Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy by Dennis Detwiller

window in a heap, landing badly on his right leg. The sound of gunfire on the beach brought his head up and he saw the carnage on the bastions.
     
    Shadows were there, locked in combat, human and inhuman, backlit dramatically by the flarelight. Squatting toad-like forms closed distances with submachine gun-wielding humans, ripping them to shreds even as the rounds tore through their alien bodies. Bruning watched fascinated as one Deep One lifted what must have been an eighty-kilogram man in one bulky arm and flung him more than four meters. It shrieked. Then the thing disintegrated into a dozen slimy bits, gore and ichor spraying in a million different directions as the MG42s tracked it, leaving huge pockmarks in the cement.
     
    A man as thin as a scarecrow, with mad eyes, rushed past Bruning in a practiced combat trot, carrying a bloodied MP40. It was only when he passed that Bruning realized he was a prisoner, wearing ratty bloodstained grey rags. The stick man breezed by Bruning without even noticing him and continued around the shacks, disappearing into the shadows. Bruning stood, wincing at the pain in his leg, and made his way east, limping at a crazed pace for cover, any cover, as the shells continued to fall.
     
    A submachine gun erupted behind him and he didn’t even spare a backwards glance as he slunk up next to a storage shack, slipping into the shadows. An SS man rushed past within four feet of him, unarmed, his face fixed in a mask of terror.
     
    Then heat. Amazing heat, and the sensation of flying.
     
    Bruning landed roughly on a singed portion of wood, his head pounding in time with his heart, realizing lethargically that a shell had just missed him. Next to his head a black-clad leg severed neatly at the knee lay amidst the smoking flaming ruins of the shack, and Bruning frantically grasped at both his own before realizing it was the unfortunate remains of the SS man he had seen moments before the explosion.
     
    He pulled himself upright, the pain in his leg forgotten, the nails which had sunk deeply into his back ignored, the second-degree burns on his face seeming distant and unimportant. He picked up his valise and shifted into a crouching, shuffling run towards the east fence.
     
    More shells fell, ripping into the childrens’ section, but they sounded distant and far away. He ran past the flaming wreck of the building, ignoring the childrens’ screams, searching frantically for escape. Then Bruning saw it, a gap in the fence, blown open by the shelling.
     
    He fell the last few feet towards the fence, stumbling to a halt next to an upended railroad tie. Ahead of him the foot path to the top of the Nez-de-Jobourg cliffs lead up into the darkness. The rail-road tie jumped in his hand and smoke kicked up from it in a small cloud. It took him a moment to realize someone had just shot at him. He spun frantically, dropping his valise in the dirt, and saw an SS man rushing towards him from the officers’ cabins with his arm raised in a martial stance. A tiny flash of light appeared in the SS man’s shadow-clad hand and something whistled by Bruning’s head, followed swiftly by the crack of the report. It was one of Weber’s guards.
     
    Bruning dove onto his valise, turned, and ran as fast as he could for the path up the cliffs. Stumbling up into the dark, following the sandy, ghost-white trail which zigzagged ahead of him, Bruning searched the hills frantically for the tell-tale flashes of mortar fire. Although his breath came in short gasps, it seemed to Bruning he could continue this way forever. His body felt like a machine, something he simply operated and had no connection to, which would run eternally upwards, following the path automatically.
     
    Ahead of him up on the rocky promontory a single flash of light changed Bruning’s direction instantly. He zigged into a clutch of sickly trees, following a overgrown path which was only visible as a thin line in the dark of the night. The slope