Jacques Tremblay ran.
He and his gang pulled up along the outskirts of Tulle slowly after dark
that evening and were mystified by the deathly silence. Gone were the patriotic
banners, the French tricolor, the anti-Nazi signs and placards. Gone were the
reveling crowds and blaring music. All that remained was shadows and the whistling
wind. Jacques told them to park along the treeline so that he could sneak into the village to investigate. He crept along the bushes and
eventually slipped into the shadows in making his way into an alleyway leading
towards the thoroughfare.
He splashed softly through the mud and kicked something that had a weird
feel to it. He looked down and was startled by the sight of the outstretched
arm of a dead man in a dark suit. He stared hard into the shadows and realized
that it was one of a stack of bodies piled against the brick wall like
cordwood.
The vein in his temple began throbbing as he realized that the Nazis had
hit Tulle and went on a killing spree. He crept towards the alley entrance and
peered out slowly, ensuring that the street was deserted. As he stepped out
into the darkness, he was astonished and enraged by the sight.
He saw the figures dangling from the lampposts and realized they were
people who had been lynched by the SS. He rushed into the street and nearly
stumbled on objects strewn across the cobblestones. He realized that the streets were covered by dead crows
that had been killed by grieving relatives of the victims, hurling stones to
prevent the scavengers from defacing the corpses.
He soon became overwhelmed by an uncontrollable fury that caused the
blood in his head to pound his temples like triphammers. He clenched his fists
against his temples and ran wildly down the street, his intermittent explosive
disorder threatening to drive him berserk. He ran until he could run no more, and
eventually realized that the rows of hanged men on lampposts stretched as far
as the eye could see.
“You!” a voice called from the darkness. “Stop right there!”
A flashlight beamed on him as a GMR soldier came forth from the
darkness, pointing a pistol at him.
“You can be killed for breaking curfew! What are you doing out here! Let
me see your papers!”
“I’m looking for my…father,” Jacques replied, reaching into his jacket.
“Don’t shoot.”
The GMR trooper came closer, and Jacques whipped out his Beretta and
shot the man five times in the head and chest. He stripped the man of his Luger
pistol and an ammo clip before bolting and running in the direction of the
sound of squealing tires along the opposite side of the street.
“What happened?” Lucien yelled from behind the wheel.
“They hung everybody,” Jacques breathed heavily as he jumped into the
passenger seat. “There are bodies hanging from every lamppost on the street. I
just shot one of those GMR rats. They’re back in control. We got to get out of here.”
“Where to?” Lucien gunned the engine.
“Limoges,” Jacques accepted a flask of whiskey from Jean-Paul. “I need
to make contact with the Resistance. The Nazis are through playing games. We
need to make this deal, sell this shit and get the hell out of France.”
“Get out of France?” Lucien was dubious. “We need to talk.”
“You stay here and talk to the Nazis, or Bony and Lafont, or whoever’s
left to talk to,” Jacques took a large swig of whiskey. “I don’t care where I
go, but I’ve had my fill of this.”
“What about the gang, Jacques?” Marcel was panicky. “We’ve
been together since we were kids! We always said we’d always be
together! We’ve made it through thick and thin, why all of a sudden
are we talking like this!”
“Take it easy,” Lucien assured him. “We said we’d talk.”
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