Copyright © 2025, Esa Myllylä, All Rights Reserved
November 1, 1945 – The Ruins of Berlin
The skeletal remains of Berlin, a corpse-city still smoldering with the fires of a war that refused to die, offered a macabre sanctuary to the scattered remnants of the rebellion. Hope, once a fragile butterfly, had been repeatedly trampled under the jackboots of despair. For months, pockets of resistance – former Wehrmacht soldiers sickened by the Reich's genocidal fury, idealistic youths who had never known a world unscarred by the swastika, and ordinary citizens who had tasted the poisoned fruit of the New Order and found it rotten to the core – had clung to life amidst the ruins. They had dared to dream of a Germany free from the iron grip of the fallen Reich, a dream now turning into a blood-soaked, unending nightmare.
The once-grand boulevards were now choked with rubble, twisted metal, and the unburied dead. Buildings stood as hollowed-out shells, their facades scarred by the relentless bombardment, their interiors transformed into makeshift tombs. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of burnt flesh and the cloying sweetness of corruption. The survivors, gaunt and hollow-eyed, moved through this urban wasteland like ghosts, their faces etched with the grim map of suffering.
The fall of Berlin had been a cataclysmic event, a final, desperate battle that had reduced the once-proud capital to a shattered husk. The Allied forces, after months of relentless fighting, had finally breached the city's defenses, only to find themselves embroiled in a street-to-street, house-to-house struggle against fanatical SS troops and Hitler Youth conscripts. The fighting had been brutal and merciless, with both sides suffering horrific casualties.
A low, guttural rumble, like the growl of some monstrous, subterranean beast, echoed through the ravaged streets. It wasn't the familiar, spent thunder of Allied artillery, silent for what felt like an eternity. This was a different kind of dread, a mechanical malignancy that vibrated not just in the ears, but deep within the very marrow of the survivors. It spoke of a power both ancient and terrifying, a force that defied the natural order. Emerging from the shattered avenues, like phantoms conjured from a fevered dream, were the harbingers of a new, even more grotesque terror.
Tanks, unlike any previously encountered, rolled forward with an unnatural, unsettling grace. Their forms were twisted into jagged, nightmarish angles, their armor appearing impossibly thick, their weaponry bristling with menacing, unfamiliar configurations. They moved with a disturbing fluidity, as if animated by some unholy will. These were not the lumbering behemoths of the old war, but sleek, predatory machines, their surfaces gleaming with an eerie, phosphorescent light.
Flanking these iron behemoths marched soldiers, but these were not the weary, hollow-eyed conscripts of the Wehrmacht's final days. These were different. Their movements were disturbingly swift and purposeful, their eyes burning with a fanatical light that transcended mere ideology – it was a cold, inhuman devotion, a hunger for violence that chilled the very soul. They moved with a disturbing synchronization, their boots striking the shattered pavement in a rhythmic cadence that echoed with an almost hypnotic power.
Among them stalked horrors whispered about in the dying embers of resistance: hulking figures with grotesquely exaggerated musculature, veins throbbing like monstrous blue rivers beneath stretched, unnatural skin – the living abominations spawned from the darkest depths of Himmler's twisted science. These Übermenschen, the monstrous fruits of genetic tampering and forbidden alchemy, moved with terrifying strength and speed, their roars animalistic and chilling. Their very presence exuded an aura of menace, a palpable sense of wrongness that made the blood run cold.
The whispers spoke of grotesque experiments conducted in secret laboratories, of human bodies twisted and reshaped into monstrous forms. Some were said to possess superhuman strength, others unnatural speed and agility, and still others the ability to regenerate from grievous wounds. These were the shock troops of the New Order, the vanguard of a resurgent Reich.
And then there were the children. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, their small hands clutched downsized rifles with a chilling familiarity, their stolen innocence replaced by a terrifyingly vacant obedience. They moved with a disturbing, almost robotic coordination, their youthful energy twisted into a chillingly efficient killing instinct. These were not the wide-eyed innocents of a bygone era, but miniature soldiers, their faces hardened by violence and indoctrination, their voices devoid of any trace of childhood.
