“Don’t be stupid, be a smarty
Come and join the Nazi party.”
Mel Brooks, The Producers

“We are the dead of night
We’re in the zombie room
We’re twilight’s parasites
With self-inflicted wounds”
Depeche Mode

Prologue: Dead of Night
November 4, 1937
7:12 AM

I.
The rogue doctor cracked the eggs on the edge of the skillet, and the innards fell inside. He watched them sizzle, and thought about what he wanted to do today.

Dr. Andreas Brauer had been a surgeon at a hospital in Potsdam, but had resigned after he botched a closed pulmonary embolectomy on a Gestapo agent, resulting in the man’s death. It had caused a small scandal in the medical community in Berlin. He was now out of work, but still had a passion for medicine. There was just one problem: The doctor had no sense of ethics. The Hippocratic Oath meant nothing to him.

He still had flashbacks to the date, January 15, 1937. He was performing heart surgery on a Gestapo agent, Jürgen Keller, when he accidentally severed an artery near the aorta. Keller bled to death, and even then, Brauer knew he was doomed. Three days later, he accepted a deal from the SS agreeing to resign in exchange for not being hanged for his blunder.

Ever since, he had stayed at his home at Duisburger Strasse 29 in Charlottenburg. He soon grew restless however, and started kidnapping pet dogs and performed grisly experiments on them. In April, he went into an insane asylum, found an inmate who had not yet been euthanized, took him back to Duisburger Strasse, and infected him with first a cold virus, then the flu, and then with a vial of smallpox he managed to sneak out of a hospital. He combined vials of smallpox and polio, and infected the inmate with it. The inmate suffered, and died three days later. Brauer was worried about getting infected until he remembered that he was given a smallpox vaccine when he was six, and the vaccine didn’t “take”, meaning that he had a natural immunity to it. So all was good there.

Brauer’s next victim was a child taken from a nearby orphanage. Despite Nazi policy, it did not matter to Brauer if the subject was Jewish, Slavic, or even Aryan. This child was a blond-haired, blue-eyed German who normally would have been raised by the Nazis. Brauer never asked him his name, but infected him with a mix of influenza, polio, and chicken pox. The kid lingered for six days, and then died.

Since then, Brauer had gone through fourteen human subjects, and so far the SS had yet to notice. The subjects were always orphans or asylum inmates, although the latter had become increasingly rare because of Hitler’s policy of euthanizing the handicapped and insane.

Brauer often wondered why he did such gruesome things. He recalled as a child that he was no crueler to animals than any other boy. The worst he had done was go hunting with his father. But when he was twenty, something snapped inside him. He no longer felt any empathy for people. He became a surgeon only at his father’s insistence, as his father had been a field surgeon in German South-West Africa during the massacres there in 1904 and 1905. His father was not a kind man, and had told his son proudly of his killing Herero and Namaqua fighters. He did beat Brauer, though Brauer had good memories with him as well. But ever since he turned twenty, he had been unable to feel other people’s pain. Surprisingly, he was a successful surgeon up until his mistake with Keller. Luckily, his father died in 1933, so he was freed from the grief he might have taken from his father.

He did believe in advancing science, he knew that much. He wasn’t, or at least, he thought he wasn’t, killing out of a sadistic love for it. While he had made few useful discoveries with his horrific research, he did genuinely believe in helping the medical community. Other doctors he knew, such as a former colleague of his named Josef Mengele, had similar ideas, though Mengele wouldn’t do experiments on Aryans. That happened when one became loyal to the Nazis.

The eggs cooked in the skillet, and before long, they were done. Brauer put them on his plate, and started eating while reading Der Stürmer, an anti-Semitic newspaper.

