The Doomsday Machine

"I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind—of a day when the land shall sink, and the dark ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium."—H.P. Lovecraft

It was a Monday evening, I recall, when I heard a strange knock on the front door of my residence in Chicago. Upon opening the door, I saw two strangers standing before me, who identified themselves as agents of the FBI. At first, I was puzzled by their unique presence. They asked to speak with me about a matter that was strictly confidential in nature.

I allowed them to enter, where we began to discuss the matter in the privacy of my home. I was informed that the agents had come to escort me to Europe on a mission of great importance and utmost secrecy. It would deal not only with the security of the country but with the safety of the entire world.

The year was 1940, and the rise of the Nazis in Germany had begun to pose an ominous threat. My name is Jacob Bernstein, and I was born in Germany but had American nationality. I fled Germany in 1930 due to the persecution of scientists who opposed the power of the Third Reich. I had emigrated to America, just as Albert Einstein and others had been compelled to do before me. That threat now took the form of a potential nuclear bomb. I agreed to go to Europe, particularly to France.

I was taken in an automobile directly to the border of Germany, to a place called Rust, where I was to meet a Jewish scientist named Aaron Hoffman, who had remained incognito in Germany. Upon arriving, I was briefed on the situation. It was already autumn, and the weather was cold, with rustling leaves heaving in the whistling winds.

From what I understood in the conversation, there was a German scientist named Helmut Stauffer, who had been designing a dangerous bomb he called "The Doomsday Machine."

This scientist had previously worked with distinguished German physicists, such as Otto Hahn and Fritz Strassmann, on atoms and neutrons. What was troubling was the fact that Stauffer was working in collaboration with the Nazis, who were attempting to develop a nuclear weapon.

This was the inconceivable danger that warranted the concern of the West and my immediate involvement as a fellow scientist. To think that the Nazis might possess a nuclear bomb was a threat that could not be ignored. They could not be allowed to succeed in this endeavor.

The lessons of the Great War, with their use of chemical warfare, had to serve as a deterrent against the possible use of nuclear weapons in the future. The Germans had invaded Poland in September 1939, and had begun experimenting on prisoners in forced labor camps. Disturbing reports emerged that they were exposing the prisoners to gas chambers, using carbon monoxide gas generated by engine exhaust.

These reports were soon corroborated by the few prisoners who had escaped the camps. One camp, in particular, had already begun these horrific experiments: Dachau. This was the place where Stauffer had been conducting his work, a horrifying chamber of concealed perversion and delight. The world would later learn of the abominable and macabre experiments carried out by the Nazis, with their distorted ideology.

I had the daunting task of infiltrating the camp as a spy and informant for the United States. Nothing could prepare me for the shocking revelation of the ineffable horror that was taking place at Dachau. The risk I was taking was evident, but the thought that the Nazis could be creating a nuclear bomb was a risk I could not afford to dismiss.

I had been selected from among a few to stop the Nazis' scientific experiments. I felt I was destined for this task, though I knew it would be perilous. But I was not alone. I would be working with other German scientists, such as Rudolf Peierls and Otto Frisch. I kept in touch with them through private correspondences.

Before leaving for Dachau, I consulted with Peierls and Frisch about the feasibility of finding proof of Stauffer's intent to build a nuclear bomb. I also spoke to other German scientists who had taken refuge in France, seeking their advice on how to uncover designs or materials that might be in the possession of the Nazis that could further their scientific ambitions.

The information they provided helped me focus my attention on the details of the mission ahead. Time was of the essence, and I made every effort to prepare myself thoroughly.

For an entire week, I immersed myself in the persona I would need to adopt during my time at Dachau. I could not afford any mistakes. If I was caught, I would be imprisoned and likely killed. This was the dangerous reality I faced, but I was determined to go through whatever transformation was required. I looked German enough that my ethnicity would not be questioned, and I still had my original Bavarian accent.

This was one of the primary reasons I was selected for this task. I memorized the names of key figures at Dachau, especially those close to Stauffer.

I was given a new identity, that of Gerhard Schneider, which would be more convincing than suspicious. Within two weeks, I arrived in Munich, a city I hadn't visited in years.

