The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  Nick stared absently at the counter, exhausted. After a moment, she disappeared into the dark bedroom. “Good night,” she said.

  “Good night, Steph.” He was happy for the silence.

  He kicked off his boots and sat in the chair for many minutes. He was both hungry and tired, and craved the soup but did not want to get up from the chair to get it. For a moment, he debated calling Stephanie back to the kitchen to heat it up for him, but then thought better of it. I’d rather it stay quiet.

  Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and exhaled.

  All right, Nick, he thought. Time to eat.

  He had just begun to stand when all at once the lights overhead turned off, and the room went dark.

  Fucking lights-out.

  He reached for the flashlight on the table, feeling the cold metal in his palm. He paused, then sat back down and let out a long breath. Nick sat in the chair for a long time, a shadowy figure absorbing the pitch-black.

  Chapter 35

  Dead Leaves

  Simon crouched low in the bushes, keeping his distance from the sleeping travelers that had come close to Zone Blue’s perimeter the previous evening. It was the glow from their campfire in the woods that had been spotted by a soldier high up in a guard tower. Simon had left in the dead of night to investigate, along with one other Ranger named Justin Waters.

  The campfire was small and far enough away from the town’s border to suggest there was no immediate threat. And the fact that they had lit a fire at all led Simon to believe that the travelers had no idea how close they were to any other human beings.

  Simon and Justin had spent the long hours leading to morning concealed only several yards away from the strangers.

  Nearby, Simon could hear the moving water of a small creek, which ran east into the reservoir behind the defended border. The reservoir then ran north, streaming into the Ridgeline River, creating a natural border for Alice and the portion of Alice Springs Park that comprised Zone Blue. The river made their job of defending the town that much easier, with the zigzagging trench line only needing to form a semicircle below their property, connecting to the river at either side. No one had ever attacked Alice by water, and it was doubtful that any large force of men would try—with the banks being as steep as they were—so the northern border was left lightly defended with machine gun nests and guard towers in intervals. In an instant, one of the two mortar brigades near the center of town could be radioed in to target any point along the line and a short distance beyond.

  Mortar Battalion Alpha was issued the coordinates of the sleeping travelers as soon as the campfire was spotted, and if a problem were to present itself, Simon could call in an artillery barrage that would decimate, or at least scare the hell out of any hostiles.

  The sun was now rising, and the campfire had been a smoldering pile of ash for some time. The group had been quiet all night long, and despite that there were over a dozen of them, no one had woken up to rekindle the flame.

  With the coming of morning, a few began to stir, and one man stood, yawning into the damp air. He was tall and skinny and had a great, long beard with shoulder-length hair.

  Simon looked back to Justin Waters, who was crouching beside a fallen tree with his assault rifle resting across his lap. He raised his hand, signaling to Justin that there was movement.

  The man in the group stood for what might have been five minutes, staring into the woods with a blank expression.

  He’s praying, Simon thought.

  After a moment, the man bowed his head and then shuffled toward the campfire. He added a handful of leaves and twigs to the smoking ground and gently blew life back into the old fire.

  A few more travelers awoke and quietly, one after the other, sat up and rose, joining the bearded man around the fire. A few stood like the man before, staring off in prayer, arms raised in a stretch before falling to their sides. Others sat up in their bedrolls, their backs straight and their arms resting on their knees.

  Wait a minute …

  Simon sensed Justin’s tension from behind. The young Ranger had readied himself, shouldering his rifle.

  A minute passed, and Simon half-turned to Justin. He waved his hand back and forth, open palmed. No threat.

  Simon stepped forward and continued until the travelers turned to see him approach. He entered their campsite and stopped, surveying the group.

  “Namaste,” he said.

  They nodded and replied, “Namaste.”

  The group shuffled under their robes, not sure who this soldier with the darkened, mud-streaked face could be. It was the boy who recognized Simon first.

  “Simon—it’s Simon!” He tugged at the hemmed robe of an adult beside him. “Where’s Winston, Simon? Where’s your dog?”

  The boy ran forward and hugged Simon around his leg. Simon patted the young boy on his bristly, shaven head. “He’s sleeping, probably. Back at home.”

  An old man stepped forward from the group, smiling. “Teacher Simon,” he bowed. “Namaste.”

  “I can’t believe we’re meeting again,” Simon said to the group. “What are the odds?” He reached into his pocket and felt the thick black beads of the necklace they had given to him all those months ago. The necklace—or mala, they were called—had a calming effect when he passed the beads between his fingers.

  The old man laughed. “As is the dharma in all things. You cannot expect the same occurrences to happen twice, as it is the nature of the world to constantly change. But when they do occur twice, it is a joy to behold.”

  The group met Simon, each one hugging him or shaking his hand, and told him of his teachings that they had taken to heart: how to gather cattails and edible plants, as well as how to avoid the poisonous ones.

  Simon shook off their praise. He looked back at Justin, who was bewildered at the people before him, unarmed, dressed in robes, and appearing clean. Simon gave him a quick rundown of his meeting with them and explained that it was they who had given Simon the beaded necklace that Justin had seen Simon roll around in his fingers countless times.

