“Do you think your girlfriend downstairs is thinking about you?” said Scheffler. “Do you think she misses you?”
Piotr moaned and grunted louder under the increasing weight of Scheffler’s foot.
“Come on, let’s see those tiny arms work.”
Scheffler’s number two Otto Litger marched over from the office.
“Phone call,” said Otto, brushing over his flattop with both hands.
“Come here,” said Scheffler, motioning with two fingers. “Take over.”
With Otto now adding the extra weight on Piotr’s back, Scheffler marched into the office.
“Scheffler,” he said into the telephone handset.
“Word from Kalakia. He believes there are more productive ways to discipline the boy. Let him out and move forward with the training. How you make an example of him after that is up to you.”
The connection closed, leaving Scheffler to process Francois’ words alone. He put down the handset and gazed into space.
“Fuck!” he yelled, slapping his glass of water off the desk, sending it shattering to the floor. “Fucking bastard!” he screamed and banged his fist on the desk, causing the items on top to shake from the aftershocks.
He exhaled rapidly and scowled. Those damn steroids. Fine, he thought. Abel could win the battle of attrition. Scheffler would win the war out in the field. But first, he needed to blow off some steam.
Frederich jerked awake. There was a shuffling sound to his right. His body tensed and the hairs on his head stood up. He choked off his breathing and listened hard for a long time. The room was silent. What was Scheffler up to? He waited and listened. Nothing. Another hallucination? His stomach was in knots. It grumbled again, begging for food. His lips were cracked all over, his mouth felt like paper.
“Raaaw!”
His body convulsed. This time he was sure he had heard it. A mammal of some kind.
“Raaaw,” it roared again.
He flipped around and perched himself up with his hands. He underestimated how much his strength had been sapped, growing light-headed and collapsing down onto his shoulders. The shuffling continued. He narrowed his eyes and tried to catch a glimpse of what it could be. He could vaguely make out its enormous outline. His head was spinning. He braced himself.
Scheffler marched into the training hall with his fists cocked. The recruits were in the middle of one-on-one sparing sessions with Otto supervising.
“You! You! And you! Let’s go!” yelled Scheffler, pointing at three random recruits.
He planted his legs in the middle then took off his singlet and tossed it aside, revealing his bulging, carefully sculpted muscles. His nostrils were flared and his chest was heaving up and down. He made two swift exhales through his nose.
“Move it!” he yelled with a booming voice.
The other recruits scrambled to the edge of the mattresses. Two of the chosen recruits swapped worried glances. Ralph, the bulky skinhead from London, seemed unsurprised by Scheffler’s abrupt entrance. He flared his body and lifted his chin. Otto had his thick arms crossed and looked on from the side.
Scheffler decided on his first victim. He took two quick steps forward and landed a lightning fast jab in Ralph’s face, following it up with a fierce right hook to his chin. Blood sprayed out of his nose and he collapsed to the floor. The life was sucked out of the room. Nobody moved, including Ralph. Served him right for being cocky.
As though sensing the danger they were in, the other two sprang to life. They screamed out in unison and ran toward Scheffler. Scheffler stood firm and allowed the two fighters to rain down a combination of fists to his face and torso. He gritted his teeth and grunted with each punch received, allowing the pain to awaken his endless supply of rage. Finally, he went on the offensive. He gripped one of them by the throat and tossed him aside with one arm. Using a full twist of his torso, he came down on the second fighter with a swift right hook. The recruit fell to the floor, and struggled to lift himself up again. Scheffler stomped on his hip with the sole of his boot, and the recruit let out a deafening scream.
There was now one fighter left standing, but he seemed to have accepted his fate. His hands were cocked but shaking, and fear oozed out of his eyes. He looked over at the other recruits, pleading for their help.
“Eyes here!” yelled Scheffler. “Never let your opponent out of your sight.”
He turned his head quickly back toward Scheffler. Scheffler slapped his own chest hard.
“Come on!”
With a final burst the recruit yelled and marched over to Scheffler and attempted to punch him. At the same time Scheffler reached his arm back and slapped him in the face. Scheffler’s strength was irresistible, and the recruit tumbled over.
The rest looked on dumbfounded at the aftermath. Otto stepped onto the mattresses and looked over the three defeated fighters with a frown.
“Right,” he said gently without taking his eyes away. “Everyone get back to the dorm rooms. We march in twenty minutes.”
The recruits shuffled away immediately, several of them helping carry the two worst injured by Scheffler’s blows. When the room was emptied out only Scheffler and Otto remained.
“Bad news from Berlin?” said Otto.
Scheffler grunted and looked away, shaking his head to demonstrate his disapproval.
“They’re getting soft,” he said.
“It’s been almost four days. Maybe he’s had enough,” said Otto, to which Scheffler responded with a dark, wide-eyed grin. Scheffler looked Otto directly in the eyes.
“Enough? We’re just getting started,” he said, and marched away.
Its breath was stuffy and loud. With slow footsteps it stalked him across the room.
“Come on,” he whispered, trembling and alert. “Do it.”
It grunted. He knew he would be an easy target, too weak even to stand. He still intended to fight with what little he had left. It moved a step closer.
