AVARICE—GUERNICA

By Josh Reynolds

It was a market day.

It was warm, and the air was slow and thick with smells and laughter. There was a war on, somewhere. But not here. Not in Guernica.

It was a market day.

Then, above, a distant whine of foreign built engines. The quiet shriek of metal slicing through the air. No one noticed, too busy sampling, tasting, laughing, talking.

The first raid occurred at four-thirty in the afternoon. The market was in full swing. People everywhere. On the roads, in the streets, bent over stalls. Money switched hands, clink, clink, clink. Mammon at rest.

The bomb struck the street and ruptured it. The others followed in rapid succession, a conga line of heat and flame erupting in the shadow-step of distant planes. Buildings twisted on an impossible axis, shattering from the force delivered from on high. Streets buckled and rose up in protest. Bodies bent beneath the shockwave and swam through the air, burning and graceful.

The bombs continued to fall, one after the other, tears dripping from wheeling shapes that floated above Guernica. An eternity of death, doled out in mere minutes. And then, when the wind changed, it was done.

It had been a market day. Now, it was nothing at all.

Days afterward, some survivors would speak of the heroism displayed as the bombs rained down. Heroes pulling people from burning buildings, and out of the path of panicked animals. Other survivors, however, would speak of different things seen in the flames. Of something that rode screaming through the destruction, with a face seared to the bone, hunting the perpetrators of of a crime greater than many could conceive.

It rode a bull, they said. Or something that had been a bull. It snorted fire, and its hooves were hellsteel. The fire, they said, looped around it and followed it as it galloped through the streets of Guernica on that hideous day. Screaming. Always screaming. Always moving.

Later, some would say it was the soul of Spain burning with the fires of war. The ghost of a tormented people, brought to unholy life by the blood sacrifice of Guernica.

The official explanation was that it was a mass hallucination, brought on by the stresses of the Nationalist offensive on an isolated population.

Maybe it was.

Sometime after the bombs had finished their ugly work, somewhere, a horse shrieked, as the dust settled and the ash danced down on the breeze.

George Steer winced at the sound. The animal’s screams echoed from between crippled buildings, bouncing off scorched brick and slicing through the air.

He snapped a photograph, mentally composing the telegram he would send out the next day to his editor, Geoffrey Dawson, at the Times. He would mention the bomb casings he’d seen, with their German markings and the firestorm that had erupted in the center of town, turning the buildings black.

Steer wondered what had caused that. Incendiary devices, definitely. But whose? The Germans? And why? Why this town?

He stood, carefully, as the horse screamed again. Bricks shifted beneath his feet. He closed his eyes, willing it to die. Some part of him writhed in sympathy with the unseen animal, but a harder, colder part of him wanted the beast to hurry up and die. It’s screams were giving him a migraine.

Steer was in his thirties, with a bland, Dutch face that hinted at his South African origins. Two years earlier, he had been in Ethiopia, covering the Italian invasion. He could still recall the stink of mustard gas as it rolled through the trees, drowning men in their own juices.

He climbed down from the pile of debris he’d been squatting on, sliding the last few feet. His ‘guides’ watched him without curiosity. They were dressed in Nationalist uniforms, but he doubted they were on any official pay roster. One of them, the larger of the two, grinned at him, displaying a mouth full of gold.

Steer had paid them to get him into the city, and he was beginning to suspect that it had been money well wasted. Maybe it was the way that their uniforms didn’t fit quite right, or the way the smaller one held his rifle. Like a man more used to being on the other end of the barrel.

“I need to get closer to the town center,” he said. The larger man, Alonso, shook his shaggy head.

“We not going that way, senor.”

“Too many soldiers, senor,” the other man, Miguel, a twig compared to his companion, said. “Too many soldiers.”

“Worried about your commanding officer spotting you?” Steer said. Alonso’s brow furrowed for a moment. Then,

“Yes. Of course. Yes,” he said, baring his teeth. “We get in trouble, going there.”

“Ah, well, then I suppose the time has come to part company then,” Steer said, making a show of examining his camera. He had a pistol hidden under his shirt, a revolver he’d carried through the hellstorm of Ethiopia, a gift from a friend. “Because I need to see the town center first hand, I’m afraid.”

“We cannot go,” Miguel said, raising his rifle slightly. Alonso pushed the weapon down and smiled at Steer.

“You come with us, we show you something better, eh?”