There was a noticeable change in the city, brought about by the rise of Nazi control in Germany. Banners and placards were posted throughout the streets and shops. I was stunned by these displays but had to restrain my discomfort in public.

The Munich I once knew had indeed changed for the worse. My childhood home was still intact, as were the main buildings I had once admired. I rented a modest apartment in the city, not far from Dachau. The SS units guarded the camp with sharp vigilance.

The camp had an appointed commandant, a security officer who maintained the records of condemned prisoners, and a qualified physician—Stauffer—who was tasked with conducting experiments on the prisoners.

Dachau had been established in March 1933 and at one point held over 200,000 prisoners. Located on the grounds of an abandoned munitions factory just north of Munich, the camp housed mostly German Communists, Social Democrats, trade unionists, and Jews—each forsaken to their doom.

The camp had two sections: the main camp area and the crematoria area. The camp contained 32 barracks, and there was a prominent gatehouse at the main entrance. The support buildings included a kitchen, laundry, showers, workshops, and bunkers. The courtyard between the prison and the central kitchen was used for the summary execution of prisoners.

An electrified barbed-wire fence, a ditch, and a wall with seven guard towers surrounded the camp. More disturbingly, there were rumors that the prisoners were being exposed to phosgene and mustard gas in the Nazis' experiments. If true, what other horrors were they committing within the confines of their death camp?

I stayed in Munich for a week, observing the daily activities of the Nazis and familiarizing myself with the route to Dachau. These preparations were vital to my success and survival.

Fortunately, I had competent informants inside and outside the camp who were working on behalf of our intelligence. These men would be my eyes and ears in this intricate operation, and I had to trust them with my life.

I was guaranteed security while in Munich, but inside Dachau, I would have to rely on my instincts and intuition. I needed to outwit the Nazis. That was easier said than done.

The war in Europe was no longer a mere possibility; it seemed inevitable. My mission was to stop the Nazis from acquiring a nuclear bomb before it was too late—before they could bury the continent and the world in nuclear ashes. I was a dedicated student of physics and chemistry, once taught by Einstein and Planck.

Unfortunately, Stauffer was well-versed in their teachings. This was terrifying. Nevertheless, his alignment with the Nazi cause didn't matter. What mattered was his determination to build a nuclear bomb for them. Einstein had warned the U.S. president of the looming threat, but to no avail.

The morning I infiltrated the camp, I prepared myself mentally. I had gathered the necessary evidence, and I was well-prepared with credentials that established me as a reputable scientist and physician. It was damp and dreary outside, with rain having fallen the night before, leaving puddles and mud.

The automobile that would take me to Dachau arrived, and I left my hotel. To deny that I was nervous would be to lie. The hour had come to assume my role in the camp.

As we approached the front gate, I saw the towering guard towers described in my notes. They were imposing, but there was a hidden terror beyond the walls of Dachau. The guards patrolling the towers were watchful, instructed to shoot and kill anyone who was not authorized to enter.

The Nazis were a ruthless band of ideological zealots, and fascism had spread across Europe like wildfire. It was only a matter of time before Europe would succumb to their brutality.

I saw the weary, emaciated faces of the prisoners outside. When the automobile entered, I was greeted by the camp's commander, Hans Meier, who escorted me to the office of the notorious Helmut Stauffer. He was not present at the time, but I was told to wait until he returned.

While in his office, I noticed the numerous photographs of the Führer and Nazi symbols. It was disturbing to see so much propaganda in one place. The symbol of the swastika unsettled me deeply. There was a draconian system of enslavement in place, visible in the prisoners working outside.

When Stauffer returned, he greeted me eagerly, ready to reveal his recent experiments. He escorted me to a gas chamber where he was conducting lethal experiments.

Along the way, I passed more prisoners huddled in cells, gathered like a flock of sleep, confined and helpless. It wasn't until I reached the gas chamber that I encountered the most grotesque sight any human could witness: the putrid mound of burned corpses. The stench of death was overwhelming.

I had to maintain an outward facade of indifference, hiding the storm of indignation within me. My teeth gritted, my fist clenched. For some reason, Stauffer had brought me here, seeking a reaction—though I refused to give him one. I stayed stoic amidst the unimaginable horror.

