The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  The Rangers and the Guards mixed freely and got along well. Despite the slight discord between the men, they all came together over one thing: their loyalty to Alice and their praise for General Tom Byrnes, whose quick rationale and fierce determination had made their lives here a reality. The men, women, and children in Alice owed the aging, barrel-chested man a debt of gratitude that could not be put into words.

  “So,” Jeremy said, steering the conversation away from their repartee, “any luck with the hunt?”

  “Nothing new,” Simon answered with a mouthful of bread. It was a common question. Everyone wanted to know about the hunt—about food.

  “I heard,” Jeremy continued, “that there were sightings of deer south of here near Zone Green.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “You think—” Jeremy’s words were interrupted.

  The foghorn in the fire department tower cut through the air like a bullet shot. Everyone on the firehouse lawn startled and then erupted all at once in a frenzy.

  Jeremy and Simon exchanged glances.

  Alice is under attack.

  Each and every man had a position on the line, in the trenches, in guard towers and armored bunkers, and above the tall wooden fences and walls. If an enemy was encountered that the forwarding guards could not handle, they fell back to the front line and let the invaders follow. Whoever was trying to attack Alice would then come face to face with the town’s artillery and defenses.

  The number of blares on the foghorn indicated that the enemy had been spotted in the northeast.

  The lunch crowd took off in a frenzy, everyone running to their positions, trays left behind. Simon, being second in command of the Rangers, had been issued a two-way radio. As he ran, he heard the crackling of a voice over the speaker: “All Rangers report to position N.T. I repeat, all Rangers report to N.T.”

  It was hard to make out the words through the roar of the crowd, and Simon had to stop and cup his ear over the speaker as the message repeated itself.

  N.T., he thought. Shit. That’s the trade grounds.

  ***

  The first time Simon had heard the foghorn blare was two weeks after taking up residence in Zone Blue. He ran behind Jeremy, who shouted at him to keep up, until they reached the line of trenches. The scramble of people all around him was enough to make his head spin, and he would have gotten lost for sure if not for Jeremy pulling him along.

  Simon jumped into the cavity of a trench, his body flat against the earthen wall, hugging his rifle tight to his chest. He dared to peek his head over the top, over the sandbags lining the rim, and look out at the field beyond. The area in front of the trenches was a grassland, barren of trees or large rocks so that an approaching enemy would have no cover when coming out of the woods.

  For several heartbeats, nothing happened.

  Then Simon saw movement. A few ragged men ran out of the far woods, unaware that a whole army was waiting for them. Then there were more men, and more. They might have only numbered a few, but at that moment, they appeared to Simon like a swarming brigade of well-armed soldiers. A whistle was blown, and the sound of gunfire erupted. Simon fell back, his body pressed against the trench wall. His sweaty skin turned the dirt to mud against him.

  “Stand up,” Jeremy yelled through the roar of gunfire. “Get on your feet, and fire your weapon!”

  Simon did not move.

  “You have to shoot!” Jeremy shouted over the gunfire. “Stand up and shoot!”

  Jeremy reached down, grabbed Simon’s arm, and yanked him up to face the melee. The invaders, now realizing they were running straight into a wall of gunfire, either clung to the earth, desperately shooting over their heads, or attempted to run back into the woods for cover. The ground was a boil of erupted dirt and grass as bullets and mortars rained down. Simon shouldered his weapon and tried to aim down the barrel, but there was so much noise, so many guns firing, so many voices shouting and swearing. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision.

  “Pull the trigger,” Jeremy shouted, firing his rifle. “Squeeze it!”

  Simon pulled the trigger. Blindly, he fired his weapon, and he continued firing it until the magazine clicked and was empty.

  “Reload,” Jeremy commanded.

  Simon began to reload, his heart beating out of his ears, until the sound of a whistle cut through the gunfire.

  Up and down the line, men began yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” The popping of gunfire slowed until it stopped altogether. The bodies in the field were riddled with bullets and blown to unrecognizable shreds.

  Simon’s whole body was trembling. His face had been pressed so hard against the rifle stock that he could feel a line imprinted across his cheek, and his front was covered in dirt.

  Jeremy had taken a seat beside him, pulling a cigarette from his pack with his teeth and clicking open his Zippo.

  He offered Simon a cigarette, but he declined. Not because he didn’t want one, but because he thought his hand was shaking too much to pull one from the pack.

  Jeremy leaned close to Simon’s ear. “You don’t have to actually shoot anyone,” he whispered. “But you have to pull the trigger.”

  To this day, and after a dozen or so opportunities, Simon had never killed a single human being. Not one. Not after the boy. Not after the incident at the gas station.

  Jeremy was the only person aware of that fact.

  As time passed and encounters with hostiles became somewhat regular, Simon stopped trembling so easily, yet fear remained.

  ***

  Simon remembered his first encounter as he listened again to the radio repeat the message: “All Rangers report to N.T.”

  Frank Morrow, along with some Rangers and an assembly of Guards and Dragoons, was already at the northeast checkpoint as Simon approached. He heard gunfire from the front line and off in the woods. A convoy from Zone Red came rushing through the tall chain-link fence surrounding the trade grounds as Simon joined the other Rangers.

