Thirst No. 5 by Christopher Pike Page B

then. If anything, his suspicions soar and he pulls out his handgun and points it at my head. He speaks to me in barking German, a language that often seems designed for temper tantrums.
    “Do not think you can frighten us with your empty threats,” he says. “You are in violation of curfew. Your reason for wandering the streets at this time is laughable. If General Straffer really cared for you, he would have made sure you were escorted to your door. I can only assume you are a liar and a secret enemy of the Nazi party. Now turn and walk into that building across the street or else I will shoot you where you stand.”
    I smile. “Shoot me.”
    The tall man shakes. “Herr Faber, please put down your gun. I have heard talk Straffer is seeing a blond beauty. This must be her. Her papers are in order. If we upset her—”
    “Halt den Mund!” the short one screams. Shut up! “I don’t care if she has bewitched the general. There’s something strange about her. Her eyes, they are not normal. I don’t trust her. We must check out her story.”
    I nod as the short one speaks. He’s highly perceptive. Few humans can tell I’m not human; I’m impressed to meet one who can. However, his unique insight has made it unlikely he will live to see the dawn.
    “Shoot,” I repeat.
    The tall man is a mass of nerves. He is close to tears and I feel sorry for him. In two minutes, the lazy night has transformed into a life-and-death situation. He drops his cigarette and accidentally knocks over their bottle of wine, which he left resting on the bench. The sound of the breaking glass echoes in the night like the sound of snapping nerves. The short one is close to pulling the trigger.
    “Fräulein,” he warns me as he cocks his weapon.
    I take a step closer. The muzzle is inches from my head.
    “Shoot,” I say again.
    The short man grins bitterly. I realize something else about him right then. He should have been Gestapo. He is a true Nazi, a sociopath. Orders aside, he wants to kill me because he enjoys killing.
    “Hündin,” he says, calling me a bitch.
    The man squeezes the trigger.
    I instantly reach up and turn his aim on his partner.
    The roar of the shot, in the silent night, is deafening. The bullet hits the tall man in the chest and ruptures his heart. He’s dead before he hits the ground. The short one stares in shock at the grip I have on his wrist, the pressure I’m applying. The shock changes to desperation as I slowly twist his aim toward his temple.
    “Arschloch,” I whisper, calling him an asshole, an instant before I slide my hand over his finger and pull the trigger. Thebullet cracks open his skull and a glut of dark blood erupts from his mouth. I leap back to avoid being sprayed.
    I run away, fast. There’s no point in trying to hide the bodies. The streets don’t flood with cars searching for me, not that I expect them. Even during the day there are few vehicles on the road. The Nazis have taken away most French driver’s licenses. The hometown crowd is reduced to riding mostly bicycles. Only the Germans are allowed to drive freely, and those who have cars are almost always Gestapo.
    Yet I’m several blocks distant from my dastardly deed, when I see three black cars suddenly plunge into the street from behind a garage door. The cars appear at a steep angle, as if rising from the deep, and I realize, by sheer accident, that I have discovered the secret entrance to the Gestapo headquarters.
    I wait for the posse of cars to vanish and rush beneath the garage door a second before it closes. I expect to confront a handful of guards but find no one. The doorway must be controlled from a distance. I’m alone in a black tunnel that stretches for far longer than the two blocks Anton’s friend described. However, I’m certain I’m on the right track.
    The dark is an old friend and the tunnel is poorly lit. Running silently along the right wall, I eventually come to a claustrophobic underground cavern