December 13th, 1944...


A plane flies high above the clouds. Its cargo: an experiment on the way to "the Giant." To a specific scientist who plans to utilize them to help turn the tide of the war, in the name of the Fuhrer. The plane had departed only just two hours ago, from a deep swamp on an uncharted island off the coast of Japan.

The night is black as pitch. The winds are near gale-like, and the clouds have turned dark in threaten of a storm. Below, there are abandoned homes and structures. Old military outposts from Japan's spread into China, and burnt out hiding places where the fleeing Chinese had attempted to take refuge.

Lieutenant Yager and Captain Amherst lounge quietly in the cockpit of the cargo plane. Yager reads a small book that he had withdrew from his coat pocket and Amherst holds the controls of the plane, allowing it to glide through the air.

Taking into consideration the highly serious and volatile cargo they were carrying, they were rather calm and nonchalant.

Corporal Haswell sits on one of the seats attached to the lower wall in the small metal room that seperates the cockpit from the rest of the aircraft. He rests his back against the wall, sleep clinging to him at the edges of his mind. He closes his eyes for a moment, to gain a little concentration and focus.

Haswell thinks of home, and of the events that have taken place since he last saw his family. Were they still back in Germany? Had they evacuated? Were they still alive? These thoughts brought him no comfort.

Haswell could not but fear for what may have happened to his family. They were unwanted. Undesirables of society. He had joined the army to hopefully throw off the trail and convince the Reich that his family was truly German. A feeling of discomfort and loneliness comes over Haswell as he clutches the Star of David hidden underneath his layers of clothes. Sleep clang to him, and he succumbed to it willingly...

A clang of metal. Somewhere nearby, the twisting of steel seemed to screech through the depths of Haswell's mind as he jumped with a start, awakening from his slumber. He looked around, confused. The noise continued, louder now, as metal raked against metal like nails on a chalkboard.

The cockpit hatch opened, Captain Amherst standing in the opening with a worried look on his face. In his hand, he held a Walther pistol, his finger brushing the trigger. Haswell jumped to his feet, and spoke hurriedly to Amherst in German, "What is it?"

Amherst only rose his finger to his closed mouth, signalling him to be silent. Amherst made his way over to Haswell, and stood right in front of him. Amherst, a large man standing at 6' 3" and weighing 230 pounds, made Haswell pale in comparison, only standing at 5' 7", standing before the giant.

Haswell looked into Amherst's eyes. They were filled with some sort of burning hatred. Haswell saw the fire that only filled the eyes of those few in the ranks of the German military forces that truly hated people of Jewish kin. They were the ones that truly believed every word Hitler spoke, and hated the Jews as much as their Fuhrer did.

Haswell was shocked. How did Amherst know? He must know, there was no other explanation. Amherst pointed at the floor of the metal cabin. Haswell looked down, and the Star of David was there at his feet, looking up at him. The necklace must've fallen from his neck when he had fallen asleep holding it.

He looked back up at Amherst, who had moved the sidearm up to Haswell's head. Haswell braced for the end. He knew it was over, that Amherst was about to fire the round through his skull and cause his brain matter to spew out all over the wall of the cabin.

Amherst would land with Yager, and he would be decorated as a hero for eliminating the scheming Jude who had planned to sabotage the plane and cause the cargo to fail. All lies, but Amherst would tell it his way, and the others would believe him. Haswell would never see his family again, and would die hundreds of feet in the air, thousands of miles from home.

However, in this shocking turn of events, both Amherst and Haswell had forgotten about the screeching metal. Haswell still didn't know what it was, but suddenly the thick steel door that sectioned off the cargo hold from the rest of the plane was torn open. A pair of bloodied hands ripped through the metal, grasping with sickly palms and shredded fingers. Open sores that had no blood running from them were riddled on the backsides of the hands.

More hands quickly joined the first pair as Amherst and Haswell looked on in terror. The hands grasped at open air, and continued to try to rip through the door with an inhuman fury. Bone-chilling moans and terrifying growls could be heard from the other side.