The transformation of these children into soldiers was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the New Order. They were taken from their families, subjected to brutal training and indoctrination, and transformed into fanatical killers. They were taught to obey without question, to kill without remorse, and to view the enemy as less than human.
The blitzkrieg erupted with a savage, unforeseen ferocity. The scattered rebel cells, clinging to their meager strongholds in bombed-out buildings and collapsed tunnels, were engulfed in a maelstrom of steel, fire, and blood. Makeshift barricades, erected with sweat, dwindling ammunition, and fading hope, dissolved like sandcastles before the relentless assault of the mutant tanks. The child soldiers, their high-pitched battle cries echoing with a disturbing, unnatural glee, swarmed through the debris-choked streets, their small hands surprisingly adept at wielding deadly force. They moved with a terrifying, insect-like swiftness, appearing and disappearing in the ruins with unsettling ease, their small size and agility allowing them to infiltrate even the most heavily fortified positions.
The rebels, caught off guard by the speed and ferocity of the attack, were quickly overwhelmed. Their makeshift weapons were no match for the advanced weaponry of the New Order, and their numbers were dwindling rapidly. They fought bravely, but they were fighting a losing battle.
Ellie, her face etched with the grim map of survival, fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Voss and the tattered remnants of their cell within the skeletal husk of a once-grand opera house. The air was a choking cocktail of pulverized brick and plaster dust, the acrid sting of gunpowder, and the metallic tang of spilled blood. The screams of the wounded, a horrifying chorus of agony and despair, mingled with the guttural roar of engines and the incessant chatter of automatic weapons. The once-ornate hall, now a shattered ruin, echoed with the sounds of carnage, its gilded mirrors reflecting distorted images of death and destruction.
The opera house, once a symbol of culture and beauty, had been transformed into a charnel house. The grand stage was now a killing field, the plush velvet seats stained with blood, and the once-pristine walls scarred by bullet holes and shrapnel. The rebels fought desperately to defend their position, but they were surrounded and outnumbered.
"They're like devils vomited up from the abyss," Voss bellowed, his face a mask of grim determination as he emptied his magazine into a charging behemoth of a soldier, the bullets tearing ragged chunks from its unnaturally dense flesh, yet failing to stop its inexorable advance. The creature roared in pain, a sound that was both human and utterly alien, a guttural bellow that shook the very foundations of the building, and continued its charge, its eyes burning with a malevolent, inhuman light.
Voss, a former Wehrmacht officer, had seen his share of combat, but he had never encountered anything like this. These were not ordinary soldiers, but monsters, twisted and warped by some unholy science. He knew that if they fell, there would be no mercy.
"Himmler's cursed legacy," Ellie spat, her voice raw with fury and a dawning, visceral horror. Whispers of the Reichsführer's grotesque biological experiments had circulated in the shadows, tales dismissed as the ravings of madmen or desperate propaganda. But the reality unfolding before them was a thousand times more monstrous than any nightmare. It was a testament to the boundless depravity of the human mind, a glimpse into the abyss of forbidden science.
Ellie, a former medical student, had witnessed the horrors of war firsthand. She had seen the mangled bodies, the shattered minds, and the unspeakable suffering. But nothing could have prepared her for the abominations that now stalked the streets of Berlin.
Their precarious sanctuary was breached with terrifying speed. The child soldiers, nimble as rats and utterly fearless, scaled the crumbling walls with unsettling ease, their small forms appearing in shattered windows and gaping holes in the roof with a disturbing, almost spectral quality. They moved with a chilling coordination, their youthful faces betraying no emotion as they unleashed a hail of gunfire. The enhanced soldiers, their roars animalistic and chilling, smashed through reinforced doorways and collapsed load-bearing walls as if they were mere paper, their unnatural strength a terrifying spectacle.
The rebels fought back with courage and desperation, but they were outmatched. The enhanced soldiers were stronger, faster, and more resilient than any human being, and the child soldiers fought with a fanatical zeal that made them almost impossible to stop.
