The snowstorm around the mountain never ceased, a constant curtain of white that shielded the world from what lay hidden within. Deep within, the Nazi laboratory and testing facility had stood for countless years, a place where the cries of the lost were smothered by thick walls and the bitter wind. But now, gunfire echoed through the steel corridors, the rhythmic thunder of boots on concrete replacing the familiar hum of the generators.
The fox-like humanoid crouched in the shadows of her cell, eyes wide, ears straining against the distant noise. Her limbs ached, her mind fogged with the effects of whatever drugs they had pumped into her veins that morning. She could barely grasp the words she knew, the ones that might save her—help, surrender, please—but it didn't matter. They had told her she wasn’t human, not truly, and deep inside, she believed them.
Outside the locked door, she heard shouting in a language she recognized but could barely understand through the haze. Englisch, she thought, sie sprechen Englisch. Her heart pounded, not from hope but from a fear that had seeped into her bones after years of torment. When the door crashed open, she pressed herself back, eyes wild as soldiers poured in, weapons raised. Their faces, obscured by masks, blurred at the edges of her vision.
"Fuck, one's still alive," one of them muttered, his voice carrying a note of disbelief that cut through the haze. "Check the rooms, make sure there’s no one else. Get it out of here."
The words came slowly to her, like a memory fighting its way to the surface. She watched as they scanned the cell, their movements efficient, precise. Another voice, rough and tired, spoke up. "This is the only surviving subject left. Rest of the facility's clear." He turned his gaze on the fox, and she flinched, instinctively curling tighter, bracing for another blow that never came.
"Hey, hey, it's okay. We're here to help you," the first one said, his voice softer now. She stared at him, uncomprehending, the words slipping away like water through her fingers.
"Do you speak German?" another asked in German, his foreign accent mangling the familiar sounds of her language. She blinked, confusion and anger flashing through her.
"Ja..." Her voice cracked, barely a whisper, but the soldier’s relief was palpable. He gestured to one of his comrades, who spoke rapidly into a radio. They moved with the certainty of men who had seen too much, but there was a hesitation in their touch when they finally reached for her, as though she might shatter at any moment.
"Don't worry, we're getting you out of here," he said in German, voice steady, but she heard the tremor beneath it. They hauled her to her feet, her body limp and uncooperative. The world spun around her, shapes blurring together as they dragged her into the hallway, past doors she had only seen from inside. She caught a glimpse of the rooms beyond—labs, restraints, the sterile lights that had burned her eyes for so long.
Bin ich frei? The thought burned through her mind, sharp and painful. But she couldn’t voice it, could only stagger as they half-carried, half-dragged her through the cold, sterile, gray concrete corridors. Her legs failed her, but she kept moving, driven by a numb, animal instinct that told her she had to keep going, no matter how much it hurt.
As they neared the exit, the cold air rushed in, biting into her skin. The brightness outside seared her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, gasping at the sensation she hadn’t felt before—wind, real wind. The soldiers wrapped her in a blanket, their hands gentle, guiding her to the waiting chopper.
She heard them speaking into their radios, voices crackling over the roar of the rotors. "Subject secured, we're bringing it to the FoB for medical. Yeah, I don't know how it's still standing either. It's... it's just a child, for fuck's sake." The last part was softer, but it cut through the fox’s numbness like a knife.
Just a child... She let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, feeling it catch in her throat. But she was too tired, too broken to make sense of their words, and as the chopper lifted off, she let herself drift into the darkness that beckoned her from within.
The fox's vision swam with exhaustion as the helicopter touched down on the snow-packed ground, the whine of its rotors blending with the distant clamor of the makeshift Forward Operating Base. Rough hands helped her out, but she recoiled from their touch, her legs giving way beneath her weight. The blanket they had wrapped around her slipped to the ground, revealing her gaunt frame—her fur patchy, skin pulled tight over bones that hadn’t had enough to eat in years. The soldiers kept their distance, exchanging uncertain glances, and the soldier who knew German knelt down, speaking softly to her in English-accented German.
