Pinned Wings

Please note: This story is a continuous, multi-chapter narrative. You can find the correct order in the right sidebar. All texts were originally written in German and translated into English using AI. I asked the AI to preserve the original stylistic flair wherever possible.   Their eyes locked on the scene, neither uttered a word in that first moment. Hollwart’s gaze darted back and forth, trying to comprehend how the truck had ended up suspended several meters above them in the branches—pierced, impaled. He tried to calculate how fast it must have happened, how little time Tomasch had had to escape. At the same time, his mind refused to accept the image, forcing him to look away again and again—only to find, each time he looked back, that nothing had changed.   Ebram, on the other hand, after the initial shock and paralysis, felt a strange curiosity stir within him—something unfamiliar, almost alien. He began to grasp that forces were at work here, forces from a time long past—forces he had never believed in until this moment. Yet he knew that every era had its mysteries, things once deemed magical that were later explained and stripped of wonder. Perhaps this was no different. Perhaps there was an explanation, simply one not yet known—or perhaps he had gone mad. That, too, seemed plausible. In fact, he thought, with startling clarity, it might be the most logical explanation.   He looked at Hollwart and saw the man’s desperate attempts to make sense of what he was seeing. “Mr. Hollwart?” “Yes?” came the hesitant, distracted reply. “Mr. Hollwart, please—let’s take a closer look.” “Excuse me? You want to go over there?” Hollwart pointed at the truck, his expression suggesting Ebram had lost his mind. “Yes. I want to see it for myself, to confirm it’s not a hallucination. That it’s real. And we should recover the body—don’t you agree?” Ebram’s voice held a strange, almost cheerful tone. He liked the idea of being mad. It was electrifying. It made every explanation suddenly simple.   The foreman grabbed Ebram’s shoulder as he moved toward the wreckage. “You’re serious, aren’t you? What if the trees attack us?” The words sounded skeptical, as if even he didn’t believe them. Ebram looked him in the eye, then down at the hand on his shoulder, which was quickly withdrawn under his gaze. A faint sting of rejection flickered in him, but he pushed it aside.   “Yes, I’m serious. Maybe we’re both delusional. Maybe this isn’t real, just a dream. Or maybe we’ve ingested something that’s making us hallucinate. I don’t know—but I want to be sure. I want to touch it, maybe wake up. And if it is real, then there must be an explanation, and I intend to find it so that…” He paused, then chose honesty. “…so that I can claim the discovery for myself. But also, so that something like this doesn’t happen again.”     Before Hollwart agreed to go with him, he returned to the vehicle and retrieved a heavy military revolver from beneath the seat. He reloaded the cylinder, checked the barrel, and snapped it shut. Then he pocketed several speedloaders and ignored Ebram’s skeptical glance. Ebram assumed the weapon was for reassurance. Hollwart also refused to let the doctor take the lead, instead firmly positioning him behind.   “Mr. Hollwart, rest assured—I’m quite capable of defending myself. During my university years, I was an excellent fencer and a decent wrestler.”   He nearly walked into the foreman when Hollwart stopped abruptly and turned. “Do you really plan to wrestle a tree or fence without a blade?” he asked, lowering the pistol. Slightly embarrassed but compelled to respond, Ebram looked at the revolver. “And do you believe trees have hearts, lungs, or brains that can be pierced by a bullet?” “Well, at least I have something that can damage a tree. Whether it’s serious damage, we may find out. Though I’d prefer not to.”   Without further discussion, the two men stepped cautiously between the first trees—ready to act at any moment. But nothing happened. The trees remained motionless, their branches still. They advanced slowly, constantly scanning their surroundings. Everything felt potentially dangerous—the ground, the trunks, the limbs overhead. After twenty nerve-wracking minutes, they reached the truck, suspended roughly three meters above them in the branches.   Hollwart tilted his head back. “Bears sometimes hang their prey in trees,” he mused. Ebram crouched and examined the dried pool of blood on the needles. “I wasn’t aware bears had a taste for metal.” He stood and showed Hollwart a few sharp, blood-soaked leaves. “It must’ve happened yesterday. The blood’s dry, partly washed away by morning dew and fog.”   Hollwart flared his nostrils in a short snort and shook his head. “I wonder if we could’ve prevented it, had we searched yesterday.” Ebram stepped beside him, also looking up. “I’m more curious where the other passengers are.” “I’ve wondered that too,” Hollwart said thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping the area. “So? Do you think this is a dream or a hallucination?” he asked, almost casually.     Since no tree or branch made any move to attack them, they tried to figure out how to retrieve Tomasch’s body. But it quickly became clear that without proper equipment, they had no chance of freeing the corpse.   