“Better?”

“Much better, yes. Lots of fine pictures,” Alonso said, mimicking the snapping of a photograph. “Eh, Miguel?”

“Click, click,” said Miguel. He had a scar that ran the circumference of his neck, and sometimes, when he spoke, it turned an angry red. Steer watched the scar go the color of cooked beets and faked a smile.

“Why not? Lead on, gentlemen.”

They intended to rob him, that much he was certain of. It was a chance you took with guides, regardless of where you were. He’d been robbed before, and didn’t fear it. They couldn’t steal the words in his head, could they?

He glanced at the rifle in Miguel’s hands. There was something that might have been blood drying on the barrel. He bit his lip, considering making a run for it. Then decided against it. There was always the off chance that-

A sound. Hooves?

Miguel spun, the barrel of his rifle narrowly missing Steer’s face. “What was that?” he said.

“What was what?” Alonso said, hissing between his gold teeth.

“That sound!”

“What-” Alonso began, face flushing.

“I heard it as well,” Steer said, quickly. Alonso looked at him. “I heard a horse earlier. Maybe-”

“Yes. A horse.” Alonso slapped Miguel’s head. “A horse, fool.”

“A horse?”

“My kingdom for a horse,” Steer murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. You said you had something to show me?”

“Yes. Click, click, eh?” Alonso flashed his shiney smile again and motioned. “We go this way.”

They fell into a line, Miguel behind him, Alonso in the lead. Steer kept a hand close to his waist. The pistol was a comforting weight. He wondered if he’d be quick enough.

The crackle of gunfire mingled with the muted roar of flames. There was a pall of smoke over everything and Steer found himself struggling to breath at points as they passed between fangs of brick and wood that marked the last site of many of Guernica’s buildings.

Bodies covered in a Pompei-like shroud of ash lay sprawled in odd corners. Men, women, children, animals. The smell of cooked meat was overpowering. Steer covered his mouth with a handkerchief as they moved through the streets, trying to block out the smell and the memories it brought welling up from the caverns of his mind.

Some part of his mind, the bit not concerned with keeping his gorge in check, found itself fascinated as they moved through the wreckage. Such destruction, wrought for no other reason than as a test.

Or so his sources said. The Luftwaffen had needed to test their pilots. And the Nationalists had offered Guernica as the testing ground.

They had turned the peaceful Basque town into a cauldron of roaring death, and only for a test. He wondered what they would do to the rest of Europe when they decided to wage such a campaign for real.

Something glinted in the ash. Steer’s eye was caught, pulled. He stopped, peering into the gloom.

“What is the-” Alonso began.

“Wait,” Miguel said, stopping. He set his rifle aside and squatted, digging his fingers into the ash, groping. Steer felt his lip curl. Alonso clucked his tongue.

“Such greed.”

“He doesn’t need it, does he?” Miguel said. He grunted, jerking. Something cracked, ripped and he fell back, clutching a tarnished pocket-watch. Bits of black clung to it. Steer closed his eyes.

“Squeamish, Mr. Reporter?” Alonso said, quietly.

“No.” Steer opened his eyes.

Bricks slopped down from a pile, chunk-chunk-chunk. Miguel scrambled back with a yelp. Something snorted, an exhalation as loud as it was unexpected.

Alonso had a pistol in his hand before the echo had faded. Eyes narrowed, he turned in a slow circle. Steer stepped aside.

“Come out!” Alonso barked.

Silence greeted his demand. Then,

Clop-clop-clop. Heavy. Steer wasn’t sure that it was a horse. Too heavy. The smell of burning meat was stronger. A cow? There had been cows in the town. It had been a market day. It had-

Silence.

Miguel scrambled to his feet, the pocket-watch dangling from his belt. “We should go,” he whispered, the whites of his eyes showing. “We should go now.”

“Yes. Yes,” Alonso said. He gestured with the pistol. “Move.”

“You haven’t said yet what you’re showing me,” Steer ventured, after a moment. Alonso shrugged.

“Something.”

“I could have seen something in the town center.”

“Not this something.” Alonso still had his pistol out. “It is…special.”

“Are you trying to rob me, Alonso?” Steer tensed, even as he said it. Alonso hesitated, then smiled.

“Maybe a little. Maybe not.”

Brick crunched. Steer whipped his pistol out and spun. Miguel stumbled back, dropping his rifle, hands up.

“Wait! Wait!”