"Everything will be okay, we are here to help you," he repeated, but the fox just stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, too worn down to understand. She flinched when he reached out, but he paused, his hand hovering in the air, before pulling back.
“Take it slow,” he instructed the others, his voice low and cautious. “She’s... terrified.”
Together, they guided her towards the medical tent, but the fox’s steps dragged, her body leaning away from the soldiers as if expecting every touch to turn into another blow. The tent flap lifted, revealing the brightness inside, sterile lights glinting off rows of metal cots. The space was small but packed with medics and personnel, each busy with their own tasks, but when the fox entered, the noise began to die down. Heads turned, curious eyes fixed on the emaciated, barely-clothed figure shivering beneath the blanket.
The fox shrank back, eyes darting across the unfamiliar faces, her breaths coming faster, shallower. The room seemed to grow smaller, and the walls pressed in, each voice like a pinprick on her skin. Her ears twitched at every sound—a zip of a medkit, the scratch of pen on clipboard—and she stumbled back, her body hitting the canvas wall with a soft thud. She dropped into a crouch, arms wrapped tight around herself as if she could make herself smaller, invisible.
Zu viele... zu viele Menschen... The thought tangled with the others, jumbling together, twisting into an animal panic. She curled into herself, her claws digging into her arms, head bowed low as she trembled. Whispers filled the space around her, and though she couldn’t understand the words, she felt their weight, pressing down on her like the restraints they had used so many times before.
A medic stepped closer, extending a hand. “Hey, it's okay. We’re here to—”
The fox let out a choked sound, half-snarl, half-whimper, scrambling back on all fours until her back pressed against a stack of supply crates. Her breath came in panicked gasps, her vision tunneling as the edges of the room blurred. She barely registered the figures approaching until a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Fuck! All of you, stand back, can't you see she's afraid!? Stop it.” It was the soldier who had spoken to her earlier, his tone sharp enough to snap the attention of the room. He knelt a few feet from her, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “Niemand wird dir weh tun.” He glanced back at the others, gesturing for them to give her space.
Reluctantly, the medics stepped back, and the soldier waited until the air in the tent seemed to settle before he turned his attention back to the fox. “Listen, I know it’s hard.” His voice softened, low enough that only she could hear him. He took a small, careful step closer, not reaching out this time. “We’re here to help.”
She stared at him, barely processing his words, but the lack of pressure, the absence of hands forcing her to move, began to seep into her frayed mind. She sniffed the air, catching a different scent—something warm and savory. Her stomach clenched painfully, reminding her just how long it had been since she had eaten anything more than the tasteless mush they fed her back in the facility.
The soldier seemed to catch her interest and reached into one of his pouches, pulling out an MRE ration pack. He tore open the packet, the scent of preserved meat filling the air, and set it on the floor between them. He took a step back, giving her space, nodding once as if to say it's yours.
The fox eyed the food, but she didn’t move. Her eyes flicked back to him, waiting for the trick, the punishment that was sure to follow. When nothing came, she hesitated, then slowly, shakily, she reached out, snatching the packet from the ground and retreating with it to her corner. She devoured the contents with a desperation that made the soldier’s expression tighten, but he didn’t interrupt.
As she licked the last traces of sauce from her fingers, she finally looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time without flinching away. “How long...” Her German voice cracked, but she pushed the words out, her mouth clumsy with the unfamiliar effort. “How long...will I stay here?”
He blinked, then answered back gently, “As long as necessary until you feel safe.” He gave her another small nod. “But now, let's take a look at you, alright? The doctors are nice... they just want to help you.”
She glanced towards the medics, still hovering at a distance, their faces tight with concern. Her hands tightened around the empty food packet, crinkling the wrapper between her fingers. But the soldier’s voice, the food in her belly, gave her just enough courage to nod. She didn’t resist when he gestured to the medics, though her muscles remained tense, coiled tight as they approached.
