The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  “You know what’s strange?” Simon told Winston, who was paying more attention to the scent of the trees than to Simon’s voice. “People, I’ve noticed, are afraid to sleep in the woods. They would rather sleep in the fields beside them. It’s the stupidest thing they can do. It’s far safer sleeping in the wilderness than out in the open. Animals are better to be around than strangers.”

  Winston looked up at him with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His ears were raised and he looked happy. Simon smiled and ruffled his head.

  Judging by the map, Livingston Park was large in comparison to the two other parks in Sullivan. Simon went straight to the deep brush where no human tracks or trampling could be seen, and found a small clearing to camp for the night. The comfort of seclusion put his mind at ease, and he let out a sigh.

  “Hey, my buddy.” He looked down at Winston. “You hungry?” Winston’s tail went wild.

  They ate and then slept in a lean-to shelter that Simon put together out of sticks and leaves. In the morning, he scattered the shelter’s remains so that the terrain looked much the same as it had before being disturbed. They followed a narrow stream that cut across the center of the park. A mile or so on, the path intersected an old dirt road. It was overgrown, almost absorbed back into the wild.

  They walked on their own path, following the stream as a guide, and at times Simon could see the dirt road parallel to him through the brush.

  A structure in the distance became visible well before Simon came upon it. The crest of a roof rose above the distant tree line. Simon neared, and he soon came to the expansive back wall of an old barn, the white paint chipped and peeling off in sheets. It was over two stories high, and judging by the width, the barn was massive. Simon walked on the pathway beside it, keeping everything around him in constant surveillance. There seemed to be no need to worry. The birds in the trees chirped without care, nothing scurried, and there were no voices to be heard or signs of a recent human presence.

  Simon rounded the corner, taking his time as he neared the front, and when he did—when he saw the land before the barn—he stopped short.

  “Holy hell …”

  Chapter 23

  Riders

  Time was not relevant. It had no meaning or existence.

  The world was black, a clean slate. And then consciousness came rushing back.

  Steven’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared unfocused at the swaying treetops far above—a blurry sea of green against a cloudy backdrop.

  His mouth opened, but sentences could not form. Then one word escaped, “B-B-Brian?”

  There was no reply.

  His hand moved. Pain spread.

  “Easy now, lad,” rasped a deep voice.

  Steven looked away from the treetops. Two men sat across from him, a campfire in the middle. He was lying uncomfortably straight on some sort of makeshift stretcher with the top of his head touching the scratchy bark of a tree. Agony was becoming evident all over his body, inside and out.

  What happened?

  “Relax, lad,” said the same rasping voice. The man who spoke sat upon the side of a fallen tree, stroking his fingers through a graying beard. He wore something of a uniform, a compilation of various dark military fatigues. The other man looked at Steven, and then cast his eyes back to the fire, stoking the flames with a stick.

  “What … Who are you? Where’s Brian?”

  “Is that the other lad’s name? Brian?” the bearded man asked. Upon hearing the conversation, several faces appeared in the woods, looking down at him where he lay. In the distance, Steven could hear the whinnying of horses.

  “What happened … What …” Panic was fluttering in Steven’s chest.

  “W-who are you?”

  “My name is Captain Thomas Black, first battalion. You are in the custody and care of General Metzger, by God’s good grace.”

  The words escaping the man’s mouth were pure gibberish. This rough-looking horde, all staring down at him, were well-armed and wore similar uniforms.

  The bearded man stood and dusted his battered cavalry hat on his knee before placing it on his head.

  “Where were you headed?”

  Steven didn’t answer.

  “The other one.” The man walked before Steven with his hands clasped behind his back. “Brian, you say? Where is he headed?”

  Steven looked away.

  “He left you for dead, you know. When we found you sprawled out in the dirt, we were certain you were dead. You lost a lot of blood. Your pulse is still weak, and you may not live to see tomorrow. If you’re lucky, we will arrive in Odyssey before you expire and the doctor can patch you up.”

  Steven’s eyes grew large.

  Odyssey …

  The adrenaline coursing through his body helped him muster his strength.