Amherst knew immediately what had happened: The "experiments" who had been in the next room along with the other cargo had been bound to the walls by welded metal and put into cages. They must've broken free of their binds and begun seeking to quell their hunger by searching for the nearest living beings, those, unfortunately, being the three-men flight crew.

Haswell was stuck in a shocked stupor, unable to move. He was rooted to the ground, only able to stare on at the evil that was clawing in to get at him. Amherst ran back through the slightly ajar hatch that led to the cockpit.

"They're free! They're trying to break in!" He shouted in German. Yager turned and looked at Amherst, a horrified expression on his face. "What will we do?!" Amherst queried, still yelling in panic.

Yager knew that he had to land the plane. The chances of making it to the ground were slim, but he still had to try. "We will land." He replied quietly, and turned back to the controls.

From the other room, shots could be heard discharging from a Kar98k, a more or less standard bolt-action rifle that had been issued to Haswell for special cargo operations for use in situations just like this. Haswell shouted a cry of terror, and Amherst looked back through the open door.

The monsters had broken through the metal door, and were shambling towards Haswell and the men in the cockpit. Haswell ran to the cockpit door, stopping only to glance at his Star of David before just barely avoiding one of the monster's flailing arms, and running into the cockpit. Amherst and Haswell sealed the thick metal door just before the first of the terrors could reach them.

Haswell looked over at Amherst, who, even in this dire situation, glared at him with that same fiery hatred. Haswell attempted to avoid making further eye contact with Amherst.

The loose monsters outside were banging and smashing the door, trying to get in. Yager calmed himself, trying to focus on the plane's controls. "You may want to take a seat," he advised the two standing men. They quickly sat down where they could best manage a seat, and braced themselves.

The plane began to dip, heading almost straight down. Through the cockpit window the clouds were moving quickly, evaporating from their sight as they sped out of them. The lightning from the storm had become, and they could see distant flashes of the light as they sped, ever faster, downward.

Suddenly, one of the streaks of hot lightning collided with the back end of the plane. The aircraft shook violently, throwing Haswell out of his seat and sending Amherst sprawling against one of the metal walls of the cockpit.

Their downward descent became a chaotic spiral as the men were thrown around inside the cabin as the plane circled to the ground, falling out of the sky. The clouds and fog dissipated only two hundred feet from the ground, and they all got one good glance at the earth before they smashed into it. Everything went black...

STORY UPDATED, AUGUST 3RD 2009 AT 5:36 PM EASTERN!


December 14th, 1944...

Amherst woke with a start. He looked around, confused. He saw the concrete walls around him, and suddenly felt cold. He realized he was lying on a hard floor, the cool concrete prickling at his back with icy fingers.

His eyesight was still blurry, and he could just barely see a tall figure walking nearby him. His ears felt stuffed with cotton, and he could hardly hear what he assumed was two men speaking. As he came more to his sense, he realized that the two men were Haswell and Yager.

Amherst sat up and tried to take in more detail of his surroundings. In the corner of the room was a staircase. To his immediate left was a window boarded up with nails and rough planks of wood, as if they had been haphazardly sawed and nailed onto the frames of the now windowless opening. Outside, there was only fog.

He looked down at his wristwatch, but it was cracked and the fingers had stopped turning. He assumed that dawn must've been approaching, for a strange hue of light emitted from the fog, as it would on an early morning in Berlin, where the mists crowded the streets and made it hard to see, and blocked out the rising sun.

Yager looked over at Amherst, and realized he had regained his consciousness. Yager rushed over to the man, and helped him up. Amherst felt sore all over the place. Yager asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Amherst replied, feeling his back, trying to locate the main source of his soreness and misery. Amherst looked over at Haswell, who was sitting on a crate, and immediately felt the same burning passion of hatred he had on the plane, "You! Juden!"