When we returned to his office, he began discussing other experiments he was conducting—each as harmful and destructive as the last. The prisoners, in his eyes, were mere guinea pigs, expendable and at his disposal. But it was another experiment, one that caught my attention more, that he was eager to share with me: the creation of a superior race of mutant beings.

He led me to a chamber where the grotesque results of his work were displayed. There, men were chained to adamantine walls, their bodies grotesquely altered. Tumors bulged from their deformed figures, and some were completely naked, exposing their unnatural, twisted forms. It was like stepping into a nightmare, a scene pulled from the pages of a science fiction magazine. These were the rejects of Stauffer’s mad experiments.

Stauffer admitted that he had been working on this project for months, but he was far from perfecting it. His vision was clear: from amongst the strongest prisoners, he intended to create a race of Nazi super-soldiers—mutants designed to conquer Europe and, eventually, the world. At the time, I couldn't tell if Stauffer was driven by pure madness or delusion, but one thing was certain: his plans had to be stopped. The consequences of his success would be catastrophic.

But there was something even more troubling: Stauffer's deliberate attempt to build a nuclear bomb. He spoke of it as a matter of principle, as if his obsession with creating a weapon of mass destruction was nothing more than an intellectual pursuit. Stauffer was aware of the work of Leo Szilard, James Chadwick, Otto Hahn, and Fritz Strassmann, but seemed unaware of the advancements by Rudolf Peierls and Otto Frisch with uranium-235 and the potential to create an atomic bomb.

The atomic bomb, reliant on uranium-235 or plutonium-239, worked by triggering fission—a nuclear reaction in which a nucleus splits into smaller parts, releasing immense energy. The energy released could generate temperatures close to 200 million degrees Fahrenheit, or 100 million degrees Celsius. A nuclear explosion would create a shockwave so powerful that it could be measured on the Richter Scale.

The devastation of such a bomb would extend far beyond the immediate destruction. The aftermath would trigger a nuclear winter, as soot and debris filled the atmosphere, blocking sunlight for years and causing global crops to fail. Nitrogen oxides from the explosion would deplete the ozone layer, exposing the Earth to lethal levels of ultraviolet radiation. The consequences of a nuclear fallout would be disastrous: toxic black rain, contaminated waterways, and widespread radiation poisoning. In the long term, the Earth would experience a nuclear summer, a greenhouse effect caused by the carbon dioxide and methane released from decaying organic matter.

The danger was all too real. Stauffer’s delusions, combined with his scientific genius, meant that a nuclear bomb in the wrong hands could plunge the world into irreversible chaos. His "Doomsday Machine" project was the culmination of his madness. He had requested uranium and plutonium to continue his work, confirming my worst suspicions.

His conviction was chilling, and I couldn't help but be drawn into his twisted vision. Stauffer had an almost eerie confidence, believing that his work would bring him the accolades he deserved. He spoke of his experiments with a disturbing calmness, as if he viewed the suffering of the prisoners as a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.

Later that day, Stauffer invited me to stay in a villa near Dachau, though I told him I planned to stay in Munich. My days at the camp were becoming routine—each morning I faced the dark and damp atmosphere of Dachau, with its towering gates and the endless, monotonous labor of the prisoners. The sign "Arbeit macht frei" greeted me daily, a cruel joke in this place of suffering. I couldn’t help but notice the lifeless bodies hanging from trees, men executed without mercy, their deaths a symbol of the brutality that prevailed here.

The conditions were appalling: overcrowding, disease, malnutrition, and rampant suicides. But what disturbed me most were the gas chambers, the piles of corpses, and the chilling experiments that Stauffer continued to conduct. These atrocities were the manifestation of a mind so twisted, so detached from humanity, that it could only view others as expendable.

Stauffer was inside one of the chambers when I arrived the next morning, working with the prisoners in his latest round of gene-altering experiments. The mutants were becoming increasingly monstrous, their humanity all but stripped away. The horror of what I had seen at Dachau was almost too much to bear.

He was anxious to see the progress of his experiment, particularly with the new prisoners he had selected. He appeared satisfied, though not entirely. There was something inusitate—unfamiliar, not yet adequate for his approval. I could not discern what troubled him. Yet, I had maintained his intrigue enough for him to confide in me, and what he revealed was deeply disconcerting.