  “You gonna kill me?” Steven’s face set in a scowl. He tried to raise his body from the ground, but fighting through the jolts of pain was like cutting wire tied to keep him down. “Go on and try.”

  “Christ in heaven.” The bearded man stepped forward, motioning for Steven to lie back down. “Easy does it, now.” He looked back to the others. “Stout lad, ain’t he?”

  Steven collapsed on his back. His head pulsed with pain, throbbed against a tightly bound bandage, and he thought he was going to vomit.

  “I’m not gonna kill you. By the looks of it, killing you is no easy feat. Your friend tried plenty hard.”

  Steven tried to think back to his last memory, and through the patchy clouds of red, he saw a scene—fragments of bone and organ meat tossed beside a bloodstained stump. The image churned his stomach.

  What happened?

  “W-what happened?” he asked.

  “I rightly do not know, other than your friend trying to murder your ass and leaving you to die alone.”

  “Brian would never—”

  “But he did, lad. He did. That’s a fact.”

  Would he? Did he?

  The fear in Steven’s mind was changing, evolving, turning to courage and strength. Anger was boiling to the surface.

  “What do you want with me? I know who you are, I saw you back in Odyssey. I saw you parading through town with all them murdered bodies. I ain’t stupid.”

  The bearded man laughed. “Son, I’m not sure what you think you saw, but I assure you, we have never murdered a soul. Honest to the Lord high above. Not one. Killing is a God-given right in this day and age, as long as the reasons are just. Those people you saw dead were guilty of crimes against the very nature of humanity. What you saw was an illusion created in your mind by your own fear. We are not bad people; to think otherwise is a fault in the way you processed events. And, son, I do believe that if murder was still a punishable offense, you would most certainly be found guilty yourself. Am I wrong in saying so?”

  The man stared at Steven with crisp, blue eyes.

  “I ain’t never killed a person. I protected myself is all.”

  “Did those people that you killed try to harm you in any way?”

  “I … those people are dead?”

  The captain nodded. “All dead, lad. All dead. Do you believe that a jury of your peers would find you innocent? What if we were to try you in a court of law?”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong. Where’s Brian?”

  “He’s gone. I told you as much. He left you for dead, took your gear, and moved on. We’ll send some scouts after him if it suits your desire, but the man has turned his back on you and has disappeared.”

  “That ain’t true … he would never—”

  “But he has, lad. He has.”

  “What … what do you want with me?”

  “Well … we were tracking you to get justice for the men that you killed. We were going to tie your hands and feet to trees and stretch you out in a star. We were then going to take a sharp blade and make a cut down your back, from the top of your head to the base of your spine, and then over your arms and legs. Yank the skin off your muscle an
d bones.

  “Some say that if you do it proper, the person will still be alive to witness their own skin piled before them. But if that’s possible, we’ve never been able to achieve it. We start with the head and face, take it slow. Show you your reflection in a mirror before you expire.”

  Steven gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his elbows.

  “You go on then and give it a try. See what happens. I’ll kill the lot of you! You’ll all be dead—”

  “Easy, lad. Easy.” The man looked back to the others, issuing a laugh. “A live wire we got here.” He looked to Steven. “We’ve had a change of heart. You killed four men back in Odyssey. Three with your bare hands, and the other was shot. Those were not easy men to kill. One you punched so hard his skull was shattered like broken glass.” He held his hand to his heart. “Honest to God, I’ve never seen a punch thrown like that.”

  Steven didn’t mention that it was Brian who did the shooting. And he did not mention that it wasn’t hard killing any of those men, not in the slightest.

  “Those men, were they unlike yourself? Struggling to survive? Now, our organization is prosperous. We are the largest known assortment of fighting men, and we thrive on strength and numbers. You are nothing of a weakling; am I wrong in saying so? You come off as a smart lad. Smart and cunning indeed.”

  All the exertion was catching up to Steven and his eyes wanted to shut. The bearded man walked back to the fallen tree and sat down by the fire. The man stoking the flame added a fresh log. The wood hissed and crackled.