II.
The newspaper had a small article saying that a teenage girl named Alexa Stein had gone missing. She was a bright young German girl, fifteen or sixteen years old. Brauer had abducted her the day before by offering her a ride home from her Bund Deutscher Mädel meeting. Stein was the daughter of a well-to-do German family, though Brauer didn’t know this at the time. The front page article in the newspaper was one condemning the Jews and rambling about how they wanted to take over the world. Then again, that was always the front page of Der Stürmer. Brauer paid little attention to Nazi propaganda, preferring to live his own life, and take the lives of others. The newspaper blamed Stein’s disappearance on a Jewish plot to kidnap and mix the races with German girls, thus absolving Brauer of any suspicion.

The girl had been taken to Duisburger Strasse 29 and tied to a surgical chair in Brauer’s basement. He then infected her with a mixture of diseases that was black as ink. Brauer called this mixture “Dead of Night” for its black color. He had made the girl swallow the liquid, and then went to bed. He figured she would be dead by now.

Brauer ate his eggs, pondered fixing some bacon, decided not to, and went downstairs to check on the girl.

III.
As he walked down the steps to the basement, he pulled the string that turned on the light switch. Though he did this, the room stayed dark. Damn it, I probably need a new light bulb. Brauer went back to the kitchen and got a light bulb. After he got the stepstool under the fixture, he screwed in the bulb, and turned on the light. Again, nothing happened. I wonder what’s wrong with this stupid thing. He looked around, and the next thing he knew, he was pushed onto the chair, having been knocked off his stepstool. He noticed something, or someone, was missing. The girl had escaped! He stood up, and glanced around the basement. A growling noise came from near the breaker box. Brauer backed into a shelf full of test tubes and beakers filled with various deadly diseases and liquids he used. He looked to his left, and saw the telephone. Brauer, having made a lot of money as a surgeon, had three telephones in his house. Most Germans at the time had either one or none.

Brauer saw the girl’s eyes in the dark, the sun only now rising. She started toward him, making the same horrible growling noises. She charged just as Brauer grabbed the telephone and called the Ordnungspolizei in a panic.

IV.
Wachtmeister Aldhelm Kinski and Oberwachtmeister Adelbert Buchheister were at the local Ordnungspolizei station on Wilmersdorfer Strasse. They were the two in charge of house calls, should something such as a burglary take place. It was now about 7:35 AM, and it had been a rough night. Two break-ins had occurred, one on Brandenburgische Strasse and one on Heilbronner Strasse. The former had escaped, but the latter had been caught, and would most likely face harsh punishment, the Führer not being kind to thieves.

And now the phone rang again. Kinski picked it up.

“Wilmersdorfer Ordnungspolizei, how may we assist you?” He asked.

“Get to Duisburger 29! I’m being attacked! There’s a crazy woman in my basement. I don’t know what’s gotten into her! I need help! Fas-“. A scream pierced through the receiver, and then the line went dead. Kinski put the phone down.

“Our shift ends at eight, right?” Kinski asked.

“Yes.” Buchheister answered.

“Good. One more house call and we can go home. Duisburger Strasse 29. Some man is complaining about a burglar in his basement. Let’s head over there.” The two officers got their Mauser Model 1934 pistols ready, and began the drive to Duisburger Strasse.

V.
It hadn’t occurred to Brauer that it was a bad idea to call the police to his house, for then they would find the people he had killed. That realization only came after he had been bitten on the arm by the girl. The two looked into each other’s eyes, and all Brauer saw was rage. This girl had been infected with something, but it hadn’t killed her. If anything it made her into some kind of monster. Brauer had never known true hatred until he looked into her black eyes. Then he felt himself lose control.

The tingling sensation was funny, almost pleasant. His conscious faded, and he noticed that black liquid began to ooze from the wound where she had bitten him. It wasn’t even crimson, like dried blood, but pure black. For whatever reason he smiled, and that was the last thing he knew.

Ten minutes later, they heard the voices of the Orpo officers. It was chow time.

VI.
“All right, Kinski, you go into the house first. I’ll cover you.” Buchheister said. The drive had been an annoying one, they having hit every red light along the way. Kinski drove the police car into the driveway of the house. It was a pleasant looking neighborhood, as opposed to Kinski’s small apartment in Wedding. They parked the car, and the two officers got out, and drew their guns. The stroll across the front yard was a nervous one. One never knew what to expect during a burglary. Perhaps the burglar had a gun, perhaps he was on drugs, you just never knew.