Suddenly, Hollwart pressed the weapon into Ebram’s hand. “Can you handle this?” Startled, Ebram stared at the revolver. “Uh, yes—I understand the basic principle of a pistol.” “Good. Then keep watch while I climb up to the truck,” Hollwart said, removing his jacket.   Ebram was still processing when Hollwart began pulling himself up into the branches. He positioned himself beneath the tree, sweeping the pistol back and forth in line with his gaze. “Are you sure this is necessary?” he called up. “Yes. The others might still be inside,” came the reply.   As the foreman climbed higher, Ebram began to feel uneasy. In Hollwart’s direct presence, he felt safer than he’d realized. The pistol in his hand offered no comfort.   Ground fog began to rise—a sign that night was approaching. Just as he was about to call up to Hollwart that it was time to return to camp, he hesitated. They’d left shortly after midday. The drive had taken barely fifteen minutes. It couldn’t possibly be evening already.   Uneasy, he called upward: “Have you found anything? I’d prefer if you came down now.” He heard Hollwart struggling to force open the vehicle. Metal groaned under the strain. “Almost there—the passenger door’s nearly open. It’s stuck.” More metallic creaking followed. “Well, fog’s rising down here—which is unusual at this hour. I’d really appreciate it if you started your descent,” Ebram repeated, more firmly. “Lost your curiosity, Doctor?” came the teasing reply. “No, I haven’t. But I doubt a pistol is much use against unnatural fog!” Ebram shot back.   Suddenly, something crashed to the ground beside him—a dull, heavy thud. Ebram flinched, pulled the trigger, and leapt backward. The shot echoed through the otherwise silent forest like an intruder. He slammed into a tree trunk behind him, which startled him further and sent him stumbling sideways.   Hollwart’s concerned voice called down: “Everything alright down there?” Ebram ran a shaky hand through his hair and aimed the pistol at the thing on the ground. “Good God!” he gasped. “What is that?” A hint of panic crept into his voice. “That’s Mr. Matthei. Or what’s left of him. Sorry I didn’t warn you—I realized too late that he’d slipped.”   Ebram slowly approached the body, partially veiled by mist. He nudged it with his foot. “That’s Mr. Matthei?” “Correct. And the others are still up here. The sight is…” Hollwart paused. “…do you know butterfly collectors?”   Immediately, an image formed in Ebram’s mind: human corpses, neatly pinned through arms and legs. Beneath them, labels with names and data—precisely inscribed, like in a museum.   His gaze fell again on Matthei, whose vacant stare and twisted limbs were disturbing enough. But he was also pierced in several places by branches—or were they roots? Ebram had seen corpses before, even studied them. But those had been centuries old: sunken, partially preserved—too abstract to connect with the living.   Matthei, however, didn’t look like a corpse. He looked like a man to whom something terrible had happened—and whose face still bore the unmistakable imprint of that horror.     While Hollwart began climbing back down, Ebram examined Matthei’s body. He assumed the man had died quickly—relatively quickly, he corrected himself, since he couldn’t tell whether the branches had grown into him or moved like a spear. One of them had pierced Matthei’s heart directly; at the latest, death would have come within seconds. The thought made Ebram shudder, and he kept glancing around at the surrounding trees—but they showed no signs of aggression. The mist was thickening, now rising above their knees.   Still slightly out of breath from the climb, Hollwart stepped up beside him. “Do we take him with us?” Ebram shook his head. “Not like this—we’d cause a panic.” He straightened up, unconsciously tensing his jaw as he thought. “What do we tell the workers?” “Good question. I don’t know how to explain this—I have no explanation. Do you?” Ebram shook his head again. “No. Only a theory.” Hollwart perked up. “A theory?” Turning slowly in place, Ebram murmured more than he spoke: “All researchers and adventurers must have experienced something like this. Some returned—but only those who made it to the city. There must be a clue there.” He looked at Hollwart. “Can you communicate that without causing panic? The way back is blocked for now, and I don’t want to risk more deaths trying to force a return.”   Hollwart’s face twisted with reluctant resignation, and he nodded. “Most will be reasonable, but there’ll be some who want to try their luck—or won’t believe us.” Ebram gestured toward the truck. “Then bring the doubters here. Recover the bodies. Give them a proper burial. That’ll wake people up.”   The foreman didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. “So we’re more or less stranded—and our hope lies in a ruined city whose existence and location we have no proof of.” He pushed out his lower lip and muttered under his breath, barely audible: “That’ll be a breeze to explain to the crew.” Then, louder: “Alright, Doctor, let’s get back to the vehicle. The mist’s rising fast, and I don’t intend to end up like Matthei and the others.”