France

1940

5:00 a.m.

Dubois groaned as Drake placed his body against a tree and inspected the gaping hole in his gut. Drake tore away at his shirt and assessed the injury. He grimaced when he realized the object stuck in Dubois was beyond his medical capability.

All he could do was delay death’s touch, which clawed its way to Dubois’ soul by the second.

Distant explosions sounded like passing thunder. They continued erupting in the village with momentous force. Smoke collected into a foreboding cloud above the village. Ash gathered in the clouds and dispensed itself like snow…

Dubois’ wound continued leaking blood; the man’s complexion and face turned ashen. To halt the bleeding, Drake placed a rag against it and pressed, instructing Dubois to hold it in place. Then he took two bullets from his pistol and pried the caps off, black powder falling into Dubois’ wound.

“Got a match?” Drake asked. “I’m going to stop the bleeding.”

Dubois nodded meekly and pointed to a pocket on his jacket.

Drake took the matches and ignited one on the spot. Dubois’ restless breathing quickened as he eyed the match lingering closer to his wound.

“What are you doing?” he gritted, wincing from the pain in his gut.

Drake covered his mouth with a hand and applied the match. The gunpowder in his wound ignited as Dubois stifled a scream. He fought against him, but stood no chance in his fickle state. The powder sparked and ignited, searing his flesh and the exposed sinew in the wound. Dubois’ muffled screams continued, and he passed out.

Ten minutes later Dubois awakened, thrashing and hollering like an infant from the womb. Drake rushed to cover his mouth.

He placed a finger on his lips. “The Germans don’t know where we are…” Drake said hushed.

Dubois sighed, relieved. Silence filled the forest save for the nocturnal insects trilling and small animals scurrying the ground. An occasional explosion boomed from miles away. Drake circled to the other side of the tree where a field stood, gentle winds blowing back rows of wheat. Overlooking the field, stood a single two-story house and an idle windmill.

“W — Water…” Dubois said.

Drake raised a brow. He reached for a canteen hanging from his belt and brought it to Dubois’ lips. Water trickled down his chin with each gulp, unable to quench his thirst. When the canteen ran dry, Drake tossed it aside. Dubois took a large breath and sighed, eyes more like glass than green.

“You wanted to know about Irene Irons?”

“Don’t talk, save your strength.”

Dubois chuckled. “Heh, I’m already a dead man…”

Drake unfolded the photo from his pocket and handed it to Dubois. The photo slipped from Dubois’ hand, forcing Drake to hold it in place. “Irene Irons,” Drake said, “Violet eyes, played the violin —”

“Blue…” Dubois struggled to sit against the tree, his vigor all but extinguished. “Her eyes were blue…”

Drake gasped.

“... and she didn’t play the violin; she played the cello… The woman has been dead for years, caught Typhoid in India.”

Drake’s breath shuddered. “Oui, it is true. She was my fiance…” Dubois released a soft chuckle. “When she died, I returned to France. The woman you knew… was not Irene Irons.”

Dubois took his final breath, blank eyes staring at nothing in particular.

Drake shook his shoulders, patted his cheeks. Dubois remained still. As Drake’s frustration grew, he rolled him over and tore open his shirt. He felt for a pulse that didn’t exist and promptly applied pressure to his chest. He mixed in rescue breaths with every thirty compressions, only to achieve the same fruitless result. Drake yelled and pounded his chest with a fist.

Still, Dubois didn’t move. Drake relaxed, accepting Dubois’ death.

He closed Dubois’ eyes and prayed in Arabic: “Allah, guide this man to eternal life, have mercy on him and welcome his reception. Spare him from the torment of the flames. Araha.”

A veil of mist rolled from the hills and forest towards the village. Rays of sunlight poked through the haze of smoke and night. Fresh dew covered the grass, making it shine like porcelain. The countryside reeked of ash and death. Nonetheless, the moon remained, not yet obscured from the blue sky, fighting to emerge from the haze.

Drake returned to the village, first going through its ruined iron gates. What he saw left him abashed; his face mortified, and body trembling. He looked to the moon and screamed.

I made up my mind that day. When I looked up at that moon, something died inside of me…

A tiny French girl with pigtails stumbled through the rubble, face covered in ash and grime, minor burns on her arms. She dragged a doll behind her, stuffing falling from its missing leg. She called for her mother, still ignorant to the events that unfolded.

These people are dead… because of me.

The girl continued wandering the smoldering ruins. Drake turned away.

A conscience is just an obstacle. Something that gets in the way. But I realized I could never atone for my sins. That’s all a soul is — just another obstacle to overcome.

He sauntered through the war-torn streets, every alleyway, every building, and stone raped by annihilation. The expression of the cremated corpses showed agony, their deaths had not been quick.

He remembered a woman’s words echoing in his head. Her miserable smile and the way her words strained when she spoke. “Drake, can you just be human? If not for my sake, then for your own… If you would just allow yourself to be —”

6:32 a.m.

A narrow stream ran through the edge of the forest, flanked by rows of trees on one side, a small depression on the other. Drake stumbled through, an intense thirst tormenting him. He leaned forward and hurled. A fire raged in his gut along with the taste of ash in his mouth. Bulging veins surrounded his blue eyes now flushed with a light hue of red.

He choked, hurled again, and continued to stumble through the forest. When he reached the stream, he plunged his head into it. Water weakened the thirst — to a degree.

Drake raised his head, sighed, and smoothed back his hair. He glimpsed a girl to his right, sitting along the stream, her hand gripping a flower. He released a low growl, razor-sharp teeth opened. The thirst emerged, enticing him. Her heart raced and pulsed, fresh veins lined her smooth, pasty skin. Her flesh held a particular aroma, sweet and bitter like fine wine.

He closed in for the kill, ready to rip her throat out and bask in her blood. She turned slightly, revealing bright emerald eyes that matched her hair. Her grip loosened on the flower and she faced him. When their gazes met, Drake felt a rush of sudden tranquility; the thirst plaguing him gone. Her eyes showed no fear, but a white light of defiance and hatred. Her ruined ballet suit displayed her tight, voluptuous body. In three-thousand years, Drake had never seen a woman with such — exquisite features.

His face softened. The girl stood before him as if his equal. It infuriated him, but his grin disguised his rage.

Drake extended a hand to her, saying: “Maybe, just maybe. There is no purpose in life —”