  “Simon,” Frank said. “I was just explaining—this convoy here came under attack less than a half mile out. The soldiers guarding the trucks neutralized the majority of the attackers, which we estimate to be over a dozen. The hostiles who were not neutralized by General Driscoll’s men attempted to follow the convoy into Alice, and as you can hear, are still being dealt with.” Frank paused, his finger in the air as he gazed upward, listening to the now-sporadic gunfire. “One of General Driscoll’s men has been killed and three wounded. One of the convoy trucks crashed in the melee, and two of the occupants took off on foot and are missing. That’s why we’re here. We’re going to find them. Suit up; we’re heading out.”

  Frank turned toward the gathering of men; some from Zone Red’s convoy team were running over to join them. There were over twenty soldiers assembled, and each man was checking his rifles and gear just as Simon was doing.

  A guard swung open the gate, and Frank shouted, “Move out!”

  The men jogged into the wooded terrain just outside the gate with weapons up. Simon felt the sweat build up on his body. He hated this part: the possible encounter with an enemy out in the open. He was much better alone or with just a few Rangers.

  Outside of Alice’s perimeter, the men neared the area of attack—a single-lane road in the woods of Alice Springs. Bodies lay sprawled on the ground where they had been shot—all of them skinny, filthy, and wearing nothing but rags. They already smelled of death and decay, even though death had just claimed them. The convoy truck’s broad side was peppered with bullet holes and crushed against a massive tree. The soldiers circled the ground, scouting and securing the area. The leading officer from Zone Red spoke to some of the Dragoons, and the rest of the men squinted off in the distance, looking for any signs of the two missing soldiers.

  Simon approached the convoy truck, mindful of the ground. Frank Morrow eyed him trailing off, and stayed a few steps behind.

  There are too many people here, Simon thought. The tracks are ge
tting scattered.

  Simon stepped off the road and into the woods, passing the convoy truck, and then he stopped. “There,” he pointed. “That’s where they ran off.”

  Frank peered around him. The officer from Zone Red saw Simon pointing and broke off his conversation with the Dragoons.

  “What is it?” he asked Frank Morrow. “What’s he pointing at?”

  “That, right there.” Frank gestured to a low plant about shin height.

  “What?”

  “That’s where they ran off. Look at the branch; it’s broken in two.”

  The man squinted and stared for a moment. “It’s merely a twig.” Then he turned to his soldiers. “Markus, stay here with the men. Johnson, Reed, follow—hey you, stop!” he shouted to Simon, who was walking off into the woods, alone.

  The officer walked toward Simon, but Frank put up a hand to stop him, shaking his head. “Let the lad go. If anyone is going to find them, it’ll be that boy there.”

  The trail was easy for Simon to follow. The men who were missing wore combat boots and had beat upon the ground in haste. Simon didn’t want to say it out loud, but he saw something troubling along the trail: blood. The ground was dark in spots, and much of the underbrush was covered in red. The wound was low, Simon figured, judging by the way the blood splattered the leaves.

  The trail became different, broader, and it took Simon only a moment to decipher that the marks on the ground indicated one person had begun dragging the other.

  Simon followed the marks, being mindful to overlook the noise the men were making behind him. Not far in the distance, Simon saw a dark outline on the ground like a rock in the tall grass, but as he neared, he knew that it was not a rock. The person who had been dragged lay dead. Bullet holes riddled the man’s stomach and thighs. Simon motioned to the men behind him and moved on.

  The blood on the trail did not cease, and there were marks where the other person had stumbled and fell. He was getting close. The sides of shallow depressions—knee marks and handprints in the dirt—were still moist.

  Simon heard a noise behind a cluster of trees.

  A person. Ragged breathing, sighing. Anguish. Not words.

  He raised his hand to signal the trailing men to stop.

  Instantly, the men dropped to their knees and the woods grew silent. Simon listened to the wind and the voice that it carried. The person was injured.

  This was the tricky part—sneaking up on a person, friend or foe. It was easy to wind up shot in a rush of fear and confusion.

  Simon neared the trees, crouching low, his feet touching the ground in soft, deliberate steps. The sounds grew louder: panting and choppy breaths.

  Simon pressed his chest into the side of a tree and craned his head around it.

  He saw a woman, her back against the thick base of an oak. Her leg was bleeding, and she was turning a tourniquet around her thigh with a strip of torn cloth and a stick. She had a rifle over her lap and clenched her jaw with such ferocity that her face was bright red and contorted. Instinctually, Simon could empathize with the pain she was feeling as if he were experiencing it himself. She was tough, all right.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, preparing himself to step out from behind the tree. He had expected her to not see him until he spoke, but then she grabbed her rifle and swung it up at him.

  Simon exclaimed, “I’m a friend! I’m a friend! I’ve been sent to find you. Don’t shoot.” He held his rifle out in his open palms in a gesture of offering.

  She stared back at him in disbelief, her finger trembling over the trigger, her eyes wild.

  “Where—how the hell’d you sneak up on me?”

  “I was sent from Alice to find you. I’m a Ranger—a scout.”