The fighting devolved into a brutal, close-quarters maelstrom, a desperate, chaotic dance of survival against an overwhelming tide of monstrous flesh and fanatical fury. Rebels fell in droves, their blood soaking the already defiled ground, turning the once-grand opera house into a charnel house. The air grew thick with the stench of death, a nauseating miasma that clung to the back of the throat and burned the eyes. Ellie witnessed scenes that would forever haunt her waking hours, etching themselves into the deepest recesses of her memory like acid on steel – a boy, barely old enough to shave, calmly putting a bullet into the brain of a wounded comrade, his face devoid of any emotion; a hulking mutant tearing a man's limbs from his torso with a horrifying, almost playful ease, the victim's screams abruptly cut short; a young woman, her face contorted in terror, being dragged away by a group of child soldiers, their high-pitched laughter echoing in the smoke-filled hall.
The rumored secret weapons of the fallen Reich materialized as instruments of unimaginable pain and destruction. Sonic emitters mounted on the advancing tanks unleashed waves of disorienting sound, a physical assault that crippled the rebels with nausea, vertigo, and excruciating headaches, causing some to collapse, their ears bleeding, their minds shattered. Chemical grenades burst in clouds of sickly green and yellow, spewing forth choking gases that burned the lungs, blurred vision, and induced agonizing hallucinations, turning the battlefield into a surreal and terrifying landscape. The rebellion, which had dared to dream of a fragile dawn, was being systematically, brutally extinguished. The iron heel of the resurrected Nazi war machine was grinding them into dust, forcing a desperate, bloody retreat westward, away from the ruined capital and into the heart of a still-nightmarish Germany.
December 10, 1945 – The Long Retreat
The retreat was not a strategic withdrawal, but a protracted descent into a Boschian nightmare, a landscape painted in shades of mud, blood, and the perpetual twilight of despair. The remnants of the rebellion, a ragged and dwindling force of broken bodies and shattered spirits, were driven relentlessly westward across the ravaged heartland of Germany. The German blitzkrieg showed no signs of faltering, its momentum fueled by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of monstrous soldiers and horrifying weaponry. The mutant soldiers, tireless and utterly ruthless, hunted them with an almost supernatural tenacity, their enhanced senses allowing them to track the rebels through the most treacherous terrain. The child soldiers, their indoctrination complete and terrifying, acted as relentless trackers, their youthful energy twisted into a chillingly efficient killing instinct, their small size and agility allowing them to navigate obstacles that would impede their larger counterparts.
The resilience of the human spirit, however, was a force the resurgent Reich had underestimated. Despite the overwhelming odds and the horrors they faced, the rebels fought back with a ferocity born of desperation. They used guerrilla tactics, ambushing patrols, sabotaging supply lines, and utilizing their knowledge of the ruined landscape to their advantage. Every shadow, every pile of rubble, became a potential hiding place, a place from which to strike back against the invaders. But for every small victory, there were countless losses, each one chipping away at their already dwindling numbers and morale.
The German forces responded to these acts of defiance with even greater brutality. They instituted a reign of terror, turning the occupied territories into a vast, open-air prison. Mass executions became commonplace, the bodies of those deemed enemies of the Reich left to rot in public squares as a grim warning. The enhanced soldiers, their strength and speed augmented by their unnatural physiology, carried out these atrocities with chilling efficiency, their faces devoid of any emotion.
The countryside became a landscape of death and destruction. Villages were razed to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered or enslaved. The once-fertile fields were now barren wastelands, poisoned by the chemical weapons of the New Order. The survivors were forced to scavenge for food and shelter, their lives reduced to a desperate struggle for survival.
