The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  In seconds, Steven was outside, Brian on his heels. He had never seen his cousin run so fast.

  Brian wanted to yell, “Steve, wait!” But he didn’t. They were running like the wind in the direction from which they had entered Odyssey the previous day. Brian did not dare look back. He was certain bullets would come flying over his head at any given moment—but he did not look back, and he did not hear any gunshots.

  ***

  Off in the woods, a man named Mark Haines sat with his back against a big tree next to a fast-moving stream. He was rubbing the morning from his eyes while fixing the rubber waders around his knees. It was his and Ned Patterson’s job to check the fish traps first thing every morning.

  Mark Haines stood, stretching tall while yawning into the sky. He strode into the stream, cursing at the cold morning water. The hangover raging inside his head made every step an ordeal. The last place on Earth he wanted to be at that moment was out in the ice-cold water. But he had a job to do. A ways off, Ned checked the western trap. Mark looked out for him, but didn’t see any movement other than the rushing water.

  He should be done about now.

  Mark was halfway across the stream when he heard something. Leaves crackling. “Ned, that you? Anything in the trap?” Ned didn’t answer. The man scratched his white beard. “Ned, where you at?”

  Behind the tree he had just left, a beast of a man wearing a dark poncho charged out from the brush. The man came crashing down the small incline, pummeling into the water, and coming straight at Mark. The man’s mouth was foaming, and his eyes were a dreadful stare.

  It ain’t human.

  “F-fuck!” Mark Haines dropped his wicker fish basket into the water, where the fast current carried it away. He stepped back, but his ankle caught on something and he fell into the frigid water.

  In a flash, Mark jumped back to his feet, looking at the bank where his rifle sat leaning against a tree. He began to draw his pistol, screaming, “Ne-NED! NED!”

  Mark did not have time to raise his revolver before the beast was upon him. His large arms wrapped around Mark’s head, squashing his face into his chest. Mark’s feet rose into the air, thrashing about over the water. The man squeezed with all his might and jerked his body to the side, snapping Mark’s neck and dropping him in the water at the same time. The movement was fluid, graceful. A perfect symphony of violence.

  The current swept the floating Mark Haines away, and Steven lumbered on, crossing the stream to the bank on the other side.

  From the northwest end of the stream, the man named Ned Patterson came crashing through the water. When he saw Steven, he stopped short.

  “Shit!” He raised his rifle. Ned had Steven dead in his sights.

  A shot rang out.

  But Steven did not fall. Ned Patterson flew backward. He never saw Brian Rhodes standing on the opposite bank, his rifle aimed squarely at him.

  Brian lowered his gun. “Holy hell,” he spoke through labored breaths. “Christ in heaven.” Ned’s body swept past Brian, facedown in the stream as the rapids carried him away.

  Brian Rhodes sprinted into the water and continued after Steven.

  Chapter 14

  Ejército Mexicano

  Sleep was difficult. Freeze frames of the boy at the gas station flashed through Simon’s mind. The small body flying, a cloud of red mist and jacket fibers suspended in the air. He heard the boy’s squeaky voice and replayed their conversation, changing words, trying to make things right.

  But there was no way to make things right.

  Shortly after speeding away from the gas station, Simon stopped the van and stumbled outside to vomit. He vomited again when he made camp that night, and in the morning, he felt weak, his mind lost and his body in pain.

  Winston might have sensed something, because he stayed at Simon’s side the entire first night. Even the next day as they drove on, Winston repeatedly tried to walk across the seats to sit on Simon’s lap.

  Simon scratched the spot on his head. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you, boy. I’m so, so, sorry.” His emotions were uncontrollable. On two occasions, Simon stopped to try and meditate, but it was impossible.

  As the drive went on, he was reminded of a teaching he had once read. From where, or what book, he could not remember. It taught that emotions, negative or positive—but with a strong emphasis on the negative—were products of the mind and not of the outward world. They were two separate things. Therefore, when an event occurs in the outside world, which would be described as negative, it does not mean that the mental state needs to be negative as well. Inner peace and clarity of mind: these things are possible, even during the worst circumstances. Even death.

  But what about the killing of a child?

  It went against everything Simon had studied. Killing, murder, death, violence—these things were not permitted. Buddhists do not eat meat because killing an animal is an act of violence. Not that Simon considered himself a Buddhist. He accepted killing and eating animals because he did it for survival, but he understood and accepted the principle.

  A teacher at one of his classes—not Marcus Warden, but a female instructor named Mica—had told him that even flowers scream out in pain when they are picked from the stems; it’s only that we can’t hear their voices. Simon focused on these thoughts, these teachings; he needed something, anything, to put his mind at ease.

  So he tried to dissociate himself from the act. He rationalized it as an outward event, and although it happened, he could maintain that the present moment was positive in his current space and time, and he did not have to maintain a negative mindset. Yet, he was the one who had pulled the trigger. This was not an event he witnessed—it was a result of his actions.

  Was it better to be dead?

  Should he have let the boy kill him to maintain the zero-tolerance-for-violence law? He went over the conversation by the gas pump again and again, trying to change the words, trying to change the outcome.