  For a moment they stared at each other.

  She’s good, Simon thought. This girl knows a thing or two.

  She lowered the gun and a tear escaped down the side of her face. Her body was jittery.

  Simon walked to her side and kneeled down, inspecting her leg. “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re going to be fine. The wound isn’t bad. If the bullet had hit the bone or an artery you wouldn’t have made it this far.”

  “I f-fucking know that,” she said, and then closed her eyes and took a breath. “I-I’m sorry …”

  “I understand.”

  She nodded and rested her head back against the tree. Simon helped apply a bandage as the rest of the soldiers caught up.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he said. “Take my hand.”

  Simon grabbed the woman under her arm and helped pull her up to one wobbling leg. She winced and held on to Simon’s shoulder. Another soldier came to help, and they carried her out of the woods with her hopping on one foot and spitting out obscenities in long chain-link sentences through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, ohh, you fucking, mother-fucking-bitch-face!” she screamed at the pain.

  Simon suppressed a laugh.

  She turned to him. “What the hell is so funny?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’ve seen men shot through the chest that didn’t curse as much as you. You’re a tough one; I’ll give you that. I didn’t know there were women on the convoy team.”

  “Yeah? Well, there are. One.”

  They made it to the road where a stretcher was waiting. Simon helped her down, and before the soldiers took her away, she turned to him.

  “Hey, look,” she said between labored breaths. “I’m … I’m really thankful. You saved me … I’ll never forget that. You’re a damn good scout; didn’t hear you coming. What’s your name?”

  “Simon,” he said. “Simon Kalispell.”

  “Thank you, Simon. I’m Bethany. I owe you, big time.”

  Simon shook his head. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  Chapter 38

  Lone Rider

  “They’re bringing the girl back now,” Nick said, holding the handheld radio to his ear.

  Tom Byrnes nodded. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.” He let out a sigh, put the binoculars down, and turned his back from the observation post on the guard tower.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Nick.

  As they descended the ladder, Nick called out, “Who is she?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl—who is she?” His father had shown obvious concern when he heard the convoy had been attacked, but there was something else, a certain urgency in his mannerism. And when he had heard it was a girl who had gone missing, he had grown quiet. Then he ordered for a team to be assembled at once.

  “A new resident of Alice. I don’t remember her name.”

  “She’s moving to Alice?”

  Tom shrugged. “What of it?”

  It wasn’t unheard of for people to move between the two Zones, but it was infrequent. The residents were issued jobs and rarely allowed to pick and choose where they wanted to live. They were lucky enough to be alive, and even luckier to be living somewhere safe.

  “You just seemed concerned is all. Why is she moving to Alice?”

  Tom reached the base of the guard tower and waited for Nick. “She’s here to help organize trade. Her name is Liz, or something. Beth, I think.”

  Nick stepped off the ladder and saw his father’s face. He was hiding something. Alice didn’t need help with trade. But apparently, his father didn’t feel like elaborating.

  “Come on,” Tom said. “Let’s get lunch while it’s still hot.”

  Nick nodded. “It was Kalispell who found her,” he said.

  “Simon?”

  “Yes. Simon.”

  “He’s a smart kid, that one. Good at the hunt.”

  “Maybe. But he needs to keep that hippie Buddhist bullshit to himself.”

  “It’s not his fault people ask him questions. And I don’t think he’s a Buddhist.”

  Nick shrugged. Just yesterday he’d overheard a few of the other Rangers discussing Simon’s preaching over dinner, that violence of any sort—even negative emotions and thoughts
—was something that needed to be eradicated if humanity was to ever rise from the ashes. Nonviolence was a big part of Simon’s belief system—whatever system that may be. No violence. What a silly notion. The world was a violent place, and Nick needed men who could use violence as a means of self-preservation, as a tool, and not shy away from it. It was a necessity.

  As they walked away, Nick remembered that his father and Simon’s father had been old friends. Tom told Nick that he had met Simon when they were young, but Nick had no recollection of that. When Simon first arrived in Alice, his father had made a big to-do over it. The Kalispell family owned Kalispell Sports, a company that had been all over the world pre-disease. Simon had given Nick the addresses of several warehouses that he knew of, and Nick led a contingent of Dragoons to scour for goods. But there was nothing left in any of them. They were stripped clean down to the cold cement floors.

  “We got lucky this time,” Nick said.

  “How so?”

  “It was a small group that attacked, and we didn’t suffer any causalities.”

  “No, but they’re reporting Zone Red had casualties, and we’re one and the same.”

  Nick rolled his eyes but agreed with his father for argument’s sake. Zone Red held its precious resources over Zone Blue’s head, as if their fuel was more important than Alice’s water. The soldiers in Hightown were a bunch of elitists, making inflexible rules and regulations in favor of themselves as if they deserved better treatment than the people of Alice. The only thing Zone Red had over Alice was more men. Numbers. Nick would contest the strength of his Dragoons against Zone Red’s soldiers any day.

  “Yes,” Nick agreed. “So we did lose some men. We’re lucky that the fools who attacked us knew nothing of warfare. We killed, what? Seventeen? Twenty?”