Across the once-familiar tapestry of Germany, towns and villages that had somehow survived the initial apocalypse now became theaters of fresh horrors. Those who had offered aid, however small, to the scattered pockets of resistance faced brutal reprisals. Public executions became a grim spectacle, a horrifying display of the resurgent Reich's power. The lifeless bodies of men, women, and even children were left to hang from makeshift gallows in town squares and along roadsides, their faces contorted in silent screams of agony, a stark warning to any who dared to defy the New Order. The enhanced soldiers often forced the remaining inhabitants to watch, their expressions of terror and despair fueling the sadistic pleasure of the victors.
The brutality of the child soldiers was particularly disturbing. They seemed to lack any sense of empathy or remorse, carrying out their orders with chilling efficiency. They would often engage in acts of wanton cruelty, torturing prisoners, mutilating corpses, and even turning on civilians who offered them no resistance. The rebels found it difficult to fight them, not only because they were children, but also because their tactics were so unpredictable and ruthless. They were used as spies, assassins, and even suicide bombers, their youthful appearance masking their deadly intentions.
The rebels also encountered other horrors on their long retreat. They faced packs of genetically modified wolves, their eyes glowing with an eerie red light, their teeth and claws capable of tearing through human flesh. They stumbled upon hidden laboratories where twisted experiments were still being conducted, the walls lined with tanks containing grotesque creatures that defied description.
Ellie, Voss, and a handful of gaunt survivors moved like wraiths through skeletal forests, their branches reaching like the arms of the damned, and across frozen fields, their breath misting in the icy air. Hunger gnawed incessantly at their bellies, a constant, dull ache that was only overshadowed by the gnawing fear of pursuit. They carried the weight of their fallen comrades, an invisible burden that bowed their shoulders and haunted their sleep with vivid, blood-soaked nightmares. Sleep offered no respite, only a recurring cycle of violence and loss.
One bitter evening, huddled for meager warmth in the ruins of a burnt-out farmhouse, they were discovered by a patrol of child soldiers. Their faces, barely touched by the softness of youth, were hard and unforgiving, their eyes reflecting a chillingly blank fanaticism. They moved with a disturbing, almost robotic coordination, their small rifles held with an unwavering steadiness that belied their age. A brutal, chaotic firefight erupted in the confined space, the high-pitched screams of the dying children mingling with the guttural shouts of the rebels in a horrifying symphony of violence. Ellie was forced to kill them, to extinguish young lives twisted into instruments of terror, a horror that threatened to shatter the last vestiges of her already fractured humanity. The image of their lifeless bodies, their small faces frozen in expressions of surprise and pain, would haunt her for the rest of her days.
The farmhouse became a scene of carnage, the walls splattered with blood, the air thick with the stench of gunpowder and death. The rebels emerged from the encounter shaken and traumatized, the weight of their actions pressing down on them like a physical burden. They had killed children, and the moral implications of that act were almost as terrifying as the enemy they faced. The lines between good and evil blurred, and they were forced to confront the darkest aspects of their own nature.
"We can't keep running," a gaunt rebel named Kurt whispered, his voice a raw rasp of exhaustion and despair. "They're everywhere. They don't feel pain, they don't feel fear… they don't feel anything. They're like machines, but with the cruelty of men."
"We have to," Ellie replied, her voice low but laced with a steely resolve that belied her own inner turmoil. "West… we have to keep moving west. Spain… there might still be a chance there. We've heard rumors... whispers of resistance beyond the Pyrenees."
The journey to the Spanish border became a protracted descent into the very bowels of hell. They endured constant ambushes, the relentless pursuit of the enhanced soldiers who seemed capable of superhuman endurance and possessed senses that bordered on the supernatural, and the chilling, almost spectral presence of the child soldiers who seemed to possess an uncanny ability to anticipate their every move, appearing out of nowhere like malevolent ghosts. They witnessed firsthand the horrifying effectiveness of Himmler's resurrected arsenal – nerve gas that induced agonizing paralysis, leaving its victims fully conscious but unable to move or speak as they were devoured by rats; flamethrowers that spat gouts of incandescent death, turning men into screaming, charred torches; and bizarre sonic devices mounted on vehicles that could shatter bone and rupture internal organs with focused waves of sound, leaving behind victims with no visible injuries but horrific internal damage.