  However, all of these events were now in the past. He could not change his words or actions. He needed to stay in the moment—the here and now. Staying focused was imperative, if not for himself, then for the fate of the next young boy he might encounter.

  This thought gave him some peace. He knew and accepted that killing the boy was an act of violence, and it would haunt him forever. Reality had to be accepted, the past left behind, and the future must unfold as it will.

  Out in a field, behind a group of trees, Simon stopped and ate lunch. He tossed a stick around with Winston. If he himself could not be happy, at least he could get Winston in a good mood; and seeing Winston run around with his floppy tongue bouncing always brightened his spirits.

  He ate from a bag of boiled chestnuts and thought about what the boy had said to him, “I k-k-know what m-men like you do to kids like me.” I know what men like you do. What did men like Simon do to kids like him? He was not sure he wanted to know. Simon sealed the bag of chestnuts, put some water in a bowl for Winston—who lapped it up in haste—and packed the van.

  “Come on, idiot, get in.” Winston looked up, licking the dripping water off his lips. Simon laughed. “Your face is soaked.”

  ***

  The roads became more congested with abandoned vehicles the farther east Simon drove. He had to veer off the shoulder for long stretches at a time and slow to a crawl over rocks and ruts. Unfortunately, he knew it would only get worse farther east. The traffic on the opposite side of the highway, heading westward, was double in volume. Those were the people fleeing the coast.

  In the town of Crawford, Simon witnessed large-scale devastation, unprecedented by anything he had yet seen.

  The business district was easy to bypass, but he could see from the passing streets that the city center was reduced to rubble. The skeleton of a helicopter sat black and scorched, sticking out from the top of a tall building. The fire that consumed it had left nothing but twisted metal. Army vehicles—nothing more than shells—were everywhere. Bodies litt
ered the land, many left where they fell, others in charred heaps, indecipherable from the wreckage and carnage of that blackened land.

  Outside of Crawford, the road stayed flat and straight for many miles, leading to a range of mountains far on the horizon.

  Simon traveled on, reaching the hairpin curves in the road leading over the mountains. When he reached the highest point, he could see the interstate and valley on the opposite side. The sun was full and bright, and the valley below twinkled in the light like a sky full of stars. Simon stopped the van and grabbed his binoculars.

  “Holy hell,” he said, scanning the area for miles around. The road itself went straight and then veered to the right, where he could see the glimmer of a city far in the distance. To the left, scattered over the valley like a thousand fallen raindrops, were the remains of fighter planes and drones stretching as far as the eye could see. What nationality the planes belonged to, Simon did not know. It looked like a scrapyard. Debris lay scattered across the landscape, and dark craters pockmarked the land where aircraft fell from the sky.

  He got back in the van and drove on.

  Once in the valley, the land was too flat to see much of the devastation that was all around, and the road stayed straight and true. The abundance of vehicles increased as he neared the town, and the going was tough and slow. He had to veer off the road for long stretches, with the van bouncing on its springs. The gas barrels in the back were always on his mind, and with every bump, he listened for the sound of leaking fluid.

  He drove on the sidewalk as he entered the town, past rows of abandoned vehicles. Buildings were taller here and closer together. This town—whatever its name may be—was the closest thing to a true city that Simon had yet seen.

  There was just enough clearance for the van to drive through the cluster of vehicles, and Simon wished that he had a motorcycle, or one of those smart cars. He would have to consider trading out the van soon. There were plenty of vehicles all around, left everywhere; he could take whatever he wanted.

  The path between cars brought him back to the pavement, crammed in the middle of the two lanes. The road turned to the right, circling around a large open park with a tall statue in the middle—an ancient-looking man standing atop pillars, covered in vines. The buildings circling the park had a Southern or European look to them with cast-iron balconies and dark-shingled roofs. They were all boarded up, deserted—dead. Grass in the park was wild, grown taller than the benches. There were few bodies on the ground, but the cars were full of them—like a citywide mausoleum.

  Driving through the park itself would have been easier, but it was impossible to get over. Simon approached a narrow gap between two sedans that left little room for him to pass. As he inched between them, he heard the squeal of the cars’ bumpers rubbing up against either side of the van.

  Then Simon heard a loud pop, and the steering wheel jolted.

  His heart was filled with dread. “Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit.” He smacked the steering wheel with his palm. “Damn it! Winston, we popped a tire. I don’t know about this town. I don’t know if we’re going to be able make it through. Shit!” He whacked the steering wheel again.

  The buildings on the far side of the park were too far away to see any evidence of living people, but he didn’t see any movement. He shouldered his rifle, grabbed the backpack, and opened the door. He left it open as he crouched beside the car that was pinned against the side of the van. The front left tire of the van was blown out completely and sat on the rim. There were two spares in the back along with a hydraulic jack, but the little Civic that was wedged against the van was right at the tire. He knelt again, feeling for the indent on the bottom of the van where the jack fit in. The tire rim sat in a deep pothole, with muddy rainwater splashed about. Simon stared at the pothole, and things began clicking in his mind: the perfect lane for his van to follow, the tire popping at the right moment …

  “Oh, shi—”

  A bang echoed out over the park, and the rear windshield of the Civic exploded, sending a shower of glass shards over Simon’s back and dancing upon the pavement.

