MicroHorror

The searchlights cut through the night, picking out the droning Luftwaffe bombers far overhead. Anti-aircraft guns positioned in London parks and the surrounding countryside kept up a constant barrage.

“What’s Jerry doing up there?” Private Wilkes asked his gun commander as another aeroplane passed without dropping bombs.

“Something tricky,” Lieutenant Smythe replied. “You can count on it. Definitely something tricky.”

“Tea?” Jane the wireless operator asked, approaching with a thermos and some white china cups.

“I’d prefer something a little stronger,” Wilkes laughed. “But if that’s all there is….?”

“I may have a little something to pep it up,” Archie the fourth member of the unit offered, and headed for the cab of their lorry. Suddenly he cried out as something floored him with the force of a rugby tackle. Before he could call out again, sharp teeth were tearing at his throat.

“Get the torch on it!” Smythe shouted, releasing his pistol from its holster.

Wilkes played the beam on the struggling forms. “My God, it’s a German. They must be using black parachutes so we don’t see them coming down. Typically underhand!”

“Achtung, Fritz. Off that man immediately or I’ll fire,” Smythe ordered.

The invader continued to gorge. Smythe fired a shot into the air, and the man rose slowly to his feet, face hideously dark with blood.

“Hände hoch!” The Lieutenant raised his own hands to convey the message. “Wilkes, cover him with your rifle. Jane, see if Archie made it.”

Jane screamed as the parachutist rushed to intercept her.

“I warned you.” Smythe fired into the chest of the advancing figure.

The bullet hit with an audible thud. The Lieutenant fired again and Wilkes joined in with his Lee Enfield but to no effect.

“It ain’t human!” Wilkes cried as he reloaded.

Smythe found himself the focus of attention. A boxing Blue at Oxford, he defended himself with swinging uppercuts and heavy body blows. The creature was not playing by the Marquis of Queensbury rules, grabbing the Lieutenant’s hand and trying to eat it.

“Take that, you cad!” Jane swung the lorry’s snow shovel in a whistling arc. The sharp edge cut through the thing’s neck, releasing a geyser of blood.

“Well done, Jane,” Smythe said thankfully. “Now for a closer look at this fellow.”

Approaching to help, Wilkes kicked something on the floor. “Cor! Real Havana cigars, these are.”

“Oh, what have I done?” Jane screamed, as the torch revealed a familiar face.

“It’s Winnie, sir!” Wilkes gasped. “Jane’s killed Winston Churchill.”

The strong, bulldog features of the Prime Minister gazed blankly up at them.

“Don’t worry, it’s a Doppelganger, Jane. This thing isn’t Mr. Churchill, it’s a double. Must be some kind of new Nazi secret weapon,” Smythe exclaimed. He bent to look more closely. “So perfect! We should be careful, there may be others around. We must let HQ know.”

Jane started toward the wireless and screamed. Smythe and Wilkes were beside her in seconds.

She pointed straight ahead. A dark shape could just be seen coming across the field.

***

Winston’s advisors were against him going anywhere on his own, but the gun crew was less than a mile from his temporary home and he’d sneaked out to surprise them. He loved surprises. In one hand he carried a glowing cigar, in the other a small hamper containing sandwiches made by his housekeeper and a half bottle of quite good brandy. He squinted as a light blinded him.

“Turn that off!” Winston ordered. “I’m sure you recognize me. I’ve brought a small repast to thank you for your sterling work in keeping Britain safe.”’

“Even sounds like him,” Wilkes observed.

“So, a double Doppelganger! Well, we’ve beaten one, we can beat another,” Smythe announced, raising his pistol at the advancing shape. “Jane!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get your shovel.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Mark Dalligan