FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Red Moon:

Wolves of Stalingrad

Part 2

As it turned out, hunting for wolves inside a destroyed city was much harder than Franz thought it would be. He didn't expect them to just waltz out in front of him where he could take an easy shot, but he thought that it wouldn't end up turning into some strange stalk through the ruins either. He did find signs of them after investigating area where patrols were disappearing. It wasn't hard to get permission to go out, all he did was tell his commanding officer that he was going to go hunt down what was wiping out the patrol which was not a lie at all, but not the whole truth either.

The first sign of the wolves was the tracks. Massive paw prints that were pressed hard into the mud, making clear and easy to follow tracks. Franz followed these slowly, crawling through the blasted ruins, going farther than he had ever gone before alone without realizing it. The chances of running into people of the unfriendly type was increasing as he ventured into contested grounds. Snipers would also be another major issue.

Franz was more inclined to believe that it was a sniper that was causing trouble. He knew that he had done some harm to the Russians when they were beginning to take care in the movements around his sniping position in the warehouse. He'd probably have to move to a new locations soon to avoid having some death squad sent after him. He was no good in a close quarters fight.

Pulling himself up through a hole in the floor, Franz emerged in a rather well preserved living room. It was dusty and had been abandoned for some time, but most of the meager amounts of furniture that had been destroyed was in good shape. There was a red couch made of some sort of fur sat up against a wall and faced out of a window with a small glass coffee table that was only the frame in front of it.

Feeling tired from walking all day, Franz sat on the couch and propped up his feet onto the table. He then dug out a loaf of bread from his pack that hung from a sling and tore off a piece. The bread was stale and crunched as he ate it. Give it a few more days and it would have been as hard as a rock. Supplies were getting thin and the amount of Russian soldiers that were observed massing on the other side of the Volga was concerning. A breakout was possible. Franz just hoped that they took the city before then.

Bringing his rifle up while still seated, Franz peered out of the window down into a courtyard that was down below. There was nothing out there except for a bird that pecked at the remains of some poor fool who went out into the open and got shot by some other sniper the day before. It was a grisly reminder of the horrors of war. Soldiers had to turn off the part of the brain that would react to the violence and gore or risk going mad. Franz had done that a long time ago and again when he picked up the sniper rifle. To fire away at an enemy that he couldn't always see was one thing, to see their face up close as the cross wavered over their head was another.

Franz lowered the rifle, confident that he was safe for now and took his time to eat his meager ration while he rested up for a bit. He had overextended himself and it would be dark before he got back to the barracks. He hated the idea, but he would need to spend the night out in the field.

Rummaging, the patter of feet. Noise woke up Franz. He sat up, still on the couch, the bed in the other room was flea ridden and had rats nesting in it. He didn't fancy getting even more of the fleas on his body than he already had. Hygiene tended to take a nose dive during war. No hot water, or even running water meant that Franz hadn't taken a shower in nearly a month. He no longer smelled himself nor many of those around him, but the grime that was accumulating on him didn't go unnoticed. He felt constantly greasy.

The sound of debris being carelessly kicked around got Franz's attention back. There were people in the building and he silently cursed at his bad luck.

Edging himself slowly off the couch, the sniper crept up to the hole in the floor that he had used to get into the room. It was the only way in... and the only way out.

Maybe if I just wait, they'll go away. The thought seemed viable. By the amount of noise that was being made downstairs, the people weren't trying to be stealthy. However, they were getting closer and they were speaking in Russian which crushed any small hope of them being friends.

"When do you think we'll drive out the fascist pigs?" One of the Russians, a large beefy man who carried a PPSH asked as he ducked under a fallen support beam.

"Be patient comrade." A second one said as he followed the larger Russian. "War takes time." This one carried a scoped Mosin Nagant. They were there to set up a firing positon overlooking the courtyard. Russian command was planning on making a push through the area so sniper groups were sent out the clear the area and provide support when the assault occurred which was planned for first light.

"Every day that the Nazis hold the city, more and more die." The large Russian had thought about the subject a lot. He had been stuck in the city that he had lived in his entire life since the very beginning. The hate that festered in him slowly seeped out in the form of banter.

The smaller of the two settled down by a window which was on the floor directly beneath Franz who did his best to remain quiet. He had slung his rifle onto his back and pulled out his Luger. It was a reliable weapon, but it wouldn't hold up in extended combat.

He rolled the thought of jumping down and surprising the two in his head. He had seen them when they went under the beam and no one else came and the noise only came from them. It was just him and them.

"This is good." The Russian sniper peered down into the courtyard. He had an unobstructed view of the entire courtyard that was going to turn into a bloodbath in just a few more hours. The barrel of his rifle, wrapped in cloth to avoid making noise if it bumped into something, panned from side to side.