The psychological warfare employed by the resurgent Reich was as devastating as their physical weaponry. They would broadcast propaganda messages, taunting the rebels, promising them horrific deaths if they were captured. They would also stage gruesome displays of power, such as crucifying captured rebels along roadsides or forcing them to fight each other to the death for the amusement of the enhanced soldiers. These acts of terror were designed to break the will of the resistance, to instill a sense of hopelessness and despair.
Torture became a grim specter that haunted their every step. Those captured by the resurgent Nazi forces faced unimaginable horrors, their bodies and minds subjected to cruelties designed not only to extract information but to utterly break their spirit. Ellie and her group stumbled upon the gruesome aftermath of these interrogations – bodies contorted into impossible angles, limbs twisted and broken, faces frozen in silent screams of agony, the air thick with the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and fear. They found men with their eyes gouged out, their tongues ripped from their mouths, and women who had been subjected to unspeakable sexual violence, their bodies mutilated and defiled. The enhanced soldiers often participated in these acts, their faces impassive, their strength used to inflict maximum suffering.
The rebels were not only fighting for their survival, but also for their sanity. The constant exposure to violence, death, and suffering took a heavy toll on their minds. Some succumbed to madness, their minds unable to cope with the horrors they had witnessed. They would wander off into the wilderness, their eyes wide with terror, their voices babbling incoherently. Others became hardened and ruthless, willing to do whatever it took to stay alive. They lost their sense of morality, their humanity slowly eroded by the constant struggle for survival.
January 25, 1946 – The Pyrenees
The tattered remnants of the rebellion, a skeletal procession of the damned, finally reached the towering, snow-dusted peaks of the Pyrenees, the formidable natural barrier between occupied France and the relative uncertainty of Spain. They were a mere shadow of their former selves – their numbers decimated beyond recognition, their bodies scarred by violence, frostbite, and starvation, their spirits weary yet stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. Hope was a flickering candle in a howling blizzard, threatening to be snuffed out at any moment.
The mountains themselves seemed to conspire against them. The treacherous terrain, the biting winds, and the relentless cold tested their endurance to the breaking point. They were forced to ration their meager supplies, their bodies slowly starving, their strength fading with each passing day. The higher they climbed, the more the world seemed to narrow, reducing itself to a desperate struggle for survival.
The ascent through the treacherous mountain passes was a brutal, agonizing test of endurance. The biting winds howled like vengeful spirits, and the unforgiving, ice-slicked terrain offered no respite. The rebels, weakened and ill-equipped for the harsh conditions, struggled with every step, their frozen fingers barely able to grip the icy rocks. They were not alone in this frozen purgatory. The enhanced German soldiers, their unnatural physical prowess seemingly impervious to the harsh conditions, pursued them with relentless determination. They moved with an almost supernatural speed and agility, scaling sheer cliffs and navigating treacherous crevasses with ease. Even the child soldiers, surprisingly agile and surefooted in the treacherous mountain environment, tracked them with an unnerving, almost predatory persistence, their small size and stamina making them ideal scouts and assassins in the unforgiving terrain.
The Pyrenees became a final battleground, a frozen hell where the fate of the rebellion would be decided. The rebels, cornered and desperate, fought with a ferocity born of desperation. They knew that if they fell here, there would be no escape, no hope for a future. They were fighting not just for their own lives, but for the memory of those they had lost, for the dream of a free Germany that seemed to be slipping further and further away.
The final battle took place on a narrow mountain pass, the rebels trapped between a sheer cliff face and a seemingly endless drop into a frozen abyss. The enhanced soldiers advanced relentlessly, their white uniforms stained with the blood of their enemies. The child soldiers, their faces hidden behind masks, darted in and out of the fighting, their small forms moving with a terrifying speed and agility.
