in a dead calm voice. Mathew looked up at the man in the pristine uniform. He peered down at Mathew with steely blue eyes. Wrinkles crested his mouth as he sneered at him. “Corporal?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man behind the desk.

“Go to the mess hall.”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

More boot clicking and a short gust of wind blew through the lobby as the Corporal left.

“Bring him into the office, if you two idiots think you can handle the task.” The commander performed an about-face and walked through the doorway.

“Yes, sir.” The broader soldier reached down and yanked Mathew to his feet, forcefully. “Go on,” he said, giving Mathew a push.

Dizziness still clinging to his peripheral vision, Mathew shuffled into the office. He stopped just inside the doorway and marveled at how civilized the office seemed. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Some form of torture chamber? Definitely not the warmth of dark paneling and green upholstery, or the pictures hanging on the walls. It was hard for Mathew to imagine the commander as nothing more than a cruel monster, not someone with partially human characteristics, with family and friends who might actually miss him.

The Commandant went behind a elaborate desk, the grain a beautiful, deep reddish-brown, then extended his hand. “Have a seat.”

Mathew glanced at the two soldiers standing behind him; they looked just as perplexed as him. Suspecting some form of retribution, Mathew hesitantly walked closer to the desk. The Commandant stared at him expectantly, which was different than his usual look of detestation. Mathew sat.

The Commandant flipped his head up. “Dismissed.”

Mathew didn’t need to turn around to know the soldiers were uncertain about leaving their commander unattended with a heathen such as himself. After a moment, though, they responded with a boot click and a
Heil
, then the door snicked closed, leaving Mathew alone with the superior officer.

As soon as the soldiers left, the commander sat across from Mathew. He leaned back in his leather chair and linked his fingers across his chest. “I assume you are wondering why I have commanded your presence.”

Mathew’s head throbbed from the crown of his head, down through his temples, into the back of his jaw, and the blood rushing from the thumping of his heart wasn’t helping. “The question has crossed my mind, sir.” He kept his voice steady, much different than the havoc running amok within his nerves. He gripped the arms of the chair.

“The girl, Aalexis, and her brother, Xaver, have taken an interest in you.”

Wrinkles cut across Mathew’s forehead. Of all the things he’d imagined, his imminent death included, he’d never expected that to come from the Commandant’s mouth. A heaviness sank into the pit of his stomach. “Oh?”

“Do you know why?”

Mathew shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Tell me about Ellyssa,” he continued.

Here we go again
. Lips pressing into a tight line, Mathew mentally rolled his eyes.

“Still not going to talk?” said the Commandant.

Face hardening into stone, the officer leaned forward in his chair, the desk, thankfully, separating the two men by a good meter. There was no doubt Mathew was afraid, but they could beat the hell out of him; they could unleash the blue-eyed demon child, but he wasn’t going to talk.

Ever.

Before the uniformed man had a chance to further grill Mathew, a knock sounded. The Commandant settled back.

“Enter.”

The door swung inward, and the corporal entered with a tray laden with two plates under silver lids, a bowl and a woven basket covered with a red cloth napkin. From his arm, a bottle of wine hung chilling in a container.

The scrumptious aroma of roasted potatoes and meat assaulted Mathew’s nose. His stomach clenched, painfully, and his mouth started to salivate in expectations that would never be met.

“Set the table and go.”

“Yes, sir.” The Corporal carried the tray to a mahogany table and set the tray to the side. He placed one plate in front of a chair, followed by silverware, two stemmed glasses, the bowl and basket. Finished, he turned around, his gaze shifting uneasily from the commander to Mathew; confusion dipped his brow. “Will that be everything, sir?” he said, clearly unwilling to leave.

The Commandant didn’t even bother looking at him. “I said,
go
.”

Without another word, the corporal left, but not before giving one more uncertain look toward Mathew. As soon as the door closed, the Commandant stood.

“Come,” he said with a wave of his hand as he came out from behind the desk. He continued to the table and took a seat in a green chair trimmed in mahogany.

With the aroma still wafting up his nose, befuddling any coherent thoughts of anything other than food, Mathew slid off the chair onto jellylike legs. His stomach tightened again, and he cringed until the pain abated. Slowly, he walked toward the table, each step cramping the muscles in his midsection, and stood next to the table, unclear as to what the Commandant expected.

“Sit,” the commander said, unfurling a napkin across his lap.

Wondering if food was the new torture, worse than feeling the lick of the riding crop, Mathew sat. The commander picked up his fork and knife and proceeded to cut a triangle section of the roast. Reddish-brown juice puddled under the cut of meat and ran into the melted butter dabbed between potatoes and green beans.

Mathew swallowed, hard.

“Aren’t you hungry?” the Commandant asked, lifting the fork to his mouth and placing the bite inside. The commander flipped back the cloth covering the basket and pulled free lightly browned yeast rolls. With his knife, he sliced one of the rolls in half. “Eat,” he commanded as he buttered the warm bread. “But I’d take it slow. The food is richer than what you’re accustomed to.”

Unable to shake the feeling that this was some sort of trick, which would end up with new bloody welts over his tender flesh, Mathew hesitantly reached for the utensils. He stabbed the meat with his fork and cut off a piece. The meat was tender, the knife slicing through it like butter. He brought up the fork, his mouth watering like a fountain, and warily glanced at the Commandant.

Surprisingly, the officer smiled at him. Not one that actually reached his eyes; Mathew still saw the hatred swimming within the depths, but a smile nevertheless.

The commander put a forkful of potatoes in his mouth. Mathew watched his jaws work as he chewed.

“It’s delicious,” the Commandant stated. “Eat.”

Mathew slid the fork between his lips, and flavor exploded in his mouth. The roast actually melted in his mouth. Melted in a succulent array of flavors. After the first bite, it was over. He couldn’t stop loading his fork with roast, then green beans, then potatoes. He stopped shoveling the food long enough to butter a roll, then that too joined the rotation.

“Wine?” the Commandant asked, filling the glass full.

Mathew nodded, taking the glass in his hand, and washing the food down with the slightly sweet liquid. He continued eating, ignoring the commander. The way he looked at the situation, if there was a trick involved, he would die with a full, happy stomach.

After a while, Mathew struggled to tear his eyes away from the diminishing food and looked up at the Commandant. The man was leaning back in his chair, swirling the wine around in his glass, watching Mathew with interest.

Feeling one level above a Neanderthal, but only because he wasn’t ripping into the food with his bare hands, Mathew straightened in his chair and regarded his host with suspicion. This type of treatment was unheard of, and he wondered what the “good” commander’s angle was.

“Good?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Um. Thank you?” He wiped off his mouth with a napkin. In his frenzy, he barely remembered dislodging his utensils from the cloth.

The Commandant stood, leaving the majority of his dinner on the plate. “Please continue,” he said. “I’m not very hungry. Of course, I get to eat like this all the time.” Humor dancing on his face, he tipped the glass up and took a long swallow.