Windkill

Another crater, this one larger than the one at the first explosion, greeted Dolan in stark silence. How far apart were the explosions? Only one each second. Long enough for a person to count to one thousand three. Long enough for a person at the site of the last explosion to know what was coming.

The phantom noise of the destruction followed him to the edge of the crater, the voices giving a last cry of fear and pain, then…nothing. The intensity of the silence made him dizzy. Dolan sat on the ground and hung his head.

As incredible as the ride was, he thanked God it was over. The breath of wind sighing through trees calmed him in answer to his unspoken thanks. Looking up, he saw the low clouds moving overhead; the fireball lost in the past where it belonged. It was a pity none of the other people in the valley saw what he endured; it would have been nice to have corroboration for his sighting.

That was the way it worked for ghost sightings. They only appeared at the worse of times when a person was alone.

Standing, he glanced at his watch and realized how late it was. He had to get back to the trailer so he could prepare the Ottingers. Hopefully, the occupants of the valley had spent their energy on him, that they would be so tired the ghosts might not hurt the family.

Right, he thought sarcastically, these ghosts seemed to be full of energy. If they were lucky, the Ottingers would only see the ghosts, but Dolan suspected that was a false hope.

“Hey Dolan,” a voice called out. Dolan recognized the voice immediately; it was Anthony. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

The big man shrugged and waited for the Englishman to arrive. “Thought I might get a look at the valley.”

“Well, we better get our bums out of here before the victims arrive.” Uncharacteristically, Anthony offered a small flask to Dolan. He took a grateful slug of the brandy and handed the flask back. “You look peachy.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Dolan watched the Englishman take a drink, then pocket the flask.

“Hell no, I grew up in Coventry.” Anthony gestured Dolan ahead.

“That’s supposed to mean something to me?” Dolan walked south. This type of conversation was typical of Anthony, one never knowing if the man was joking.

“You bloody yanks,” Anthony laughed. The sound odd in the valley’s still. “Coventry is a place that should have ghosts. During World War Two…”

Anthony’s voice diminished as the men gained distance from the crater. If either man had looked back, they would have revised their thinking. Anthony would have a ghost story to tell, and Dolan would know the ghosts were far from done with the night’s activity.

An Army Captain stood next to the crater watching the men. His face would remain forever young and transparent, his thoughts inscrutable in his emotionless face.

Had they been close enough to see details of the ghost’s uniform, neither Dolan nor Anthony would have understood the subtle difference in the ghost’s insignia. Instead of having a pair of crossed swords on his collar lapel, the ghost had a castle, the insignia of an engineer.

The ghost turned and walked across the crater like it was not there, and disappeared toward the bunker to the north. In the distance, two men walked south, oblivious to the shadows walking among the trees as dozens of ghosts went about their tasks.