Amherst felt for his pistol, but it was not there. He instead rushed over to Haswell and kicked him off the crate and grabbed him by the collar of his tattered uniform. He was on the verge of smacking Haswell and sending him sprawling, but as he lifted his arm Yager grasped his hand with his iron grip, refusing to let go.

"No." It was only one word, but Yager said it with such serenity and authority that Amherst unintenionally relaxed his arm and let go of Haswell. Yager let go of his arm, and returned to his seat after helping Haswell up off the floor and helping him retrieve his seat.

"But don't you realize, he is a Jew! He is undesirable!" Amherst shouted, regaining his sense of confidence and hate.

"Yes, I know. But he is not a bad man. He saved your life." Yager replied. Amherst looked over at Haswell in shock, but Haswell only returned the look with a blank face, empty of expression.

"When the plane went down, the... Um..." Yager paused, unable to think of a word.

"Zombies," Amherst said blankly, his face turning pale at the thought of them clawing out of the metal door back on the plane.

"Right, the zombies. When the plane went down, the zombies began to shamble towards you. They were completely unaffected, given that the plane had just crashed. They don't suffer from shock like we do."

"Yes." Amherst replied.

"They began to shamble towards you, but Haswell regained his sense in time to fire a few rounds into the first few, and then dragged you to safety. Luckily for us, we found ourselves just outside of this abandoned structure. We assumed it was some sort of outpost, being maintained by the Chinese just before the Japanese ran them out, and then retreated back into central China."

"And where are the zombies now?" Amherst asked, looking around with apprehension. His mind began to imagine them, coming down the stairs and tearing at the windows. He thought he heard noises, their muffled moans above him and around him. Yager's voice snapped him back to reality.

"They retreated into the fog. You were unconscious for a day. While you were gone, they returned. We were out looking for lumber to board up the windows, as you see we have, when we discovered them trying to get into the outpost when we got back. They were trying to find us, but you were the only one inside. We managed to repel them, and a few escaped back into the fog."

"Strange," was all Amherst could manage to say, "How many were there?"

"About a dozen. Considering the five or so Haswell killed when he rescued you, and the six that we counted that were dead from the impact of the crash, there were -" Yager began, but Amherst cut him off.

"Than there were when we took off... That's not good." he said, his face losing more color. How could there be more? Amherst began to make a theory, when all of a sudden, a moan penetrated through the room, sending chills down the men's backs.

"They're back," Haswell said as his face flushed. He picked up his rifle and went up the stairs. "Let's go!" he shouted from above. Yager turned to Amherst.

"Wait here. There may be a few coming from the opposite side, and that means they'll try to break through the barricaded windows down here. You repel them, since you are still weak and may not be able to handle going up there with us." With that, Yager handed Amherst a rifle and headed upstairs, scooping up his MP40 that had been resting on another crate near the stairs.

Amherst stood up, still sore and aching. He looked at the opposite wall. Luckily, there were only two windows, both well boarded up. There was room for him to peer out, and so he limped, as his leg had a strange sensation of burning pain, to the nearest window and looked out.

Through the fog, he could see nothing. Just before the wall of fog enveloped everything, he could see the crashed plane, crates, metal, debris, and other wreckage flung everywhere. Signs of fire were evident on the ground, where scorched earth could be seen.

As soon as the danger was over, he would have to go out to the aircraft and look for the remaining cargo, whatever else there may be left. He had to recover something. It may be the only clue as to why the zombies are seemingly multiplying.

Suddenly, a figure animated out of the mist. It shambled toward Amherst. From deep in its throat, a hollow and deviant moan echoed. Amherst shivered as the noise passed into his ears. He took aim, and fired. A significant amount of black liquid spurted from the neck, but the zombie kept shambling onward as if nothing happened.

Amherst took aim again, and shot it in the head. The skull cracked, and the zombie fell over, black liquid pouring from the hole where its eye had been. Amherst took a moment to rest, calming his nerves after seeing the zombie.