He planned to test his mutants, once at full strength, first against the wretched prisoners, and then against the Western powers. Had I not heard him with my own ears, I would have doubted the veracity of his claims. I had gathered enough information to relay to the operatives working undercover back in Munich. The wicked delight in his eyes as he spoke of his distorted vision was both compelling and reckless.

It was only a matter of time before he perfected his mutants using insuperable genes that would render them resistant to diseases that typically afflict and kill humans. It was a despicable undertaking, but he was indifferent to their deformities. He treated the mutants as prized specimens in the world of his deranged imagination.

Though he was a self-declared Nazi, it was evident that his commitment to science surpassed his loyalty to the Führer. Stauffer possessed an intellectual acumen far superior to that of any scientist I had previously worked with in experimentation.

He informed me that he would be away in a week to attend to a personal matter, and I would be left in charge of conducting the experiments in his absence. He was also making special arrangements for the visit of Heinrich Himmler, who was scheduled to inspect the camp in two days.

Stauffer was visibly excited. To have Himmler, one of the Führer's most trusted inner circle, witness his work was an honor he held in great regard. If true, this was a vital piece of information to disclose once I returned to Munich.

There was another detail I had yet to verify: that Munich was the location of the Nazi headquarters. If so, Himmler’s visit suggested he had been directly dispatched by the Führer. I had found a new place to stay just outside Munich, in a secluded villa. That night, I gathered secretly with my informants and disclosed Himmler’s impending visit to Dachau. I also reported the private experiments Stauffer was conducting on prisoners—particularly the genetic mutations.

When asked about Stauffer’s plans involving a nuclear bomb, I divulged everything I knew. I omitted no detail that was vital or relevant. The plan was still intact, and Himmler’s visit would not alter its course, as long as my identity remained concealed.

That night, my thoughts were consumed by Himmler’s arrival. Why was he coming? Was there a hidden agenda behind his presence? My new residence was more peaceful than the bustling center of Munich, but the influence of the Nazis pervaded the countryside as well. It was difficult to gauge the true sentiments of the locals. Some appeared sympathetic to Nazi ideology, while others seemed too fearful to express dissent.

Fortunately, I was kept busy at the camp with Stauffer and had little time to foster relationships with neighbors. I had cultivated a rapport with him sufficient to earn his trust. He showed no interest in my personal history, only in my thoughts on his scientific endeavors. As physicists, we had discussed the potential of uranium and plutonium—and their devastating impact.

On the day Himmler arrived, Stauffer instructed me on how to behave and what to say. A strict protocol had been established, and it was crucial that everything aligned with his vision. His reputation was on the line.

From what I had read, Himmler was an advocate for science and the Nazi ideal of Aryan supremacy, as portrayed in their propaganda. I had seen films in Munich’s theaters echoing this distorted ideology.

It was a time when Europe was grappling with the rise of fascism and communism. Ideologies clashed at the borders of Eastern and Western Europe, pressing in from all sides.

Himmler was given a full tour of the camp, including the concealed chambers where the experiments were conducted. Judging from his reaction, he was satisfied with what he saw. He was unimpressive in stature or persona, but he exuded a redoubtable aura that drew many to him blindly. It was not reverence for the Führer—it was something distinct, and far more sinister.

I spoke little to Himmler, offering only a polite gesture of dissimulation. The conversation was mainly between him and Stauffer. I stood nearby, listening as they engaged in passionate ideological discourse. They agreed on most points. In the end, Himmler departed, praising Stauffer’s contributions to their cause.

Afterwards, Stauffer led me to a nearby river west of the camp, where the bodies of prisoners who had attempted escape floated lifelessly. The sight triggered flashbacks from the Great War, when I had witnessed similar carnage as a youth.

He brought me there because he intended to perform experiments on the corpses. I was aghast at the suggestion until he elaborated on his sinister plan.

As talk of war grew louder, the Nazis accelerated their scientific research. The West was unprepared for what was to come.

More prisoners arrived at Dachau—poor souls destined for the cells of their doom. It was becoming clear that the Nazis were expanding their camps, and Dachau was only the beginning of their cruelty.

