Sebastian Stan Short Stories

Bucky Barnes [5]

"An Angel in Hell"

Italics mean German. I don't speak it, I don't trust Google translate, and it's just easier.

No major spoilers (unless you haven't seen Captain America: The First Avenger)

*

Germany 1943

*

I loathed my work. Everyday I was roused with other half a dozen kidnapped women and forced to euthanize or care for the prisoners of war our captors also held. Our nursing skills were rudimentary at best, our teachers were the psychotic and despondent "doctors" who ran experiments on captured Allied men. Even our uniforms were pitiful: dull blue coveralls and work boots.

"Check on number fourteen," one of the scientists said. I nodded and left his side to track down number fourteen. Most of the men were unconscious, with paper tags tied around their necks or into the laces of their combat boots, if they still had shoes.

I found the man with a fourteen hung loosely around his toes. He was barefoot, and I could the early stages of trench foot forming on his dark skin. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling above him. I stood over him, directly in his line of sight, and yet his pupils never moved.

"Hello fourteen," I whispered in English. My mother thought it was an important language to learn. I was glad she had taught me.

"Is he dead yet?" the scientist asked. I put my fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. There it was, deep under the skin. It fluttered wildly, which was normal.

"No sir. He's still alive, but his heart is beginning to fail," I answered. I wanted to tell this man that I was sorry for what I knew would come next.

"Take him to the vivisection laboratory," he ordered. That was what I expected.

"Yes sir."

I pulled number fourteen's gurney away from the wall and took him out of the room. He continued to stare at the ceiling above him, ignorant to his fate. I knew the routines of the guards, and I began whispering to the young man as I walked him to his death.

"I will not forget you. I have not forgotten a single man that has died here. I know all of their names. One day I will travel to America, and I will tell their families what I remember. I will tell anyone who listens," I promised him. I stopped the gurney and carefully removed his spare dog tag from its chain. All the Americans had two, and I tried to take one. "I will find your family, your wife if you have one, and I will apologize. I hope you can forgive me, Daniel Jefferson. But if you cannot, that is alright. I would not forgive me either."

He flinched and his eyes, although unfocused, managed to find my face. I smiled at him and brushed my tears away.

"Only a little longer, and you will not hurt in this world anymore," I said, hoping to comfort him.

I pushed the gurney on until I passed Daniel Jefferson onto the next woman, the one who had drawn the proverbial short straw and assisted in the vivisection suite. She subtly checked his neck for a spare tag and smiled weakly at me when she didn't see it. All of us made a point of remembering these men.

I returned to the observation ward, still full and disorganized. It was a poor example of a medical set-up, but hygiene was low on the priority list for those who ran the experiments. Rumor was out that America had succeeded in creating a super soldier. Hydra had not. Yet.

"Administer serum number 6 to subjects 31 through 35," someone told me. I nodded and said yes sir before collecting the vials and syringes needed to do as he said. They all fit into the pockets of my coveralls, tapping against each other as I left the room to find the men who were now known as numbers. The ones I had been instructed to find were grouped together and already strapped down onto gurneys still stained with blood.

I shut the door behind me, wanting privacy. I went in order of their numbers, apologizing to each of them as I went. They had all been sedated, and each was an Adonis in his own right. They were all tall and would've been strong if they weren't malnourished. Hitler would have improved of only two of them, men with shades of blonde hair, but Hydra couldn't have cared less.

As I finished with 34, the last man began stirring, testing the strength of the leather bands over his chest. I went to his side and began calming him down.

"Where am I? What are you doing?" he demanded. His eyes were wide with terror and his dark hair was half covering them.

"Please be quiet. They will send someone else in if they think you are awake," I warned. Only my strained English slowed him down, simply out of surprise. "You are still a prisoner of war, in a weapons factory. But-but you have been chosen by the powers that be for experiments."

"How do you speak English?"

His hand, not tied down but only partially immobilized, reach for mine where I leaned against the gurney. I let him hold onto my hand. I wanted his comfort as much as he wanted mine.

"My mother taught me," I told him. I found the full syringe in my pocket and readied it.

"Am I going to die here?"

"I have seen many die here. I hope you do not," I said honestly. I found his dog tags and read his name. James Barnes. "I'm sorry, James."

I forced myself to let go of his hand and laid the needle against his skin.

"Please don't. You don't have to do this," he begged.

"If it is not me, there will be another," I whispered. The needle entered his vein and he bit his lip as the stinging contents hit his blood. The first man, number 31, was already seizing. I reopened the door and began taking notes as each of them progressed. The lead doctor came in a few minutes later, watching as four of the five men followed the previous thirty into heart failure. A second nurse was brought in to take them to the recently emptied vivisection laboratory. I swore I could hear the ringing of dog tags in one of her pockets, but it was just my guilt and fear. We'd all be killed if we were caught hoarding those little grave markers.

"Number 35 has not shown any of the typical symptoms," one doctor said as a second came in. James still lay perfectly still on his gurney, staring at the mold growing above his head.

"Has he entered the tachycardia phase yet?" the second asked me. I returned to James side, purposefully brushing my fingers over his before I checked his pulse. Strong and steady.

"No sir. His pulse is slightly elevated but steady," I said. They talked amongst themselves for a moment as number 34 was taken out of the room.

"Take subject 35 to one of the evaluation rooms and continue observation until he is further stabilized," the first instructed. I nodded and wheeled James out. Just like every other man I had seen, he seemed unphased by the movement.

"You are the first to survive so long," I whispered. I continued pushing him past the autopsy suites and the administering rooms, to one of the unused evaluation rooms that the doctors had expected to be filled. As I pushed the gurney into the first of those rooms, air raid sirens began blaring.

I took shelter in the room with James, practically comatose and still unaware of the battle raging outside. Bombs were exploding, bright orange flames and impossibly bright blue flashes. Shouting, fighting, boots stomping through the hallways.

"Your people have come for you and yours, James," I said. I leaned over him and began to loosen his straps.

"People call me Bucky," he whispered.

Shots were fired from the hallway, and I heard bodies fall against the stone floor. Bullets ricocheted off of something and a single set of footsteps fell closer and closer.

"Good luck, Bucky," I wished him. I could hear the footsteps near the door. If they were friend, here to save the prisoners, I could point them in the right direction. If they were foe, I could send them away.

I took one final look at Bucky, squeezed his hand, and left the room. The soldier waiting in the hallway raised his gun to me but didn't fire. I pointed stupidly at the door I had just come through and began to run.

*

Author's Note:

This turned out a good bit longer than I expected, but I'm happy with it.