Carl vs. The Nazis Ch. 14 Help!

"Carl vs. the Nazis Ch. 13 To Arms" 
Help!

I was surprised to be alive. Then, I wished I weren’t. The tree was pinning my twisted leg. The branches had landed in the inferno and the tree was on fire. The remaining wall of the hotel, barely supporting the burning tree, was buckling under the weight and about to fall on me.
“Help!” I cried to the firefighters. “I’m hurt bad and I’m going to burn to death!”
“Serves you right, Nazi-boy!” one of them shouted back. “Trying to kill us and all!”
“I hate Nazis!” jeered another firefighter. “They commit hate crimes and ought to be executed!”
“At least put out the fire!” I cried out. “That’s what you guys are trained to do!”
“Sorry, sonny! No water, thanks to you! We’re getting out of here before we get fried, too! We’ll try to collect the rest of you later.”
I saw his point. The Nazi guns had disabled the fire trucks, and drained their tanks of water. The whole resort and surrounding forest would soon be a mass of flame.
Don’t lie down and die. Dig. Push. Live.
I clawed at the dirt under my leg until I had room to wiggle it. The fire grew stronger and burned on my skin like July sun on a day-old sunburn. I pushed myself out. Almost . . . almost . . . No!
The log twisted and fell, piercing my leg through with broken branches. Pinned like a butterfly in a collection, I gave up and waited to be fried in my own fat while the firefighters drove away in their remaining trucks. My mind drifted. I thought about the Immortals and their longevity, which I would never share. I thought about my favorite toy, a stuffed dog my mom mailed me for Christmas when I was four. I thought about Monica. Why was I such a chicken? Why didn’t I ask her out? She obviously liked me. Then I remembered the great adventures in the woods that I had with Joe.
“Hi Carl.”
I tried to rub the blood and tears from my burning eyes. It didn’t help because I could only see a dim shape through the smoke.
“We came back from New Jersey to start getting the cottage ready for the summer,” the voice continued. It was Joe. “Looks like you’re in trouble.”
“Yes,” I said. “I have this burning tree on top of me, my leg is cut and probably broken, and I’m a little concerned about the burning building above me.”
“You’re wearing some sort of Nazi uniform. What is that, an SS uniform? You never told me you were a Nazi.”
“I’m not, Joe. Listen, can we sort that out later? Right now I could use a hand.”
Joe nodded. “Seems like what we really need is a chain saw. I’ll be back in a jiff.” He began walking toward his house, which was just past the Manor. Some boards from the wall fell near my head. I could smell my hair start to burn and patted the fire out with my hand.
“Hey Joe,” I called after him.
“What?”
“I’m in a great deal of discomfort. Could I impose upon you to put some shake on it?”
“Huh?”
“RUN!”
He ran.
He brought back the chain saw and pulled the cord. It didn’t start. Five more times he pulled.
“Carl,” said Joe. “I’m having a little trouble here. If it doesn’t start this time, I may have to scram. There’s no point in both of us getting it.”
“No hard feelings,” I said.
I closed my eyes. He pulled.
“Sput, sput, va, vavaroom!” It ran! Joe worked quickly, freeing me from the tremendous pressure of the tree. The tip of the saw ripped into my thigh, but I wouldn’t have cared if he took off my whole leg. He dragged me to his house, wrapped the wound and brought over the paramedics and the fire chief.
The chief had a hard time at first following my story, and an even harder time believing it. I patiently answered his questions until he saw my story held together.
He had been wondering what happened to Hoggleton, and he could not doubt Nazis had shot at him that afternoon. The chief explained to me that a very old man with red hair in an expensive suit said he was from the bank that owned the resort. He announced that the bank was planning to tear down the resort to put up a shopping mall, and offered the Manor to the fire department to burn for practice.
The fire department was so excited about having such a fine, old building to destroy without having to deal with whiny insurance investigators that they drove over and torched it within twenty minutes. Dr. Waller later explained that since he could not rely on the police, the fire department was the next thing to come to mind. He had hoped to warn me, but the fire department moved so quickly there just wasn’t time.
After hearing me out, the fire chief called the Sheriff, who called the FBI, who called the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The United States Attorney General himself conducted the operation.
The Attorney General contacted the Nazis in their bunker by ham radio, and negotiated with them for months. The Nazis refused to surrender.
“We have enough food to last all our lives, and enough weapons to take each of your lives!” bragged Damon. “And we have the will to kill! We are willing to give our lives for our cause! Are you?”
No, he was not, decided the AG. Anyway, he had made some inquiries about the Nazis. Their relatives and coworkers were in no hurry to have them back. Anyway, it was a lot easier and less expensive to keep them in a basement than to have a trial and put them in jail. So he decided to wait. The wait took so long that the bureau built a permanent office on the site.
The location by a lovely lake in the rural Poconos proved so popular among the burned-out federal employees it blossomed into a Federal office complex. Soon the unspoiled forests gave way to condominiums, swimming pools, golf courses, shopping malls, fast-food restaurants and movie theaters, for the benefit of those enjoying nature. The springs were put in underground drains or were pumped to water the golf courses, and the lake and the Great Swamp began to go dry. In other words, the Nazis had done wonders for the local economy. Eventually, the Federal building needed more parking, so they paved the whole area over the Nazi bunker.
Thomas, still pretending to be Hitler, continued to lead the Nazis while they waited underground. He trained them to be excellent musicians, emphasizing the large Bach collection stored in the bunker. The Neo-Nazi’s annual live radio broadcast of the St. Matthew’s Passion in March is still widely popular among ham radio baroque music buffs.
Of course the other Immortals lost their home in the
fire and had to come out of hiding. The world was fascinated by their longevity and wanted to learn their secrets. They became celebrities and I became a hero. The local Chamber of Commerce gave a ticker tape parade for the Immortals and me. Because back then the town still had only one stretch of businesses, we had to go around the block several times. News trucks from all over came to film the parade. You probably saw us on morning news and talk shows.

"Carl vs. the Nazis Ch. 15 Victory"