  Then a short and stout man with a straggly red beard came into the clearing to stand beside Captain Black. He rested his hand upon the gleaming rosewood handle of a machete.

  “Get him ready, Captain, we’re moving out.”

  Captain Black nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The stout man looked at Steven, and then disappeared into the woods, toward the sounds of the whinnying horses. Captain Black turned to Steven as Steven’s eyes fluttered with exhaustion. “You rest now, lad. You rest. If you are still alive when we arrive in Odyssey, we have much to talk about. I see a bright future for you. Bright indeed. You will be a prosperous man. All the food you can eat, all the alcohol you can drink, and all the women you can stand. This world”—the man stroked his beard—“is ripe for the picking. It belongs to you. Always has. Just reach out and take it.”

  Chapter 24

  Bethany and Carolanne

  Two faces popped up from the ground. The eyes staring out from behind the foggy face masks were huge. It took a moment for Brain to remember where he was.

  The hatch …

  He tried to speak, but words were lost on his tongue. The two people in the hazmat suits spoke to him, but all Brian could hear were muffled noises.

  He closed his eyes.

  Hands were on him, moving, pulling. He felt weightlessness, and then he felt pain. At times, his eyes cracked open, but all he saw were flashes of color so bright that he had to shut his eyes again and go back into the pleasant void of unconsciousness.

  Then there was water all over his body. Warm at first, then hot. So hot it burned. Brian was trembling, convulsing, and he knew he was speaking, but whatever words were escaping his lips were unknown to him. Blurred figures moved before him—bright orange blobs in human form. They were touching his naked body, holding him down as he thrashed about in the burning water.

  Then everything went dark.

  The next time Brian woke up, he could not control his arms and legs. They were moving about, shaking, and rubbing up against … sheets? He was on a bed. The smell of clean cloth and starch and the feel of soft cotton against his skin.

  I made it to heaven.

  ***

  “Is he dying?” Bethany asked. “Oh, God, is he dying?”

  She was biting the tips of her fingernails. “He’s got the disease, doesn’t he? Oh, Christ, oh, no … no, no, no. We’re dead, aren’t we?”

  Carolanne unzipped the side of her hazmat suit, breathing in the cool air of the bunker. She finger-combed her sweat-soaked hair out of her face. Her cheeks burned bright red against her pale complexion. “Beth. Bethany. Relax. I don’t think he has the disease.”

  Bethany was fanning her face with her hand. It was hot in those suits, and her dark, wet hair was soaked. They were both pale as ghosts, long forgotten down in the bunker.

  Bethany said, “But he’s dying; I mean, look at him. He’s got to be dying.”

  “Well, he’s not dead yet. He has hypothermia and maybe pneumonia. But his skin is clear of welts and discoloration.” She shook her head. “I don’t think he has the disease.”

  They stood in the hallway in front of Brian’s room. Their suits were unzipped to their waists, and the bottoms looked large and silly in contrast to their skinny torsos poking out from the tops. Their wet T-shirts clung to their bellies, displaying the ripples of their ribcages.

  “Go to storage and find three canteens,” Carolanne said. “I’ll boil some water.”

  “What for?”

  “We have to keep his temperature up. We’ll use the canteens like heating pads.”

  Bethany turned to leave. “I’ll find them.”

  They filled the canteens and submerged them in a pot of boiling water until they were warm, then stood outside Brian’s room.

  “We don’t need those,” Carolanne said to Bethany, who was partway into her hazmat suit. “He doesn’t have the disease.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Remember what George was like when he got sick? This is nothing like that.”

  Bethany thought it over. “Maybe it’s changed. You know, mutated. Diseases do that, right?”

  Carolanne shrugged. “If it has, the suits won’t do us much good. The bunker was most likely contaminated the moment we opened the door.”

  Bethany looked around, as if she’d be able to spot the germs in the air.

  “Besides,” Carolanne added, “the disease had the chance to kill us once. Like I said two years ago, I think we’re immune.”

  Bethany didn’t look so sure.