“No. You wait. Until I’m out of sight. Then you can go about your business,” Steer said, backing away from both of them. Alonso cocked his shaggy head.

“You know why we come with you, Mr. Reporter?” he said. Steer stopped. Alonso smiled. “Not robbery. Not you. Not really.”

“Then what?”

“Gold.”

“Gold?”

“Hah. Why do you think they pounded this village flat?” Alonso gestured. “An example? Yes. But these Germans, they are smart.” He tapped his head with the barrel of his pistol. “Franco needs money, yes? Otherwise…hah.” Alonso spread his arms. “And there is money here. Gold. Moorish gold, from the occupation all those centuries ago. King Rodrigo’s gold, maybe.”

“And you know about this gold, how?” Steer said.

Alonso gestured, fluttering his fingers. “A bird.”

“Are you working for the Republicans?” Steer said. Alonso laughed.

“Us? Hah! No. We work for ourselves, Miguel and I. Gold is gold. And causes are more trouble than they are worth, yes?”

“It depends on the cause,” Steer said. Then, “You were using me as cover.”

“Yes. Smart, eh?”

“And now?”

“Three pairs of hands are better than two.” Alonso shrugged again. “We will cut you in, of course.”

“But-” Miguel began. Alonso cut him off with a look.

“And if I have no use for gold?”

“You lie. But, imagine, Mr. Reporter, being able to show the world the true reason for Guernica’s destruction, eh?” Alonso holstered his pistol. “Gold, and nothing more.”

Steer stood, for a moment. Then he stowed his weapon. “Fine.”

“Fine? Excellent.” Alonso clapped his hands together. “We go.”

And they did. As before, Steer in the middle, but more relaxed. They were indeed criminals, but he could deal with criminals. Steer swung his camera, taking snapshots of the devastation. Miguel stopped occasionally to pull rings off fingers or investigate a ruined home. Alonso didn’t. Steer figured him for a man with a plan. His impatience with his partner in these moments seemed to bear that out.

“Must you? We are nearly there!” Alonso sighed, as Miguel stopped their progress for a third time. The thin man was kicking his way into a deserted shop. The wood snapped and popped, but behind it-

“What was that?” Steer said, turning. He smelled something. What was-sulfur? Was that-

“I heard nothing except that fool’s antics!” Alonso barked. “Idiot! You-”

Steer tuned out Alonso’s rant. There was something out there. He turned in a slow circle, his eyes sweeping the darkness. Hell lights blazed in the distance. The fires of the planes’ passage was not yet out, but then who was left to put them out?

Clop-clop-clop-

Steer froze. Heavy hoofbeats in the distance, sometimes near, sometimes far. He heard them as clear as day. Were they getting closer? The smell was getting stronger. What was-

“Miguel! You bastard! Get out here-” Alonso started forward, drawing his pistol.

Miguel screamed.

Pop-pop-pop. Like firecrackers. Steer whirled, clawing for his pistol.

“I wouldn’t.”

Steer froze. Men in green stood scattered throughout the ruins. Uniforms unlike anything that Steer had seen before. Dark green. Hunter’s green. Thick jackets, baggy pants. Alonso had his hands up. Steer raised his as well.

Light from the distant fires glinted off of a monocle. A bald man, big and broad shouldered, stepped forward, his hands behind his back.

“Some of Franco’s? No. No, I think not,” the bald man said, circling them. Steer couldn’t see Miguel anywhere. “Republican, then? Basque, maybe?”

“I’m a British citizen. A journalist,” Steer said. “Here to cover the war.”

“War? What war?” the bald man said. “This is not a war. This is a tiff. A spat.” He gestured, as if to wave the thought away. He looked at Steer. “Not British though. Certainly not. Afrikaaner.”

“And you are German.”

“Prussian.” The bald man clicked his heels. “Baron Wolfgang Von Strucker, at your service.”

“Strucker. I have heard that name before.” Steer tried to keep his voice calm. Strucker smiled.

“My reputation precedes me. Why are you here?”

“As I said, I’m a journalist-”

“Following a story then? And these are your guides?” Strucker gestured at Alonso. “This Spanish pig and his companion?”

“One works with what one is given,” Steer said.

“Poor tools break easily,” Strucker said, even as two of his men dragged Miguel’s body out of the house. Alonso went pale, but said nothing. Strucker looked at him. “Republican?”