The next hours passed in a blur of lights and cold instruments against her skin, but the soldier stayed by her side, speaking softly whenever her panic rose. For some reason, he made her feel safe. She didn’t understand everything, but his presence grounded her enough that she didn’t fight when they bandaged her wounds or checked her vitals. It wasn’t until they tried to draw blood that she snapped again, pulling away with a wild, desperate strength that sent the needles clattering to the floor.
“Hey, calm down please...” The soldier’s hands caught hers, not forcing her but holding her steady, his voice a calm anchor. “Nobody is trying to hurt you, but we need to take some of your blood.”
Her breaths came in panicked heaves, but she focused on his face, the only familiar thing in this sea of strangers. Slowly, her frantic breathing slowed, and she allowed herself to slump against the cot, her body trembling with exhaustion. She felt him release her hands and watched as he stepped back, giving her space once more.
“Danke,” she whispered, her voice so faint it barely reached him. But he nodded as if it was the most important thing she could have said.
The fox sat across from the soldier in the dimly lit debriefing room, cradling a cup of warm broth between her hands as if it were the last source of heat in a frozen world. She had learned to sip it slowly, savoring the warmth as it spread through her hollowed-out body. Her breaths came in shaky intervals, the steam rising up to hide her face in a shifting veil of warmth. The broth was a comfort she still didn’t quite understand—too rich, too kind, like everything else they’d given her since her rescue.
The soldier, the one she trusted most, sat across from her with his hands folded on the table. He always made sure to sit close but never too close, never crowding her space. He waited patiently, his eyes steady and watchful, as if he knew that forcing the words would only send her retreating back into the silence she wore like a shield.
“Do you have a name?” he asked gently, his tone calm, the German still awkward on his tongue. He offered her a small smile that softened his rough features, the same expression he used when coaxing her to eat.
She blinked, frowning down into the murky depths of the broth. Name? The word twisted through her mind, foreign and strange. She didn’t have one—never had. The scientists who handled her had only called her by a number, barking it out like a command. Subject 122245, Experiment 122245. Her mouth moved as if trying to form the numbers, but she clamped it shut, shaking her head.
“I...I have no name,” she managed, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words scraped at her throat like sandpaper, each syllable costing her more than she had to give.
The soldier’s brows furrowed slightly, and he leaned back, thinking for a moment. “That's okay,” he replied softly, switching briefly back to English, before returning to German. “How about... if I give you a name?”
The fox froze, her eyes widening as she looked up at him, startled by the offer. A name felt like a strange thing—something that belonged to others, not to her. Yet something in his tone, the softness behind the suggestion, made her hesitate. She tilted her head, her ears twitching slightly as she studied his expression, trying to gauge his intent. He didn’t seem to be mocking her or trying to manipulate her like the others always had.
He saw the uncertainty in her gaze and held up his hands, palms out, a gesture she’d come to understand meant no harm. “I'm thinking about... Zoey.” His voice was gentle, careful with each word. “It means 'life'." And then in English, he said, "It means... life."
Zoey repeated the name to herself, testing the sound of it on her tongue. It felt strange, like trying on a coat that didn’t quite fit. But there was something in it that stirred a faint warmth in her chest, a flicker of something that might have been hope, if she still remembered what that felt like.
“Zoey...” she whispered, her voice cracking as she tried to wrap her mind around the idea of it belonging to her. Her hands tightened around the cup, and she glanced up at him, a question in her eyes.
He nodded, offering another small, encouraging smile. “Ja, Zoey.”
She let the name settle in the silence between them, her heart fluttering with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. It felt like a secret shared between them, something fragile and precious. She held onto it tightly, clutching the sound of it to her chest like the warmth of the broth she still cradled. Finally, she found the courage to speak again, her voice trembling but clear. “What...what about you?”
The soldier’s smile widened, a hint of something lighter than she’d ever seen on his face. “my name is William. William Hawthorne.”