They were truly a horrid sight, still wearing their clothes they had been wearing before they had perished on either a battlefield or on a sick bed, now covered in mud and dirt. Their eyes seemed to glow yellow, but their eyes simply gave the impression that they were. The eyes were truly just sunken and colored to a pale yellow, and were bloodshot. Similar effects on pupils had been seen in the late 1700's, during the Yellow Fever outbreak in the newly formed Americas, as well as in other countries where Yellow Fever ran rampant during the summer time of the year, when the mosquitoes carrying the disease were most active.

But the yellow eyes effect on the zombies were not caused by disease-infested flies, or of any other natural causes. Amherst knew this, having read many of the notes, reports, and journals on them.

The researchers had found out that the "Yellow Eyes Effect" was the cause of Ununpentium, element 115, which had been used in the later experiments. The element emitted a yellow gleam, that was reflected in the zombie's pupils and was what gave the eyes a strange hue of yellow, causing their eyes to seemingly glow yellow.

Amherst began to contemplate more, but suddenly he turned to the window, which was on the opposite wall of the one he was standing at, to see a zombie ripping off the first of the boards. Amherst shrieked, and aimed his rifle. He fired, and hit the zombie on the arm as it tore at another one of the boards.

Amherst fired once more, and the zombie fell to the ground outside. He panted. He had been taken off guard, and he would not allow his thoughts to wander again.

It could cost him his life. Or maybe save him from this waking nightmare. Or become a part of it.

STORY UPDATED, AUGUST 4TH 2009 AT 9:50 PM EASTERN!

Amherst waited, peering out into the heavy mists. No more zombies appeared out of the fog, but he dared not move away from the window. He crouched near the lower part of the window, looking out, trying to pierce the fog with his eyes.

Fingers of lazy mist curled around, making every small object seem as if it were rising from the ground, or crawling up to him. His mind was playing tricks on him, and he felt as if he was beginning to experience hysteria.

The noises and moans returned to him, and he began to see the zombies clawing through the metal door back on the plane. The metal being wrenched and torn screeched in his mind, the arms reaching out, the open sores dripping no blood. He felt bile forming in his throat, and felt as if he was about to vomit. The noises and moans became more horrendous and unbearable. He felt a scream welling up in the back of his throat.

Suddenly, a hand grasped him. He yelled in terror. He looked at the hand, but there were no open sores or torn fingers. Amherst observed the arm with wide-eyed pupils, noticing the arm did not have torn sleeves or gray flesh. Amherst looked up, and saw Yager's calm face looking at him.

"They are gone," he simply said with his regular tone of authority and serenity. Behind him, Haswell stood. Black, viscous liquid was splattered on his tattered uniform as if an inkwell had spilled on him. His face was grim and filled with anxiety and apprehension as he looked around, observing the silent walls, as if the threat was still near.

"Are you all right?" Haswell asked Amherst, still keeping his distance. Amherst stared blankly at him for a moment, trying to think of words.

"Yes," he said dumbly. Yager helped him to his feet. He looked over at the window, untouched since he had downed the last zombie. He had gotten lucky.

"How long was I out?" Amherst asked, retrieving his rifle which had been dropped by the window.

"We saw you scream and pass out as we came back down the stairs. You've only been out for a few minutes. Everything's fine, they're gone." Yager said, reassuringly. Amherst realized what he now needed to do. He looked at both his comrades.

"I need to go back to the plane," he said. Yager and Haswell looked at him, confused. "Don't ask questions, I just need to. Now how do I get out of here?" The two men looked at Amherst, still with confused expressions on their faces.

After a moment, Yager stood up and said "Right then, this way." Yager began walking towards the staircase once more, and signaled for Haswell to stay behind. Yager retrieved his MP40, which was resting in its normal place at the foot of the stairs, and put the strap on his shoulder, allowing the gun to hang freely.

The two men walked through the rest of their foritified outpost. Amherst felt good, given the circumstances, about being able to walk around more freely, his legs adjusting and slowly working off the aching pain in his back.

