Get the boys back

I throw Krueger’s blanket over his body to make it look like he’s sleeping. I doubt it will fool anybody, but it’s still worth doing. Tucking Krueger’s pistol into my coat pocket and taking his keys, I make my way back outside and over to Krueger’s car, where I unlock the trunk.

The trunk pops open with a push from the inside. Smirnov and Zhukov crawl out with much groaning, adorned in their stolen uniforms.

“How do we look?” Smirnov asks me.

“Bad.” Zhukov says. “How big was this guy?” He asks, his uniform hanging loosely on his body.

“You’re lucky.” Smirnov bickers. “Mine shit his pants.”

“Can you two please keep it down with the Russian?” I ask. “And come with me?”

Smirnov looks at me with his squinty eyes. “Ja.” He says, then throws up the worst Hitler salute I’ve ever seen. “Heil mein führer!”

“Please take this seriously.” I beg him.

He nods and slaps the stock of the Mauser he’s carrying. I lead the two of them quietly over to the prison building.

One of the guards steps forwards.

“Guten tag, mein lieben herr.” I greet him. “Wo ist das…”

The guard gives his buddy a look, then turns to me, grabs my arm on the side where I have the gun and pulls me into the building. He pushes my face down on a table.

“Was ist Das?” He cries, feeling my coat pocket, before a sickening crack loosens his grip on me, quickly followed by another to the other side. I turn to see Smirnov and Zhukov beating down the guards. Smirnov continues to bash on his guard with the butt of his rifle, long after his job is finished.

“I think you got him.” Zhukov says, having seen enough.

“I was just making sure.” Smirnov cackles, then squats down to dig in the guard’s pockets.

“Really?” I ask when he pulls his wallet out then moves to the other guard. “Now?”

“You said I could steal shit if I came.” He argues. I smack him on the back of his stahlhelm.

We continue down a hallway, where we hear whistling around a corner. Smirnov creeps up and peers around the edge.

“Just one.” He whispers to Zhukov. “Stand there.” He gives Zhukov a push around the corner.

Zhukov stands there dumbly.

“Hey!” A voice barks from down the hallway. Storming footsteps rush over to Zhukov. Smirnov and I stay back and hug the wall around the corner.

“What are you doing here?” The guard asks. “Your uniform looks like shit!”

“Uh… Ja.” Zhukov says. The guard grabs him and pushes him against the wall, turning his back to us. Smirnov flips his rifle around to hold it by the barrel, steps around the corner, and clubs the guard in the side of the head with a mighty swing.

Smirnov lets out a snort and a chuckle, then grabs the body by the pant legs and pulls it around the corner. He immediately loots the guard’s wallet and watch.

The three of us creep further down the hallway, and stop at a door which is slightly ajar. Talking comes from the inside.

“I will break you, American.” A familiar officer’s voice says. “You may think that you are strong, but we have ways of making you talk.”

I peer through the crack, where I see Clarke strapped to a chair, being interrogated by a German officer. I groan silently. It’s the same douchebag from the barn when we were captured.

“Let me kill this fucker.” I turn around and whisper in Smirnov’s ear. He takes his knife out and hands it to me with a grin.

“Why are you here?” The officer asks, and is met with silence. He whips Clarke across the face with a leather strap. I slip in the door, holding the knife with white knuckles, and edge ever closer to him.

“Flintenwieber.” I say coldly. The officer whips around right into my thrust, and I pierce his chest.

“You!” He gasps. I yank the knife out and shank him again in another spot. “Bitch!” He cries. I stab him for a third time. “How?” He croaks, and collapses to the ground.

“I sure am glad to see you!” Clarke tells me. “Cut me loose!”

I rush to his side and use the knife to cut through the straps holding him down.

“How did you make it out of there?” He asks me, rubbing his wrists. “We thought you were dead for sure!”

“Dadonov saved me.” I explain. “Where’s Hobbs?”

“Down the hall.” Clarke says, and takes the officer’s pistol. He picks up the leather strap on a handle that he was being whipped with.

“These Germans and their fetishes.” He grumbles, before dropping it. “This way.”

We follow him out into the hall, and he leads us to a door.

“You two, in the uniforms, lead me through.” He whispers, then puts his hands behind his back as if they were tied. I stay back and tight against the wall.

“Ah, you are back!” A voice cries pleasantly from inside when the three of them enter. “Did he talk?”

The voice is quickly silenced by a flurry of thuds and smacks from a pair of rifle butts. I rush into the room behind the others.

“I don’t believe it.” Hobbs says from behind bars. “How did you survive?” He asks me.

“I explain later.” I tell him. “Where keys?”

“Here.” Clarke says, pulling them from the guard, and unlocking the gate. “You’re free.”

“I am indeed happy to be rescued.” Hobbs articulates. “But we are still in a bit of a pickle.”

“Bit of a pickle?” Clarke asks him. “Don’t you mean ‘mortal danger?”

“Yes, that’s what ‘a bit of a pickle’ means.” Hobbs explains. “But you should be asking the more important question. How do we get out of here?”