I struggled to conceal my emotions, but remained composed. My conviction to prevent the Nazis from acquiring a nuclear weapon was as strong as their determination to obtain one. The only difference: I had to hide my passion. Stauffer, engrossed in his madness, failed to detect any suspicion in me.

One afternoon, I visited the crematorium to observe the charred remains of prisoners who had perished under Stauffer’s hand. I wore a mask to shield myself from the pervasive stench of death. Eventually, I stepped outside to regain composure. Stauffer had left to address another issue in the camp.

When he returned, we went to the chamber where the mutants—his altered men—were kept like caged animals. There, he began injecting them with an exotic drug of unknown origin. Though often verbose about his methods, he remained secretive about this substance.

The echoing screams and moans were unbearable. Stauffer insisted the experiment was essential to the Nazi cause. I believed he had long since crossed the boundaries of science and humanity. He spoke with pride, as if he were deserving of a Nobel Prize. But what he pursued was not for the advancement of science.

His obsession with perfection was intractable. He exploited helpless prisoners, reduced to specimens by his madness. I had no choice but to persist in my role.

He once confided that he had begun with animals but found them unreliable—they lacked the human mind’s capacity for reason. There was no adequate comparison, he said, and so he turned to human experimentation, convinced it would reveal the answers he sought.

Stauffer was bold, willing to sacrifice lives for the smallest gains in his research. I did not doubt the sincerity of his conviction. It was his logic I questioned—irrational, distorted by Nazi ideology. Though we had studied the same sciences, his thinking had become irredeemable.

Still, there were moments of clarity, when we discussed atomic formulas and neutron behavior. His intelligence was evident. I often wondered what he could have achieved had he pursued pure physics, rather than monstrous experiments.

Despite this, my perception of him never changed. There was, however, one area I related to: our shared background in physics. But I could never condone his madness or accept his vision for the Aryan race.

News of atrocities in Poland reached us at Dachau. It was clear that more horrors would follow across Nazi-occupied Europe.

The more ground they gained, the more their ambitions expanded—regardless of cost. Stauffer informed me of plans to build more chambers, predicting an influx of prisoners. I had already foreseen this, as the death toll had begun to affect camp productivity.

The evidence of death was visible daily—bodies on the ground, prisoners collapsing like cattle stricken by plague. I had seen such scenes during the Great War.

Stauffer grew frustrated with stalled progress in other experiments—on hypochondria, tuberculosis, hepatitis, syphilis, and more. He was especially focused on the human mind, convinced that deeper study of the thalamus would yield cures. He understood its connection to consciousness, sleep, learning, and memory.

He believed in mnemonics as a key to unlocking memory and cognitive function. In truth, he may have been at the vanguard of German science, among the most prolific scientists I had ever known.

But the situation with the prisoners worsened. Their agony echoed across the camp as they labored in trenches. I could not ignore their suffering at the hands of merciless guards.

What horrified me most was that these same prisoners would be tossed into those same trenches after their execution—discarded like waste. The executions were ghastly. The Nazis cut off prisoners’ fingers and kept them as grotesque trophies.

Whatever ultimate plan they had for Dachau would surpass all prior horrors.

That evening, I returned to my villa and reflected on all I had learned. I wrote to Otto Klinsman, a physicist I trusted in Austria, inquiring about the situation there. I did not know then that Klinsman had been arrested by the Nazis for his communist ties. He was not Jewish, but he was a vocal dissenter.

These were perilous times to be part of the resistance. Still, my resolve remained unshaken. The day arrived when Stauffer left the camp. It was the first time I was alone—without his presence.

This was my opportunity. I intended to investigate further, to uncover his nuclear plans. He had shared some ideas with me, but I needed tangible evidence—documents that would serve as irrefutable proof of his complicity.

After his departure, I managed to look into his files in the privacy of his office and discovered that he had, in fact, designed a nuclear bomb. It was only a rough draft, but the idea alone was menacing in its implications.

Finally, I had the proof I needed. Yet there was a major complication—one that threatened my planned exit from the camp. I had been scheduled to leave before Stauffer’s return, but my delay in the office proved costly. SS officers arrived unexpectedly and wanted to question me regarding possible acts of conspiracy against the Nazis.

