The darkest night by a new member

Hi people. I just read a few things about Zombie-mods and someone wrote that one could (and should) write any zombie-related stories into the board. Well... here I am! I'm eighteen, german and male. I want to say, before you (hopefully) read my story, that I am NOT a nazi-like person. I wish to describe the situation and mentality of why and how the people of back then worked, thought and lived. But this does NOT mean that I'm okay with what happened or their ideology!

Anyways... the story:

The darkest night by Maximilian Groß

It was the darkest night. No one had told it would happen like that. No one could have forseen something like this. Not even the Fuhrer. Or could he? Benno wasn't sure what to think anymore.

Behind lay a burning city, almost every building was set afire. It was not only the allied bombing runs that made it burn to hell. Or AS hell, to be more precise.

He was ripped apart inside. On the one hand the Fuhrer had brought work and political stability to his country and family. On the other hand such shit happened. He still, somewhat, believed in what the Rundschau (a cinema-based propaganda show and in most cases the only information civilians had access to) showed. Somehow the facts of advancing russians in the east and soon-to-be-approaching Tommies (americans and british) from the french coast could always be coated in lies.

Lies that Benno could not see as what they truly were.

He tried to remember what his father had told him from his last visit in the cinema. "The Iwans (russians) are being stalled and soon we will attack again" He had said with a certain pride in his voice.

No more.

The Fuhrer had to be right, he just had to be. It was what Benno had been told since Kinder-garten. How could their leader be wrong? His father had always said things like "Who pays your books? Who pays you food? I do. But I couldn't do so without HIM."

Benno's faith was trembling dangerously. For a reason he didn't know he remembered what had happened to Jens, his best friend: One day Jens had asked why the Fuhrer was so good and great. Benno knew he hadn't meant it bad.

However, the SS-man that had paid his family a visit the next day had a different oppinion. Jens' family went to a vacation in a special camp. At least that was what he had been told. Somewhere very deep in his mind a little flicker of doubt shone up like a small candle in a big library.

On one hand there was loyalty to his family and his country. And on the other hand there was the shock about what was happening and its difference to what he was constantly being told. Together with many others from his Hitler-youth's group he ran away.


Michael sat within his trench. Soon the kraut-bitches would pay dearly. The day he had come home had changed everything. He had been a pacifist for his entire life until the bombed out crater. His house was a huge hole of blackened ash, dusk and rubble. He had collapsed right in front of his destroyed past. His engaged girlfriend had been in the building that day.

His ring had still stuck to the ashen hand of her ripped corpse. Soon... very soon...
He would them pay.

Noises came. It sounded like a horde of feet rushing forward. He smiled at the thought of his enemies inexperience. He would soon get his revenge. Then the first greyish uniforms came into sight and his brows shot up in confusion, disgust and surprise. Kids. Freakin' teens with rifles and knives ran towards the british lines in what looked like a laughable and feeble attempt of a faked copy of an attack. His smile was gone.

"Donnt shuut! We sarrenda" Someone yelled from the moving group of greyish uniforms. The distinct shape of german helmets came, together with a few unexpected sights, to view. Women and old men, some even with children in their arms, ran in the middle of a roughly held circle. A few older teens seemed disclipined enough to hold a formation while the younger ones simply ran.

Most of the kids seemed armed but only a few held their weapons ready and those who did seemed to be aiming at something else. The group came closer and Michael refused to shoot. It was pittable.

"Is this the great Wehrmacht? Is that what almost killed the entire world?" Someone beside him murmured in a thick irish accent. The group either didn't care about their enemies or was oblivious ot them. Not a single round was fired.

The first people came to the trench's rimm but they didn't stop their running. British soldiers who had stood up to halt them and take their weapons simply stared at their stupid running.

His knife was ready. He'd make them pay.

One of the greyish figures ran closely past him and Michael threw himself up. With one swift motion he pressed the man against a collapsed pillar and his knife against his throat. To Michael's surprise there was nothing but blank fear and angst in his sickeningly widened eyes.