  Simon dropped and rolled to the rear of the van. “Winst-Winston!”

  Half-submerged in the grimy puddle water in the pothole, was a short plank of wood with nails sticking out. Long, sinister nails.

  The shooter could be anywhere, but judging from the sound of the shot and the direction of the falling glass, Simon speculated that the shooter was in one of the far buildings across the park. Or maybe in the park itself, hiding in the tall grass.

  Winston did not come out. The dog was terrified of loud noises and probably sitting on the floor of the van with his ears pinned back, trembling.

  “Winston! Winston!” Simon’s back was against the rear of the van. Another crack-like explosion ripped through the air, and a bullet walloped into the side of the van, just around the bend, only a foot away from his face.

  “Jesus!”

  Simon dove to the ground, and before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet and running as fast as he could. He weaved in and out between cars, jumped over bodies, all the while screaming, “Winston! Winston! Winston!”

  He was out of town the way that he came—among the line of vehicles on the interstate—and he continued running. He looked behind him and saw Winston fast at his heels, his tongue flopping out of his mouth and his ears pulled back tight. As terrified as Simon was, seeing his dog behind him removed a giant weight from his heart.

  Coming to a halt, he dropped to a knee behind a car and grabbed Winston at his scruff, pulling him in close. The dog trembled against him. Simon held his rifle in one hand, his body low to the ground, and grabbed at his binoculars with the other, scanning the road. He saw nothing. Just the buildings at the town’s entrance.

  Then he heard another bang, and at the same time, the pavement beside him erupted in an explosion of concrete chips.

  “God damn!”

  Some pebbles struck his knuckles and he flinched, moving his fingers to make sure they still worked. Blood sprang to the surface. He jumped behind the car, shielding himself.

  “Down, Winston! Down!” The dog was already down and staring at him with huge brown eyes.

  After a moment, Simon heard the crackle of static, then a booming voice come over a megaphone.

  “Amigo! Hey, hey! Amigo!”

  Simon didn’t say anything.

  “Cómo estás? Lo qué le trae por aquí?”

  He looked at Winston. “Fucking Spanish?” Simon took one year of Spanish in high school and remembered next to nothing.

  “Hey!” came the voice, “Deje el camión, girar y salir.”

  Simon did not know if he was supposed to answer.

  “Se deja el coche, perra estúpida americana. Se puede entender una palabra que estoy diciendo? Nosotros tenemos rodeado, podemos matar fácilmente. Matarte muertos! Correr y dejar el coche donde está! No vuelvas.”

  Simon knew what muertos meant. It occurred to him that he had been shot at three times, and at least two of the times the shooter had a clear line of sight, yet he missed. They were warning him, driving him away.

  He spoke, shouting, “What do you want? Do you speak English?”

  There was a pause, and then, “The van. It is ours.” His accent was thick. “This town; it is ours. We will kill you no problem, comprendes?”

  “Don’t shoot, okay? Don’t shoot!” Simon began to stand. “Don’t shoot!” He looked to his left and was shocked to see three people sitting just a few feet from him, on the side of the road.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” He jolted, falling on his back, and swung the rifle in their direction. He stared at them, his hands trembling on the rifle, and realized they were long dead. Crusty blankets were draped over their shoulders, and their bodies were nothing more than dusty shells—dry and empty leather.

  “Take the van; it’s yours! I don’t fucking want it!” It occurred to Simon it would be better to not sound hostile. “I’ll leave
. Okay? I’ll never come back.”

  There was silence.

  Simon repeated, “I’ll—”

  “Yes, you go now.”

  Simon hesitated and then stood with his hands up over his head. He looked at the entrance to the town, toward the voice for only a moment. There were four men, all dark skinned and wearing matching army-green uniforms with black tactical vests. The man with the megaphone had a potbelly and wore a cap, while the others wore helmets. Two men kneeled, holding machine guns pointed right at him, and the other stood at the potbellied man’s side.

  Simon turned and began walking away with Winston at his heels. A shot rang out, hitting nothing but the sky, but Simon started sprinting away. The men laughed, and the microphone crackled, “Andale amigo!”

  They laughed and Simon ran.

  Chapter 15

  The Waterside

  Running while wearing the pack was difficult, and the distance between Brian and Steven grew until Steven was only a blur of movement in the distant woods before him. Brian shouted for him to slow down, but whether Steven heard him or not, he did not reply. They were over two miles outside of Odyssey when Steven slowed and Brian caught up.

  Steven was doubled over, holding a tree for support. Labored breaths came wheezing out of his mouth, and he was dry-heaving thick strings of saliva. Brian fell to his knees beside him, grabbing at the stitch on his side.

  After a moment, Brian said, “That was some shit.”

  Steven wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

  They sat catching their breath for several minutes, still fearful that men were on their heels. Steven stood first, and then Brian labored to his feet and pulled out his map, finding a route to bypass Odyssey.

  Brian knew without a doubt that the two men in the river outside of Odyssey were dead. The other two men in the house might also be dead. With any hope, they were all dead, and their bodies would not be discovered for a long time.