Amherst observed the rest of the structure. Papers, books, and other clutter was scattered all over the ground. Bookshelves lay overturned, a few desks thrown against the walls or smashed on the concrete floor.

It seemed as if everyone here had just picked up and disappeared, leaving a wake of trash and other debris as they went. Amherst was about to ask if the outpost could've been an abandoned Chinese one when Yager stopped walking abruptly.

Amherst nearly collided with him, having been only a few feet behind Yager. He almost asked why they had stopped, when Yager motioned for him to be quiet. Amherst looked past Yager, and saw what must've been the center of the structure.

A staircase was attached to the left wall, leading up to the second story of the building. Just past the staircase, the roof had collapsed, and a large concrete slab lay smashed on the floor. Around it, the bodies of the most recent attackers were still strewn about, limbs and body pieces missing from the corpses, some drenched utterly in black liquid.

Then Amherst heard it: A faint moan. Yager must've heard it the first time, for he was now searching wildly with his eyes, trying to locate the source of the noise. Yager began to walk forward, slowly and stealthily. He had removed the strap from his shoulder and was now clutching it tightly, his finger lightly brushing the trigger.

He signaled for Amherst to wait. Amherst had already turned the safety off on his rifle and was now holding it in front of him, staying ready for anything. It seemed as if the place had lost all warmth, the little there was, instantly, as if something had sucked it from the place like a vacuum.

Yager kept walking, his black boots tapping against the floor ever so softly. Just before him, the staircase began. Overhead, he knew, there was an opening where you could see down into the main room from the second story. He looked up, pointing the barrel of his sub-machine gun as he did so.

He kept walking, waiting to see if anything would fall from the second story. Nothing happened. He returned his gaze down just in time to reach the edge of the dark pool of viscous black liquid.

He stepped over the corpses as best he could, trying to avoid looking at their distorted faces and bloodshot yellow eyes. Suddenly, something grabbed his leg. He looked down with a yell, and saw a zombie with no legs grasping his pants leg with an iron grip. He tried to jerk it off of him, but it would not let go.

Amherst came running up, about to fire a round. Suddenly, a black figure fell from the second story in front of him. He came face to face with a set of bloodshot, yellow eyes. It grabbed him, and began to pull him in. Amherst tried to break free, but all he could see was the zombie's wide-open mouth with the set of blackened, jagged teeth as he realized its grip on him was like steel. Amherst managed to grab his knife from its sheathe on his belt, and began to grapple with the monster, trying to stab it as it tried to bite him.

Yager managed to fire a round into the crawler's head, and then stamped down on the hand that was holding him, hearing the bones crack as he did so. The hand released its deadened grip, and Yager managed to recover in time to see Amherst stabbing the zombie in the stomach.

The zombie's guts and bowels spilled out, though no blood ran, all over Amherst and onto the ground. It continued to try to bite, and it nearly nicked his face. Amherst fell over, sending the zombie sprawling with him as they continued to struggle.

Suddenly, a pistol discharged. A round entered through the back of the zombie's head and out the left eye, causing the black substance to splash onto Amherst's face. The zombie was dead. Well, even more so than he had already been.

Haswell appeared in the doorway, Walther clutched in his hand, his face grim yet confident. He smiled a bleak smile at Amherst, who had looked over at him. He walked over and assisted Yager in helping him up.

"Come, let us get to the plane." Haswell said, and with that the three men walked through the rest of the outpost exited through a door Yager and Haswell had reinforced with rough scraps of lumber when Amherst had been unconscious.

Once outside, they walked around the side of the building, past several oil drums, rustic trucks, and twisted metal that lay scattered on the ground. They intentionally tried to stay as close to the concrete exterior wall as they could. They didn't want to venture too far into the fog.

They finally reached the downed plane, after what seemed like an eternity of walking silently, stopping to listen, checking behind them, and preparing themselves for a fight at the slightest sound. Amherst and the others stepped over the wreckage, slowly making their way to the back of the plane, which was one of the only recognizable parts of the aircraft that was left.