She nodded, as if committing the name to memory, then looked back down at her cup, tracing a finger along its rim. “William...” The name rolled through her mind, and she found that it brought a small measure of comfort. She stole a glance at him, then whispered, “You...You make me feel safe.” The admission tumbled out before she could stop herself, and she shrank back as if expecting a reprimand, but he only nodded again.
“I'm glad you feel that way, Zoey,” he said quietly. “I will stay here as long as you want me to.” The promise in his words wrapped around her, a thread of steadiness that she clung to.
The following days passed in slow, careful steps. Zoey ate when William brought her food, always waiting until he placed the ration packs or the warm meals in her hands. When others offered her food, she shrank back, shaking her head vigorously, retreating to a corner until they left. But when William was there, coaxing her gently, she would inch forward, taking whatever he offered with a desperate, quiet hunger. The food became a ritual, a connection between them that seemed to bridge the endless silence that stretched between the moments when she could bear to speak.
During the debriefing sessions, William sat across from her, the warm smell of soup or bread lingering between them. He never forced the questions, but they needed answers, and he asked gently, patiently, each word in German chosen with care. Zoey spoke in fragments, her sentences breaking apart as she tried to drag the memories into the light, but more often than not, her voice faltered, trailing off into silence. Her hands would shake, spilling the broth, and she would press herself back into the chair, staring past him at things he couldn’t see.
“What did they do to you, Zoey?” William asked one evening, his voice a low murmur against the hum of the heaters in the tent. He waited as she clutched the bowl to her chest, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to find the words. “They... they have... they broke my arms... many times...broke other things, too.” Her voice trembled, and she could feel the panic clawing its way up her throat. She forced herself to continue, her breaths coming faster. “To see how quickly they heal... or... or if they heal at all.”
William’s expression tightened, and his knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of the table, but he didn’t interrupt. Zoey’s shoulders began to shake, the bowl clattering against the table as she set it down with a trembling hand. “It hurt so much,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a broken sob. “And they didn't stop until I... until I...” She broke off, clutching her hands to her chest as if trying to hold herself together.
“It's OK, Zoey,” William said gently, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. “You don't have to keep talking if you don't want to.”
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. “I... I wanted to die... but they kept me alive. They gave me... things...” Her hands twisted in her lap, mimicking the motion of injections. “Drugs so I wouldn't... become weak. I hated it...” Her voice cracked, breaking on the last word, and she choked back a sob, pressing her hand to her mouth.
William reached out, stopping short of touching her, letting his hand hover in the space between them. “I'm sorry, Zoey,” he murmured, his voice raw with a pain she couldn’t quite understand. “I'm so sorry you had to go through this.”
She looked at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and something deeper—something fragile, like a tiny ember struggling to stay alight. No one had ever apologized before. No one had ever spoken to her as if she mattered. She didn’t know how to respond, so she simply nodded, biting back the tears that blurred her vision.
Over the next few weeks, their conversations continued in fits and starts, each word a struggle for Zoey to unearth. She spoke of the isolation cells, the days spent in darkness with nothing but the sound of her own breathing. She described the ice baths that left her shivering for hours, the burns inflicted to test the limits of her pain. Each memory came out in a stuttering, halting flow, and more often than not, she would break down before she could finish, retreating into the silence that had become her refuge.
But William never left. He always sat with her through the worst of it, offering quiet words or simply listening, his presence a constant, unyielding support. He never pushed her for more than she could give, and sometimes, he would even offer small distractions—stories from his home, tales of a place she couldn’t imagine but that sounded warm and green and far, far away from the cold walls of her past.
Slowly, piece by piece, the story of her suffering unfolded. It was a slow and painful process, but William listened to every word, and in the darkness of the med tent, a bond formed between them, fragile but growing stronger each day. And through it all, Zoey clung to the sound of her new name, repeating it to herself like a prayer, as if it could somehow anchor her in this strange, uncertain future.
No comments:
Post a Comment