Apparently, they had intercepted a letter I had sent to Klinsman in Austria. While it didn’t contain any direct incriminating evidence, they still pressed me on my relationship with him. Their questions were bold, their stares cold and imperious. I had to maintain that Klinsman and I were merely old university colleagues, nothing more.

I explained that I hadn’t seen him in years, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy them. Had they discovered my connection to the Americans as well? I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that Stauffer had been summoned back to the camp. Upon his return, he was immediately interrogated about my actions and whether there was any indication that I might be a collaborator—or worse, a spy.

My life now hung on his response.

To my utter astonishment, Stauffer vouched for me. He told the SS officers that I was a loyal Nazi, deeply involved in his greater scientific work. That I was vital to his project. He was taking a significant risk by doing so, and I couldn’t understand why. At least, not at the time.

Eventually, the SS ceased their inquiries. That didn’t mean I was safe, only that I was no longer on their immediate list of suspects. I didn’t expect to see them again, for I was determined to leave Dachau with all the damning information I had collected.

Soon after, I learned the real reason Stauffer had intervened on my behalf. He told me bluntly that he had always known I wasn’t who I claimed to be—and that I had no allegiance to the Nazi cause. At first, I was unsure how to respond. If I confessed the truth, I’d be detained and likely executed. But if I denied it, I risked further suspicion and a possible return of the SS.

He gave me two choices: admit who I was or face the wrath of the Reich. What he didn’t know, and what I dared not reveal, was that I was half-Jewish. Had he known my birth name, perhaps he would have realized it then. But he didn’t press me for my true identity or even who I worked for. In the end, I admitted he was right and agreed to “collaborate.” Of course, I had no intention of doing so. I only needed time—to devise a plan of escape.

During this precarious moment, a shipment of uranium and plutonium arrived at the camp. It was taken to a special chamber Stauffer had commissioned—a space originally intended to house more prisoners. He had cleared it for his ultimate experiment: the creation of a nuclear bomb.

Apparently, Himmler had personally tasked him with developing what was ominously referred to as the Doomsday Machine. It had become one of the Nazis’ top scientific priorities. I tried to focus on how I might escape, but Stauffer made it clear that any attempt to flee would result in immediate execution.

We began initial experimentation. Stauffer bombarded uranium atoms with neutrons, and when he analyzed the resulting debris, he discovered traces of barium. This led him to conclude that elements such as plutonium-239 and uranium-235 held the key. What he realized was that neither element alone could produce a critical mass—they had to be forced together, violently, to trigger a fission chain reaction.

He now possessed the knowledge needed to build his Doomsday Machine. The only missing piece was the bomb’s outer casing—one that could house such a colossal and destructive payload. He envisioned something far greater than a conventional projectile. I froze as I listened to him speak his minacious intentions. The project was still in its early stages, but Stauffer was confident it could be presented to Himmler—and ultimately to the Führer—within six months.

But there was one thing Stauffer hadn’t foreseen: the revolt of the mutants he had hidden in his chamber of horrors.

A terrified guard reported that the mutants had escaped, killing the other sentries assigned to watch them. Panic spread quickly through the camp. The monstrous creations turned on their masters, attacking guards stationed in other sections. Stauffer had lost control.

There was a secret passage that led to a narrow egress beyond the camp—a field that could be reached in minutes. That was his intended escape route. Unfortunately for him, he would never make it. He would not escape their fury.

I, however, was the fortunate one. I fled. What I left behind was carnage—a bloodbath. Guards fired at the mutants, felling some, but there were too many. Some prisoners escaped in the chaos; others were shot down without mercy. The mutants rampaged with terrifying ferocity, tearing into flesh. Words fail to capture the horror I witnessed.

By the time it was over, I was miles away from Dachau’s smoldering ruins. Stauffer was found later—his body in the dreadful gas chamber he had once used to kill others. His throat had been savagely slashed. The symbolism was not lost on those who discovered him. He had been devoured by the horror he had created.