Kinski and Buchheister yelled “Ordnungspolizei! Open up!” at the door, and when no one answered, they kicked the door down, and went into the house. They checked the living room, then the kitchen. There was nobody there. Kinski stayed in front, with Buchheister behind him. They saw that the kitchen had a bunch of knives hanging down, and one of those newfangled gas stoves. Whoever lived here must be rich. Then came the roaring.

Buchheister turned around, and saw a man in a doctor’s coat covered in some black liquid that looked like a mix of ink and crude oil. The man was breathing heavily, and had black dripping out of his lips. He put his hand on Buchheister’s coat, and Buchheister grabbed his gun and fired two shots into the man. The shots didn’t seem to faze him. The man then stuck his head out, and tore the officer’s throat out with his teeth. Buchheister turned back toward Kinski and Kinski saw him bleeding badly from the neck. He stumbled, and fell down dead. The man in the doctor’s coat kneeled, and started ripping flesh off Buchheister’s corpse. Kinski drew his gun, and fired several shots, he couldn’t say exactly how many, at the doctor. One hit him in the head, splattering brains and black blood everywhere. Kinski reloaded his pistol, and got two of the chopping knives. He ran back to the living room, and saw the female burglar.

The girl was only about fifteen, and was also covered in the same black glop. Kinski, in a panic, stuck the knives into her chest. It didn’t stop her or even faze her. She ran after him, but Kinski managed to get to the car. He slammed the door just before the girl reached him. She then did the impossible.

She jumped up on the car, and began pounding on it. She jumped on top of the hood, and then fell down. Kinski wanted to shoot her, but was afraid that breaking the windows or windshield would allow her to get inside. It didn’t matter, as the girl made a fist, and punched through the windshield, breaking every bone in her hand. Her wrist reached through the hole, slicing it up and spilling black on Kinski’s pants. Only then did it occur to Kinski to call for backup. He called the nearest Kriminalpolizei-Aussenposten, which was on Holsteinische Strasse, and ordered them to send some men out to Duisburger Strasse 29.

VII.
Hauptsturmnführer Lorenz Schroeder, Obersturmführer Felix Haack, and Obersturmführer Emmerich Reinhold Sigmarsson were the Kriminalpolizei on call that morning. The call for back-up came ten minutes before their shifts were to end. Disgruntled, they got in the police car, and raced over to Duisburger Strasse 29. Schroeder was driving and talking on the radio to the Orpo officer, who seemed scared out of his wits.

“Sir? What is your name, sir?”

“Wachtmeister Aldhelm Kinski! I need backup desperately! This bitch is infected with something. Some mad doctor has turned his and her blood black! Oh God, she’s grabbed me.” The voice on the radio said. Haack had just woken up from a two-hour nap. It had been a slow night for the local Kripo office.

“Sir, we’re on our way. We’ve got three men. Is anyone hurt?” Schroeder asked.

“We have two men down!” The voice crackled. “I might be next! Oh God!” Gunshots rang, causing the radio receiver to vibrate. Schroeder switched frequencies, and called a nearby hospital.

“This is Hauptsturmnführer Lorenz Schroeder. Is anyone at the hospital on Bismarckstrasse?” He said. “If so, we need a few interns at Duisburger Strasse 29. We’ve got reports of an assault on an Orpo officer, and at least two people are dead or dying.” A pause, and then a dispatcher replied.

“We’re sending two interns to Duisburger 29.”

“Good, good. We’re almost there, so be quick. This should be resolved before long though.”

Five minutes later, Schroeder, Haack, and Sigmarsson arrived at the house. They saw the Orpo car in the driveway with a girl lying on top of it. Schroeder got out his gun, a Walther PPK, and slowly approached the driver’s door of the Orpo car. He found Kinski dead, with his throat torn out by the girl. The girl, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, had a red blob in her hand. Schroeder then signaled to the other two to get out. They drew their guns and darted to the house. The two Orpo officers had already broken down the door. The floor in the living room was covered in black.