“I-I-” Alonso gestured to his uniform. Strucker clucked his tongue.

“No. No, you’re not one of Franco’s. Nationalist forces were ordered to stay out of this area.” Strucker unholstered the Mauser that rested on his hip. “Not Republican, eh? Unlucky, then.”

“No,” Steer said. “You can’t-”

The Mauser snarled and Alonso toppled backwards, his golden teeth flying out of his mouth. Steer felt his gorge rise. Strucker turned to him.

“And now you.”

“Wait! Dear god wait!” Steer covered his face with his hands. Something burned his nostrils. Harsh and acrid, like burnt blood.

“Why?” Strucker said. Steer lowered his hands.

“What?”

“Give me a reason to spare your life.”

“I-”

“You are a journalist, yes?” Strucker had holstered his weapon. Hands behind his back, he looked at Steer. “Why are you here?”

“I-I’m covering the civil war-”

“Yes. But why here specifically?” Strucker leaned close. “Why are you here?”

“They said they had something to-”

“Show you?” Strucker rocked back on his heels. “Like gold, perhaps?”

Steer said nothing. He heard something. In the distance. A low rumble-

“They were leading you to the gold, eh?” Strucker nodded. “Our gold.”

“It’s true then?” Steer said, before he could stop himself. Strucker frowned.

“Have you told anyone? Anyone else? Did they?” Strucker gestured to the bodies. Steer’s eyes narrowed.

“It is true. You instituted the bombing for-what? Gold?” The rumble was louder. Idly, a part of his mind wondered if that was what the bombers had sounded like as they approached.

“Of course.”

“Is Franco that strapped for funds-”

Strucker gave a bark of laughter. “You think this money is for Franco?” He swept his arms out. “That this, was for Franco?”

“Then, Germany-”

“Ha!” Strucker tapped the side of his nose. He smiled grimly. “No. Not quite. Not now. You don’t know, do you? Your indignation says as much.”

“I-” Steer swallowed. “I was just here to report on the bombing.”

“Ah. How fortunate. It means that our organization, as yet, remains safely nestled in the bosom of the Reich.” Strucker gestured. His men shifted, straightening.

“Hail Hydra,” they murmured as one.

“Hydra-what-” It was louder, the sound he’d heard before. He wondered why they couldn’t hear it. He wondered if he could run. No. No they’d cut him down before he got far-

“Kill him,” Strucker said, softly. “Make it quick. There’s no reason to drag it out now. We have what we came for, and no one is the wiser…”

Rifles rose.

Something snorted.

There was a stink like burning meat and coal. Steer fell forward, prompted by instinct as something passed overhead, crackling like an inferno. Hooves struck the ground, throwing up a sea of sparks and ash.

Steer looked up and felt a scream bubbling at the back of his throat.

It was a bull, but yet, it wasn’t. Like a film reel being cranked too quickly, the immense skeleton pawed forward first slowly, then too fast. Fire curled between the ribs and rode down the spine, swirling up around the legs of the matador seated just behind where the animal’s shoulder’s should have been. The matador’s clothing was black and smelled of cooked pork. It was suit of lights, black and ugly. A skull encased in flame turned and looked at Steer.

Then, it screamed. And it seemed to him that every person who had died in the civil war was screaming with it. A multitude of voices howling and shrieking their impotent rage to the heavens. The screams of innocents caught in the machinations of Mammon. They had died for gold, and now, it seemed, they had come to claim it as weregild.

Steer felt his heart stutter. Stop.

It had all been for gold. For power. Petty reasons to steal life. Greed. Avarice. But then all wars were fought for greed, weren’t they?

No. Not all wars.

“Kill it!” Strucker howled. Machine guns chattered. The skeletal torero turned, as if it had all the time in the world, and urged its mount forward. A hand snapped out, and themuleta with it. The red cape arrowed forward, coiling and snapping, rippling with flames between the threads. Steer fancied, just for a moment, that he could see screaming faces sewn into the cloth. A man screamed as the cape wrapped around him, burning him, crushing him.

The spectral matador turned, bony fingers drawing a slim espada from a sheath made of burnt skin. A German staggered back, but too late. Estocada. The thrust of the sword carried the German, his skin bubbling and bursting from the heat of the blade. His backpack fell from his shoulders. Gold coins spilled out, rolling across the blackened ground in a shiny stream.