For a moment Michael staggered and the somewhat experienced Landser fend from his grip. The man ran, almost fell to the ground after slipping in a puddle of water and kept yelling: "Lauft! Lauft"

Another british man tried to stop him but he just gripped the englishman's shoulders, shook him like a madman and yelled: "Lauf Mann! Lauf"

Then the Landser ran. Michael was confused but when he heard the russling sound of a tank's tracks he ducked. He saw an "SdKfz", a half-track vehicle with a topmounted machinegun and a huge payload of soldiers inside, driving onwards. His heart went cold from anger when its backmounted hatch opened after it received a hit to one of the tracks.

Had it only been a distraction? Were there real soldiers inside? Or were there maybe even some of the feared Waffen-SS inside? The Fuhrer's loyal elite? People came out of the hatch while flames from behind illuminated it in a cloud- and moonless night. Like shadows, barely visible but loudly hearable, two figures came out of it. One was obviously female while the other wore a grey uniform.

No matter how many he would make the germans pay.

The male shouted something but he couldn't understand what, then something simply black yanked him back into the vehicle. It seemed like as if the man would simply fall or slip into the vehicle from Michaels angle. He wasn't right.

Then something came out of the car: Blackened fog in the shape of thin straws and even thinner joints protruded from the inside. It seemed to grip on the hatch-frame's outer ends and then something thrust itself forward. In a motion to quick to see for the eye a bigger but somewhat elegant something was literally shot out of the car.

Michael didn't see it but he saw the woman drop to the ground. Instead of that he felt something rush through his head like a bullet. But somehow his head remained, physically seen, intact. He was thrust back and soemthing emptied him.

Everything simply vanished: Memories, feelings, wishes, desires, urges and needs. Everything left and something else took ist place. Something that was always there but could not take over because of the other things. But now it could.

Like a couple of chunks of ice in a glass that held the water from taking its righteous place it felt. But eventually the chunks melt and the entire glass was full of water. Oh yes. He didn't notice the man with the man with irish accent until said man slapped him.

Michael awoke. Again, but somehow for the first time as well. A contrast, a para-doxon. He'd make them pay.

Suddenly there was only hatred. Hatred upon his beloved ones deaths, hatred upon the whole world, hatred upon his life and upon himself. And the irishman started to frown. A smile came across Michaels lips when his hands wrapped around the man's throat and pressed. It only took one push to the adam's apple and the amn would die.

Everything seemed so clear for Michael: Hatred. It was the problem, the solution and the whole thing in one. And he could make people pay with his hatred. The irishman choked an gurgled while his throat was shut. Michael looked up and saw two greyish soldiers, one still just a kid, staring at him. He stared back and saw something... different.

Slowly he drew his pistol and aimed it at the irishman's head. He'd make him pay. He'd make ALL of them pay. The man raised his cramping arm in a futile gesture but Michael fired and looked up. The two men still looked at him and something made assured him: They wouldn't have to pay. Something made them okay, standable and acceptable.

No they would even help him with making all the others pay.

Michael stepped forward and the two men, his new brothers in arms, followed. The older one had been an overseer in a nearby concentration camp while the other one tried to hide among the normal troops. But it didn't matter.

Hatred mattered. And they hated as well. Hate and pay. For the first time Michael felt nothing but happiness. If happiness can be discribed as hatred.


Benno ran further. He took a small sideroad instead of staying with the main group when he heard the noises. He turned around and saw soemthing he had seen before. Well... he hadn't seen it before in one important detail:

Most of the british and all of the slower or weaker runners, as well as one of the cowards who had hidden in the vehicle while pretending to be cripples, shot at those who stood at the front and middle of the running crowd.

The group was decimated by ist former members. Civilian women suddenly took weapons from shot soldiers and fired at those who still ran. Tommies shot other Tommies, Germans shot their fellow civilian protectees. For someone who hadn't seen it before it'd look like a normal war-crime but not for Benno.

No, something had made them different. Something had made them turn. Hatred.