On the back wing, a black mark was the only evidence that it had been struck by a bolt of lightning. The metal had twisted as it melted under the extreme heat, leaving it looking contorted and odd.

Amherst came up to the hatch that led into the cargo room. Haswell and Yager stood directly behind him, Yager clutching his MP40 and pointing it at the door, Haswell staring off into the oblivion with his rifle ready in his hands.

Amherst braced himself. He opened the door, and peered inside the cargo plane, into the darkness.

STORY UPDATED, AUGUST 6TH AT 8:46 PM EST!

Amherst stood at the opening of the door, frozen. He watched, trying to see through the darkness that stood before him like a black wall, but to no avail. Amherst waited, listening intently. Anything "alive" inside could stir at any moment, becoming aware of his presence there.

He waited. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The metal hull was bone-chillingly cold and was eerily silent. Amherst took a step, his black boots echoing against the metal. Still, nothing moved. He said a short prayer under his breath, and took another, larger step inward.

Satisfied that nothing that could feast on his flesh was still in the hull, so he began to move more freely and slightly more confident. He found a lantern that had magically survived the crash without breaking into glass shards, and walked back to the opening.

"Do either of you have a match?" he asked, gesturing towards the lantern.

Yager searched his pants pocket. Haswell reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a book of matches and threw them over to Amherst. Amherst grabbed them out of the air and opened the book, withdrawing a match as he did so. He struck the match and lit the lantern. He pocketed the matches and went back into the cargo hold.

This time, the hull was lit up by the blazing light emitting from the lantern. Scraps of metal were scattered about the floor, many crates were turned and their contents spilt out. Several glass tubes, beakers, calcinators, and other alchemical and scientific instruments were smashed or damaged. Black liquid was stained onto the metal like ink to a white shirt, creating large splotches of the viscous substance on the walls.

Amherst stepped inside timidly. A piece of glass shattered underneath his heavy boot, startling him. He jumped and looked down. Outside, he heard Yager chuckle, though very grim as it was. Amherst shook his head and continued in. He searched the ground for anything of use.

Few papers were on the floor, so he hoped that the small box he was looking for had not been opened during the crash. He raised the lantern to the corner he thought the box may be in, judging from the tilting of the plane and the possibility of it having been thrown into that corner during the downward spiral.

On the wall to the left side of the corner, a pair of wrought iron wrist-chains were bolted to the wall. Hanging from one of the chains was a twitching hand. Amherst yelped, stumbling.

Yager rushed in from outside, and saved Amherst from the fall that would've occured had he not appeared.

"What is it?" Yager asked quickly behind clenched teeth. His free hand he had not used to help Amherst was fingering the sheathe to his combat knife that was attached to his leg, his eyes sliding in every direction.

"Look," Amherst answered, pointing at the hand. Yager made a sound of disgust as Amherst's stomach churned looking at the sight again.

"Just ignore it," Yager told him, stepping back towards the cargo entrance. It was too obvious that Yager had as little interest to study the hand further as Amherst.

Amherst averted his eyes from the grisly sight, and began to search the cold, steel floor for any signs of his missing box.

After several minutes of careful searching, he found the box underneath a pile of rubbish and glass, among other garbage, covered in the same black liquid as the walls. It seemed a puddle of it had formed in the corner. Amherst noticed several trails of the substance twisting and turning as if they were small streams towards the corner, where it had built up and gathered the foul-smelling puddle.

Amherst shook his head, holding the box between his arms, guarding it, as he made his way back to the entrance. The box was about the length of a large-sized hardcover book, and possibly double or triple the size, though the contents inside were much more valuable than any book in existence, even more so than the Bible.

Amherst smirked. Of course it's more valuable than the Bible, the contents in this box have defied its word several times already. With that, he stepped back out of the cargo, throwing the matches back to Haswell as he went, the evil smirk still stuck on his face.

To be continued...

me to i hope he covers all the way up to der riese