Before my escape, I had secured Stauffer’s designs for the nuclear bomb. I could not allow them to fall into Nazi hands. A great explosion soon followed, destroying the camp’s towers. The surviving prisoners were relocated to a temporary facility.

As for the surviving mutants, they were captured, caged, and flown by cargo plane over the Danube. There, they were cast into the river’s depths to drown—erased like a shameful nightmare.

To some, Stauffer was just a madman gripped by delusion. But to others, he was a scientist who had come frighteningly close to changing the world forever.

As I moved further westward, I took refuge in an abandoned farmhouse near the Bavarian border. The silence there was almost unbearable—too complete, too permanent. The fields stretched empty, and the wind spoke in long, withering sighs through the broken shutters. It was there that I buried the copy of the blueprints. I did not destroy them. I could not. Not yet.

Before I left, I stood over the makeshift grave where I had hidden them, wrapped in oilcloth and encased in a small iron box. My hands trembled not from cold, but from the weight of implication. What if they were found? What if I returned? The war had already birthed a new kind of mind—one willing to compromise anything for knowledge, for control. I could feel that mind in myself, too. That haunted me more than anything.

I stayed in the house for three days. During that time, I ate nothing, drank sparingly, and watched the wind shape the frost into strange patterns on the window glass. On the second night, I dreamed of the mutants again. Not as monsters, but as men—men I once passed by in the corridors, gaunt and silent, before their descent into madness. In the dream, one of them approached me, his face burned but gentle, and placed his hand on my shoulder. No words were spoken. Only the heavy breath of recognition.

When I awoke, I wrote everything I remembered from the camp—not just the experiments or Stauffer’s theories, but the sights, the sounds, the ethical decay. I wrote without stopping, as if to cleanse myself. Pages poured out like blood from an opened vein. It was not a confession. It was an exorcism.

On the fourth morning, I left the farmhouse, never to return. I left behind the pages. I did not sign them.

After his death and a week later, I had managed to read with ample time his files in the privacy of my office and was able to discover that he had, in fact, designed a nuclear bomb with alarming detail. It was only a rough draft, a blueprint of a terrible possibility, but even in its incomplete form, it carried a terrifying weight. It was a menacing idea—more than theory, less than reality—but its proposal had an unmistakable clarity. He had intended it. That much was clear.

The designs for the bomb were incomplete, but advanced enough to constitute a serious threat should they fall into the wrong hands. I tucked them in my coat, stepped over the wreckage of ambition and death, and vanished into the countryside. The echoes of gunfire and terror faded in my mind.

By nightfall, I was miles from Dachau. I had seen enough to scar a dozen lifetimes. The bomb was never completed. The machine was never built. The war, however, would press on.

Soon after, the Allies would launch their counteroffensive. The Germans would continue their conquest across Europe, but they would falter. The cooperation of the Allied forces, though slow and costly, would prove effective. It would take years—and millions of lives—but the Reich would fall. Eventually, the Americans would create and detonate their own bomb in Japan, ending the Pacific War in a blinding storm of flame.

I would return to America, changed beyond words. My mission, though successful in the eyes of the Agency, left deep scars. The world I knew had tilted. The threshold of destruction had been crossed. The technology could not be unseen. The science could not be forgotten.

In the years that followed, I often pondered whether Stauffer was merely mad—or if he was a prophet of the world to come. His Doomsday Machine had never been realized. But his vision, dark as it was, had not been fantasy. The hunger for power had already found its fuel. The weapons would multiply. The doctrines of deterrence, fear, and supremacy would rule the latter half of the century.

Some would call Stauffer a monster, a deranged butcher of science. Others would whisper that he had nearly changed the course of human history. But I, who saw it firsthand, knew that he had only accelerated what mankind had already begun: the pursuit of annihilation dressed in the garments of progress.

Years had passed since the camp and its horrors vanished into rubble and memory. I visited a forgotten field near Dachau, now overtaken by weeds and silence. No markers remained, only the wind stirring through the grass—nature reclaiming what man defiled. I stood still, clutching the last surviving page of Stauffer’s design, now faded and brittle. I burned it with a match and watched the ashes scatter. No record would remain. The world would move forward, unaware of how close it came to ruin. I turned and walked away, leaving the ghosts of that place buried in the soil forever.

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