  Justin nodded. He was a bright boy. All of the Rangers were bright, Simon thought. Even though many of them were soldiers, they all displayed a connection with the Earth that was deeper than most others. This is what made the Rangers a calmer and more levelheaded force than the others in Alice, though still dangerous.

  Justin took his handheld radio from his belt and clicked it on.

  “We’re all clear,” he said. “Group is non-hostile.”

  “Roger,” crackled a reply.

  As the group gathered around Simon, talking and telling stories from their travels, several went off to collect branches of fresh goldenrod from the woods to brew a pot of tea. Simon pointed out an area where he knew wild mint was growing, and a few went off to find the plant. They returned shortly with a handful of leaves and crushed them into the water to seep. Once done, they ladled cups of steaming tea for everyone, including Simon and Justin.

  Many in the group had formed a circle around him, and Simon guessed that they were hoping he would have more to share with them. Simon indicated the simple acorns that covered the ground, pointing to where many lay underfoot. A man from the group said, “They’re too bitter. We’ve tried them.”

  Simon nodded. “They are bitter. However, boiling them in several changes of water takes away the bitterness. Once the water boils without a reddish tinge, the acorns should be good to eat.”

  Simon took a handful of acorns, cracked off the tops with his knife, and exposed the little nuts hiding within. He explained how to roast them and grind them up to be used as flour. He went on to explain that the first boil of water should be saved, since it could be used as an astringent for an assortment of skin maladies.

  “The bark of the tree can also be boiled and used to help throat infections, fevers, and stomach ailments,” he told them. “It can be made into a powder to treat wounds or mouth sores.”

  The group was quiet as
Simon spoke, watching as he pointed to a large oak tree only a few feet from where they sat.

  When they had finished their tea, the group began to rise, one by one going off to secure their bedrolls and meager belongings. They each stopped in turn to thank Simon and wish him luck and good fortune.

  The old man stayed, sitting cross-legged on a section of blanket. When the gathering dispersed, he spoke to Simon in a low voice.

  “I know you cannot tell us about where you are living, otherwise you would have already done so.”

  Simon took a deep breath, glancing at Justin. It was forbidden to say anything about Alice or the Zones to an outsider.

  The old man continued, “And I would not want for you to tell me. But, I am interested to know, did you find what you were looking for? Did you find your family?”

  Simon looked at the ground. “It’s … a long story.”

  “I have all the time in the world.” The old man reached out, patting Simon’s knee. “Unless, of course, it is a story that you do not wish to tell.”

  “No,” Simon said. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just don’t know where to begin.”

  “Start wherever you feel comfortable.”

  Simon thought back to the day he arrived in Alice, defeated at first, then hopeful when his friend Jeremy Winters showed up. Simon had never talked to anyone other than Jeremy and Tom Byrnes about that day, but when he looked at the old man’s face, he saw genuine concern. His eyes flickered to Justin, who sat listening intently.

  “Okay,” Simon sighed. “Let me begin …”

  ***

  “Take your time,” Jeremy said, sitting on the edge of the fountain with the algae growing out over the stone goddess statues.

  Simon walked toward the porch. Winston was off, running back and forth in his old yard, smelling familiar smells.

  Each step felt like an eternity until Simon reached the front door.

  He closed his eyes and reached for the handle.

  It turned, unlocked. Simon opened the door, walked inside, and closed it behind him. His eyes were shut tight, his back pressed hard against the front door. A layer of sweat had formed on his skin and felt sticky against his clothing.

  Breathe, Simon … breathe …

  As he opened his eyes, all in a flash, he knew instantly what he had known all along.

  Nobody is here.

  The foyer was dark and deserted. All the paintings and furniture that had once made this entrance lively were gone, and the air smelled warm and stale.

  From where Simon stood, he knew in his heart that the entire house was empty. He had known it outside, walking up the driveway. And he had known it back in the cabin when he’d flung the door open in disillusioned rage to beat upon the night with his frustration and anger, only to be stopped short by the broad side of a huffing moose.

  But perhaps the house had not been empty for long. Maybe his parents had returned at some stage—months ago—and left a note behind or a clue about their whereabouts. If not … if they were still down south, then maybe he could find the address.

  Simon pushed himself away from the front door, walking first through a sitting room with couches and coffee tables all covered in drop cloths, and next through the majestic dining room. The solid mahogany table was still there, draped in a canvas sheet.

  Next, Simon entered the kitchen—the real family room of the house. It was this room where everyone gathered, sitting side by side at the small table by the window. They ate their meals there and talked about their days, marveling at the view of the expansive backyard and the Ridgeline River off in the distance.

  The window in the back was now shattered; the remains of a branch that had long ago broken off from the locust tree outside protruded into the room, looming out over the table and chairs.

  There wasn’t a note on any of the counters. Simon checked the refrigerator door for any clue hanging by a magnet, then the cabinets and drawers, before sinking to his hands and knees and scouring the baseboards for anything blown about. There was nothing. The kitchen was barren. For a moment, he almost opened the refrigerator out of instinct, then thought better of it. The smell would be acrid even if there were only crumbs in there.

