Amber

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Anguished cries of the dying echoed through the underground chamber. A weary contingent of German soldiers lay about the grungy space in various states of fatigue and illness-induced stupor. Major Hans Goering, their superior officer on this outing, gave a final shove with a pry bar, wrenching the lid from a wooden crate as one of the few men still able to move about staggered over to him. Goering let the tool drop to the dirt floor as he addressed his soldier.

“Private Schmidt, what is it?”

The young man quickly glanced back at the group of ailing soldiers lying on a disheveled mass of impromptu bedding before looking the major in the eyes.

“The men are saying it is the curse.” He lowered his head, no longer able to maintain eye contact with his superior.

Goering pursed his lips at his subordinate and then reached into the crate. He removed an object from it and held it in his hand while he admired its artistry. At length, he told his soldier, “There is no such thing as a curse,” without taking his eyes from the artifact.

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