Before any of the officers could react, two people ambushed them. One was wearing a doctor’s coat, and had been hiding behind the front door. The other was in the kitchen. The three officers fired several shots, but it was all for naught; all they did was empty their pistols. Schroeder was knocked onto the floor by the doctor, who had been shot in the head. Schroeder looked straight through the hole in his head before he was bitten.

Schroeder knew he was a goner. A tingling shot through his spine. He was turning into something else. What, he couldn’t say. The blood that poured out of the wound on his neck was changing from red to black. He passed out, and that was the last thing he knew.

As for Haack and Sigmarsson, they were attacked by a man wearing the uniform of an Orpo. Whatever had turned the girl’s blood black had also infected the other Orpo officer. Haack managed to get back up, and fired his Walther PPK at the Orpo officer. He might as well have tapped him with his finger. The shot went into his shoulder, and the Orpo clawed Haack. Haack soon felt himself become one of them. He maintained some consciousness after he became infected, and all he felt was anger and hunger.

Sigmarsson saw what had happened, and ran to the kitchen. He fired two shots through a window, and jumped out into a patch of petunias. He ran back to the Kripo car, and was relieved to see the ambulance had arrived.

“What’s going on?” One of the interns said upon getting out of the ambulance.

“I don’t know. Something has turned the others’ blood black. Some kind of disease. They killed the other two Kripo men.” The interns were two men, named Axel Bratsch and Quintus Eberhardt. Wonderful, Axel thought, a dead German girl, two dead Kripo, and two dead Orpo. This has the makings of a major disaster. I bet the Jews or Communists or whoever are going to catch hell for this. Axel had been an SDP member before Hitler banned the group four years ago, and he still opposed the Nazis, albeit secretly.

As he thought this, two of the infected ran outside, and into the front yard. Sigmarsson managed to reload his pistol and fired at them. The shots hit them, causing black fluid to spill onto the grass, but had no effect otherwise. Sigmarsson, not wanting to end up like the others, put the pistol in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

VIII.
Bratsch and Eberhardt got back into the ambulance, and Bratsch tried to start it. The ambulance, number four, was hated among the interns for its engine problems. Half the time it wouldn’t start, and nine times out of ten when the weather was cold. Bratsch stuck the key in the ignition several times and turned it, but the engine wouldn’t start. The two infected, at this point they were so covered in black and red that it was impossible to tell who they once were, ran toward the ambulance. It still would not start. In a panic, Eberhardt got out of the ambulance, and tried to outrun the infected. He didn’t get far before one of the infected noticed him. He was chased down, and Bratsch heard him scream as he was infected with whatever sick concoction the person who lived here had come up with. The other infected was trying to break into the ambulance.

After a few minutes of struggling, the infected managed to pull on the handle, and the door opened. Bratsch kicked the person or thing in the face, and jumped out. He raced across the yard, but tripped on a fallen branch. He took the branch and batted at the infected one, but it was no help. He was bitten, and the last thing he knew was hearing the ambulance finally start and the engine sputter and cough.

IX.
At Duisburger Strasse 28, across the street from Brauer’s home, an old lady named Agnetha Weyraih was cooking breakfast when she heard the gunshots. Weyraih had always despised Andreas Brauer, and was not surprised to finally hear gunshots in what she assumed was some domestic affair. She decided not to go outside, but looked out the window and saw that both the Orpo and Kripo had been made aware of the situation.

After a half hour, someone knocked on the door. Weyraih stumbled to it, and opened the door. Brauer didn’t even wait for her to notice the black blood or the hole in his head, but bit her on the shoulder. Weyraih passed out, and woke up infected. Next, the infected went to Duisburger Strasse 30.

Then 31.

And 27.

And 26.

And 32.

Thus begins the dead of night.