Volume I - Episode 97 Where: Potsdam, Germany When: 24 days after E-Day, 4:18 pm Doctor Prabil Ratnarajah stood vigilantly at the window. He was exhausted, utterly worn out from eight days on the run, constantly aware that capture and death could be waiting around any corner. But he would not sleep. Not while she was under his care. He looked at Sarah now, asleep on the living room sofa, her hand resting on her enormous, pregnant belly. It was her first decent sleep in days. He allowed himself a brief moment of envy, then snapped himself out of it. She was depending on him. He was all that stood between her and certain death. And he would not let her down. It was amazing, really: two weeks earlier he had never even heard of Sarah Bachmeier, and now he was prepared to die for her and her unborn son. After everything that she had been through, after watching her husband's public execution, it was the least that he could do. The events of the past week seemed to him like some kind of nightmare. After E-Day, survivors from all over Germany had flocked to Berlin. At first, the energy had been positive. People formed working parties to build, clean up and repair. People spoke of love, and hope, and healing. During the days, they worked. But at night, they asked questions. What was E-Day? What had caused it? Was it God? Were they being punished? Or, worse, had God abandoned them? A handful of clergy began to whisper that witches were responsible for the cataclysmic night that almost destroyed humanity. It was like throwing a lit match on gasoline. The rumours spread like wildfire. Soon, the rumours became facts. The whispers became shouts, and the working parties gave way to mobs. Paranoia took over. Talk turned to vengeance. Amongst all the chaos, one man stood up to fan the flames and lead the charge into this brave new world of fear and retribution. Dieter Vogt. He was an army chaplain from Kaiserslautern in southwestern Germany. Tall, stern and fearsome, he was a man to be reckoned with, a natural leader with a burning passion for Christ and a white-hot hatred for witchcraft. On top of all that, he was utterly insane. He turned the angry mobs into a single, cohesive force. They were the Hexenjägern. They were the witch hunters. And Sarah Bachmeier was a witch. Prabil's eyelids drooped. He snapped himself awake again and walked briskly into the kitchen, careful not to wake Sarah as he passed. The scene from the kitchen window was much the same as from every other window in the house: a deserted, empty street lined with deserted, empty houses. This was the fourth house they had stayed in since fleeing Berlin eight days earlier, and their experience with every house was much the same: they drove down a street until they found a house that looked particularly non-descript, then Sarah hid in the car while he got out and scouted the building to make sure it was empty; then they broke in, used or collected whatever meagre supplies they could find, and set up camp. A day or two later, they carefully erased all traces of their visit, stole a new car, and went to find a new hiding spot. The Hexenjägern had blocked every road in and out of Potsdam, and they had hunting parties roaming everywhere. Prabil and Sarah had spotted three patrols since making their daring escape, and one time their car had even been fired upon. Prabil remembered running his finger over the bullet holes in the back of the silver Volkswagen - three large, round holes, punched straight through the metal skin of the car as if it were paper. If they had aimed just a little higher... It's nice and warm in here, Prabil thought. Sarah the pregnant witch lay sound asleep on the couch. He turned to look at her again. So sleepy. She looked so peaceful laying there, snoring softly. So peaceful and comfortable. So sleepy. [CONTINUED IN COMMENTS BELOW]