The bull snorted, whirled, back hooves rising, kicking. A man crumpled. Steer covered his eyes and crawled backwards, trying to get away from the heat, the horrible heat of it. The heat of a thousand bombs, the heat of a town turned into a cauldron of death. And for what?

Gold?

Guns snapped and snarled like hounds at bay. The torero screamed again, arms spread. The ground shook as if God himself were joining the fray. Steer heard Strucker screaming orders and imprecations. His eyes cracked open.

From the black sky trampled a herd of ghostly bulls, their eyes made of white lightning, their hooves thunder given shape. They swirled around, flattening, thinning, ballooning. Where their hooves struck, men fell and gold turned to black nothing.

An arm seized him, pulled him upright. Strucker. Steer choked, as Strucker aimed his Mauser.

“Stop! Stop!” Strucker yelped. “Stop or I’ll kill him!”

Silence.

Clop. Clop.

Steer opened his eyes. A burning bull’s skull stared at him with eyes made of red coals. It snorted, and he gagged on sulfur fumes. Atop it, the matador leaned forward. It’s jaw sagged.

“One more. One less. It makes no difference,” it said, without moving its mouth. But Steer could tell-somehow, he knew that it was lying-

Strucker hesitated. “What are you-”

“Vengeance.”

“The gold-”

“Blood money.” A tendril of fire curled away from the bull and swept over the visible gold, melting it, warping, turning it black. Had it all been in their packs, Steer wondered. The bodies of Strucker’s men followed, becoming limp torches.

Strucker grunted. “A pity. But such are the fortunes of war, eh?” Steer could feel him trembling, but no trace of fear lurked in his words. Strucker backed away, pulling Steer with him. “We will find our funding elsewhere.”

“No more funds. No more deaths,” the matador hissed. The bull clopped forward, head lowered, horns swooping back and forth.

“Oh, many more, I should think.” Strucker pressed the Mauser tight to the side of Steer’s skull. “Seas and messes of blood. And what then, my bony friend? Eh?”

“Death. Vengeance.”

“Words. Just words. Our cause is just-”

“I didn’t know money was a cause,” Steer said. Strucker hesitated.

“What?”

“You did this for money. You have no cause beyond petty larceny.”

“I-” Strucker shook his head. “Quiet. You have no concept of my undertaking-”

“But I will. I will make it my business to find out-” Steer slammed his foot down on Strucker’s instep, causing the Prussian to stagger back. Steer fell forward. The matador’s arm flashed and the muleta whipped out, the frayed edges brushing across Strucker’s fleshy face, burning thin canyons through his meat.

Strucker screamed and fell back, firing his Mauser. He hit a broken wall and tumbled backwards, debris raining down. Steer scrambled to his feet. He could see no sign of Strucker in the ruin. The dust and ash settled. He could hear voices. Gunfire. The Nationalists were moving against the remaining Republican strongholds in the town.

“Dead?” he said.

“No.”

The skull-face of the matador looked down at him through gauzy flames. If it was possible for a skull to look resigned, it did so now. “Death is his lot, but never for good. And not by my hand. He will bear the scars for all of his lifetimes, however.”

Steer shook his head. The words floated in his head like a memory he hadn’t had yet. He pushed past them, trying to grab onto something concrete.

“And me?”

“Life. For as long as you live it.” The bull turned of its own accord and began to trot away, leaving footprints burned into the street.

“Who are you?” Steer called.

“No one.” The bull was fading, its outline blurring and stretching like a heat mirage. Its rider looked hunched and ill, if a skeleton could look ill. “Simply a ghost.”

Then, the hoofbeats of the bull echoing up and away, beast and rider were gone. Steer let out a breath and sat down. Conclusions bristled behind the fog of adrenalin and fear. How long had it been following him? Or had it? Had it been just luck? A journalist’s luck, to be in the wrong place at the right time?

In the end, maybe it didn’t really matter. Avarice had drawn it, as surely as the way a red flag did a bull in the ring. Men’s greed for material wealth had led to the destruction of a town, and then, to their own damnation in the form of-what?

Nothing that could be explained. Not easily. Not by him. He’d heard the stories from America. Of burning men and ocean kings. Seen the pictures. But this…

He shook his head. Stood. And began making his way to the town center. With luck, the evidence he’d hoped for would still be there. And after he filed the truth of what had happened in Guernica with the Times, he’d begin a new story.

One about an organization within the German military, called Hydra…