The other Russian leaned up against the wall. His job was to watch his comrade's back. Most of the time it was a rather dull job which involved him just standing or sitting while others fought and died. He was essentially benched because he drew a short straw and that ticked him off. He would have rather be down in the middle of a charge, right behind the flag bearer as he charged across a plain of concrete and fire to get to the Germans he hated so much. But he was here watching the sniper make adjustments to his scope and not noticing the German who had slid down onto their floor and was aiming a Luger at them.

The shot was clear. They didn't see him and his heart was pounding so hard that Franz was afraid that it would give him away. His Luger was raised, supported with two hands to stop the nervous shaking. He took a deep breath and fired.

The large Russian only saw the muzzle flash before the bullet struck him right between his eyes. He didn't fall over, his weight against the wall left him perched upright, his knees locked and his head rolled back as a thin trickle of blood leaked from the small hole in his head.

The Russian sniper jerked around and the barrel of his rifle clipped the window sill, tearing it out of his hands and leaving him temporarily defenseless but not hopeless. He leapt to the side and two shots rang out and two shots missed.

Franz would have fired a third time when the Russian came to stop, rolling from his dive, but his gun jammed.

Pulling a knife out of his boot, the Russian leapt again and let out a battle cry. The hand with the knife was caught and the two fell onto the ground where they began a vicious struggle for survival.

The Russian, who had more training in hand to hand combat, got the upper hand and ended up on top, trying to push the knife into the chest of the desperately struggling German who used his Luger to push the knife away. Using his weight, the Russian, slowly pushed the knife down. Beads of sweat dropped from his face as he bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. He stared at the knife as it slowly sunk lower and lower, getting closer to the German's chest.

Franz watched in increasing despair as the tip of the blade got closer to his chest. Try as he might, he couldn't stop it so he did what he could, he fought dirty.

The Russian didn't expect it when the wad of saliva was spat in his face and his concentration lapsed long enough for Franz to throw the man off of him and turn the tables.

In an instant, Franz was now on top of the Russian who was laid out on his back, his knife clattering away from his hands. Franz didn't have a knife, but he did have his gun. Using the barrel of the Luger as a short, blunt blade, Franz brought it up above his head before bringing it down on the Russian's head. The barrel broke through the skull with ease and just like that, the short, but violent struggle was over.

Franz didn't get off the lifeless body immediately. He breathed heavily, each breath a gasp as his brain tried to process what had happened. His fight or flight instinct had completely taken over and he was just now getting back control. He looked down at the man who had the barrel of the gun in his head and nearly vomited. It was so personal to kill the man with his hands like that, so up close and savage. It had taken a toll on his body and he got off of the body to get away from the bloody scene.

Franz looked down at his hands. They shook uncontrollably as the adrenaline ebbed away, leaving him feeling cold and weak. The deafening struggle was replaced with a chilling silence that made Franz feel secluded in the world, a monster for what he had done. There was no other option, it was purely a fight or die situation but it didn't make him feel and less dirty.

It was an hour before Franz felt steady enough to walk out of the building, He grabbed the PPSH that the large Russian had to replace his close quarter's weapon and walked out into the courtyard, using a burnt out car as cover. He didn't want to expose himself more than needed. Russian snipers were some of the best in the world, capable of hitting a target from nearly a mile away. Sometimes Franz wished he could do that. From that distance, the target would be no larger than a centimeter in the scope, so far away from the combat, he would never have a repeat of what just happened.

Gunshots rang out suddenly. Franz peeked out from behind the car to investigate where it was coming from to see a wall of bodies rushing across the courtyard, following a single person carrying a red flag that bore the scythe and hammer that he was all too familiar with and they were coming right at him.

Artillery and machinegun fire filled the air as Franz had somehow managed to go out at the beginning of a Russian assault. They charged right into the waiting German defenders that had been waiting for this moment. Unknown to Franz, the sound from his struggle had alerted some German scouts who were able to report back. A quick defense had been set up in the area and now Franz was trapped in the middle of the battle.

Ducking down, Franz ran back into the building he just came out of. He was in no mood for more killing, he had experienced enough for a dozen lifetimes. There, he cowered, his will to fight shattered. He thought of how the war had turned him, a normal citizen of Germany, the son of a metal worker into a cold blooded killer. He wished for Stalingrad to be his grave. As bleak as it was, he couldn't think of living with his memories.

The sound of the fighting ended quickly. Under heavy fire, the Russian assault quickly died out when it became obvious that the German's were too entrenched. Only then did Franz hear the heavy huff of a breath. He was hiding behind the reception counter of the apartment where the bellman would have given out keys to the residents.

Peaking out once again, Franz's breath caught in his throat as a wolf, larger than any he had ever seen at the Berlin Zoo, walked into the building and looked right at him.