  Simon went from room to room, but there was nothing left behind. In his parents’ bedroom he stopped, sitting on their king-sized bed. One of his mother’s silk scarves had been left on top of the dresser. He held it in his hands. It still smelled of her lilac perfume and those little Chinese bars of soap that she used so often. He held the cloth against his face, breathing her fragrance in. His eyes welled up.

  Get it together, man. Get it together.

  He left his parents’ room, searching the entire second floor before turning to his own bedroom. Inside, all his childhood possessions came rushing back to him: his trophies, books, and twin-sized bed. The room was just as he had left it, only it smelled musty, a time capsule cut off from the outside world.

  A feeling that Simon did not expect washed over him. He felt uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be standing there looking at his possessions, his old way of life. There was a picture of himself on the dresser, posing with his baseball team when he was maybe ten years old. It did not seem possible for such trivial things to have ever existed. Baseball. Trophies. Photographs. A gathering of smiling children.

  He left and went downstairs to his father’s office. It was stripped clean, with the built-in shelves void of electronics and family pictures. All that remained was his father’s mahogany desk and chair. Simon opened all the drawers, one at a time, but found nothing but loose rubber bands and paper clips.

  For several minutes, Simon sat in his father’s chair, leaning backward. The room was dark. The whole house was dark.

  It was not his home any longer.

  With a deep exhale he stood. He knew what he had to do; he had to check the underground vault.

  The only sunlight streaming into the hallway came from the glass portion of the door to the greenhouse, otherwise it would have been pitch-black. As Simon opened the door and began moving the gardening bench and tools from the small cinderblock shed, he was aware that Jeremy Winters was probably almost done smoking his cigar. He would have to be quick. He didn’t want Jeremy coming in to check on him while he was down there.

  Sweat had darkened the front of his shirt as Simon removed the last of the pavers hiding the trap door. He unlocked the locks and swung the metal door back on its hinges.

  A draft of earthy air traveled up the stairway and cooled Simon’s face. He descended the steps and stood at the bottom, blinking into the dark cavity of the room.

  Several long metal flashlights were on a shelf to his side, and Simon grabbed one, clicking it on. The flashlight worked like new.

  He opened each of the three safes in turn, looking over the stacks of money and the artwork tied in canvas cloths. It was worthless—all of it. Just paper. In the last safe were the important possessions: the pictures and albums. Simon glanced over them, then went back to the shelf at the bottom of the staircase and grabbed an empty duffel bag. He filled the bag with the family albums, finding along the way the framed photograph that used to sit in his dad’s office. It was the picture of his father, himself, Tom Byrnes, and his son—Nick—back when Simon was a young boy. They had all gone fishing together and were smiling at the camera, holding up their catches. Simon put the picture in the bag and closed and locked all of the safes. There was nothing else he needed down there, not now. The emergency food rations and spare hunting rifles and ammunition could stay where they were.

  As Simon walked to the staircase, he stopped to look at the image carved in the rock wall: the name Sue and the crude carving of two people holding hands. Simon felt the worn grooves of the letters with the tips of his fingers. He imagined the hands of a small child carving the solid wall by the light of a candle.

  He turned and left.

  Jeremy had surely finished his cigar by now.

  Simon strained to move the last paver
back in place and dragged the flower bench and tools to where they had been.

  That was it—nothing. There was nothing left behind. No trace of his parents.

  In a trance, Simon left the greenhouse, the duffel bag strapped over his shoulder. He walked down the hallway back to the kitchen.

  Cool air blew into the room from the broken window. Simon walked over to the fallen branch and inspected the layer of dead leaves and grime left matted and decomposed over the kitchen table and ground.

  This was it. This was what Simon had come all of this way for, what he had nearly been killed trying to get to, what he himself had killed to accomplish: nothing.

  In the distance, past the blades of broken glass still hanging in the window frame and past the vast backyard of his family’s property, Simon watched the ever-moving water of the Ridgeline River. How many countless hours had he stood in that same spot, looking out over the river in happy solitude? Looking out over the backyard at the flower patches, at the thick oak and maple trees that swayed in the wind, at the—

  Wait.

  Simon stared, transfixed.

  Then he turned in a hurry toward the back door, flung it open, and began marching across the overgrown grass. In the sky, the clouds were giant rolls of gray that covered the heavens for as far as the eye could see. The wind that blew from the river was cool and laden with a coming storm. Scattered leaves swirled about.

  An old sycamore tree dominated the center of the yard. Something was different. Something was off. Simon saw it through the window, and at first it appeared to be nothing. As he grew closer, his pace slowed.

  The duffel bag slipped from his shoulder to fall in the windswept grass.

  Simon stopped beside the sycamore, his hand reaching out to its massive side for support, his hand feeling the white and gray bark that peeled off in sheets.

  He fell to his knees, and tears came quick.

  A rock rested at the base of the tree. A large rock that someone had struggled to move from somewhere else to lodge in that place. The names of his mother and father were carved on the broad side, crude, but unmistakable. A smaller rock, yet still weighing close to a hundred pounds, sat beside it, with the name “Emma Wilson” carved deep.