One blustery afternoon, as a fierce blizzard whipped through the narrow ravines, reducing visibility to near zero and turning the mountain passes into a blinding white hell, they were ambushed. The attack was swift and brutal, the rebels hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. Voss, his once-imposing frame now gaunt and weakened by starvation and exhaustion, fought with the desperate ferocity of a cornered beast, his trusty axe a whirlwind of lethal steel. But even his legendary strength began to wane under the relentless assault. He coughed up blood with every swing, his movements becoming slower and more labored.
The enhanced soldiers fought with a chilling efficiency, their enhanced strength and speed making them almost unstoppable. They moved through the blizzard like phantoms, their white uniforms blending seamlessly with the snow. The child soldiers, small and agile, darted in and out of the fighting, their high-pitched voices adding to the cacophony of battle. They fought with a disturbing lack of fear, their youthful faces betraying no emotion as they unleashed a relentless barrage of fire.
Ellie watched in frozen horror as a hulking mutant soldier, its eyes burning with a feral, inhuman intensity, lunged at Voss. The creature was even larger and more grotesque than any they had encountered before, its muscles bulging grotesquely, its skin a patchwork of scars and metal implants. A grotesque parody of a human, it moved with unnatural speed and power. Before she could react, the creature's massive, claw-like hand clamped around Voss's throat, the sickening crunch of bone echoing in the howling wind. Voss's gaze met hers for a final, fleeting moment – a silent farewell etched in the shared nightmare. His eyes, once full of fire and defiance, now reflected only pain and a profound, heartbreaking sadness.
A primal scream tore from Ellie's throat, a raw outpouring of grief and incandescent rage. She hurled herself at the monstrous soldier, her knife a desperate, inadequate extension of her fury. She fought with a ferocity born of pure despair, a whirlwind of desperate slashes and lunges, her movements fueled by adrenaline and a desperate desire for vengeance. But against the enhanced strength and unnatural resilience of the creature, it was a futile struggle. She felt a searing pain explode in her skull as the mutant's massive fist connected with her face, sending her sprawling into the icy embrace of the snow. The world spun around her, and she tasted blood in her mouth.
As she lay on the ground, battered and broken, Ellie watched as the remaining rebels fell one by one. The enhanced soldiers showed no mercy, their faces impassive as they slaughtered the last resistance fighters. The child soldiers, their faces spattered with blood, moved among the fallen, finishing off the wounded with ruthless efficiency. Their small hands, once symbols of innocence, now wielded instruments of death with chilling proficiency.
The blizzard raged on, the wind howling like a banshee, the snow swirling around the dying rebels. The enhanced soldiers stood victorious, their white uniforms a stark contrast to the crimson stains on the snow. The child soldiers gathered around them, their high-pitched voices raised in a chilling chorus of triumph.
As the remaining German soldiers, their faces grimly triumphant, closed in, their breath misting in the frigid air, Ellie knew, with a chilling certainty that settled like a tombstone in her stomach, that this was the end. The rebellion within Germany had been brutally crushed, its last embers extinguished in the frozen, unforgiving peaks of the Pyrenees. The iron heel had descended completely, its weight crushing the very hope of freedom, leaving behind only death, despair, and the chilling promise of a new, even darker age.
The snow began to fall more heavily, burying the dead rebels under a white shroud. The wind carried their screams away, erasing any trace of their existence. The mountains stood silent and impassive, witnesses to the brutal end of a dream. The last vestiges of resistance were silenced, their sacrifices seemingly in vain.
But even as the icy tendrils of unconsciousness began to claim her, as the world faded to a monochrome blur of white and grey, a tiny, defiant spark flickered within the dying embers of her spirit. The fight was not over. Not while a single breath remained in her lungs, not while the memory of the fallen burned in her heart like a sacred flame. The unending war would continue, driven underground, carried across borders, whispered in the shadows of exile. The children of the fallen Reich would learn that even in the face of utter defeat, the human spirit, though battered and broken, could never be entirely extinguished. The price of their iron dawn would be an unending night of resistance, a simmering hatred that would one day, inevitably, erupt into flame once more, a burning ember waiting for the perfect moment to ignite a new conflagration. The saga of blood and defiance was far from over.
Continue in book 6