  They wore latex gloves, doctors’ scrubs, and disposable surgical face masks instead of the hazmat suits and entered Brian’s room. He was still on the bed, but the sheets were kicked off and his skin was sticky with perspiration. Bethany went to his side and cradled his head while Carolanne held an antibiotic pill to his lips. Once he opened his lips enough to let her insert the pill, she tipped a glass of water against his mouth. Brian sputtered and coughed, and the pill fell to the mattress.

  “He needs an IV,” Carolanne said. “Desperately. He’s severely dehydrated. We’ll have to tie him down if he doesn’t stop thrashing.”

  Bethany looked at Brian twisted in the sheets, her cousin, her brother’s best friend. His skin was clammy and pale, almost blue. He was skinny … so skinny. Yet, there was still strength inside him. She could see the muscles in his torso twitching and convulsing.

  “I just …” She trailed off, her eyes growing wet. “What happened to him?” She was shaking her head like she didn’t understand. “He’s so sick.” Tears rolled down her face, soaking her surgical mask. “And where’s Steven?”

  Carolanne put one canteen under each of Brian’s armpits and one by his groin. They stayed in the room with him, tucking the sheets back around his chest when he kicked them off and reheating the canteens when they cooled. They used a sponge to feed him tiny sips of water, drops at a time. His kicking subsided, and Carolanne connected a bag of IV solution to his arm.

  He slept for a long time.

  All the while, Carolanne and Bethany never left his side. They stroked his hair, sponged the sweat off his body, and consoled him with gentle words.

  Hours passed, almost a full day. His eyelids fluttered and his face and head twitched. They stared down at him as his eyes opened, darted around the room, then focused up on their faces. Carolanne shone a penlight in his pupils.

  “Brian?” Bethany said. “Brian, can you he
ar me? Are you awake?”

  She patted his cheeks.

  “Brian … talk to me, Brian.”

  His mouth opened and closed.

  “I …” he said. “B-B-Beth …” His voice was a dry squeak.

  Tears returned to her eyes. “Yes, Brian, it’s me. You’re safe.”

  His lips moved. “T-t-thirsty.”

  “Here, drink.” Carolanne held a glass of water to his lips. He tried to move his arm to hold the glass, but was shaking too much to do so. “I got it. You just drink.”

  His lips touched the rim of the glass, and he took a sip. Then sipped again and again, his body eagerly absorbing the moisture. Bethany thought of a dry sponge.

  “Here, Brian. Take this.” Carolanne pushed an antibiotic tablet in his mouth. He didn’t seem to notice. He kept drinking until the glass was empty, and then he rested his head on the pillow.

  “Good. That’s very good.” Carolanne put the empty glass on the side table. “Go back to sleep. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

  ***

  When Brian was finally able to sit up in bed, he found a bowl of chicken broth on his nightstand. For the first time since he’d woken up, he was alone in the room. He grabbed the bowl and began sipping the warm liquid, blowing back the steam from each spoonful. The warmth in his belly spread further throughout his body with each sip, down to his fingers and toes. The shakiness subsided.

  A great veil seemed to have been lifted from his eyes and mind, and he felt better than he had in days.

  When he finished the last of the soup, he put the empty bowl on the bedside table. His stomach now grumbled as if it were a bottomless pit that needed to consume endless amounts of food and water. There was a needle in the crook of his arm, connected to a long, clear tube leading to a bag of IV solution hanging on a rolling stand.

  For a few moments, he sat there staring up at the ceiling. A dull, almost pleasant sensation emanated from his forehead as the pain and fever melted away. He let his eyes close and took several deep breaths.

  Then he sat up and inched his feet off the side of the bed, letting them dangle before touching the ground. He sat like that for several minutes, his bare feet feeling the carpeted floor. Then, using the metal pole of the IV stand for support, Brian pulled himself to standing. There was an initial wave of dizziness as he steadied, and his knees took a moment before regaining some strength. The soles of his feet felt like pincushions. He looked down at the pajamas he was wearing. He didn’t remember putting them on. In fact, he didn’t remember much of the last few days. Even the time leading up to finding the bunker was hazy—a jumble of choppy images.