The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  Simon could hear Will’s voice waver, but his thoughts were on Bethany.

  “Will, I don’t think tonight is the best time. I mean, we’re under curfew. Sneaking back to our apartments is hard enough.”

  “Fine—take this then.” He put something in Simon’s palm, pressing it tight until he was sure Simon held it securely.

  “What’s this?” The device was small and rectangular, easily held in his palm, and Simon felt small buttons on one side.

  “Put it in your pocket; do not lose it. I can’t keep it secret anymore.”

  “Will, I—”

  Jeremy spoke above the crowd. “All right, people. Let’s move. Everyone grab the shoulder of the person in front.”

  Simon held on to Will’s shoulder as they walked down the narrow row of corn. Whatever was in his pocket felt like it was growing heavier with each step. Halfway through the cornfield, Simon leaned close to Will’s ear. “Okay,” he whispered. “Meet back at my apartment.”

  Chapter 45

  Carnival of the Damned

  When Karl Metzger had first arrived in Alice, his militia presented themselves as a well-disciplined and organized group of fighting men. Their hair was cut short, their beards trimmed, and their uniforms were washed somewhat clean. The same could not be said of the men who now marched into town late in the night.

  Their putrid stench was as awful and foul as the bizarre manner of weaponry with which they adorned themselves. Cruel blades, sharpened spears, and sledgehammers were common. Some wore jewelry made from the splendors of war—gold teeth and ears shriveled brown, and skins of unknown species tanned and sewed into knife sheaths and belts.

  These men came into Alice from the northeast, away from the heart of town, and marched straight to the massive estate of Nicholas Byrnes. One man among them stood taller than the rest. His hair was cropped short, and a furrowed scar capped his brow. His eyes were cold and his stare distant.

  His name was Steven Driscoll.

  Although Driscoll was a name he no longer associated with himself.

  As his feet moved him forward, his body fatigued and sore, a slight buzz still rang in his mind from the victory in Masterson. He had learned back in Odyssey that he was designed for things of a violent nature, for marching and fighting. Warfare. The thrill of destruction by his capable hands was a source of exhilaration.

  No longer did demons haunt Steven’s dreams, for he had become the very devil that once terrorized his mind. He was the nightmare that haunted the thoughts of men.

  Steven had stood witness to the violence of war and the plunders that could be had. The carnage that was everywhere had become familiar, and Captain Black had helped guide him on his path to becoming a warrior of the highest degree, a thing of destruction, a weapon of death. Over time, Steven had begun to see that the strength inside him was something to be proud of, to revel in. To be the best, the most feared man in all of the Red Hands was what each and every soldier strove for.

  When the day came for his inauguration into the brotherhood, his wounds had healed, and the nature of his mind had quieted to a medicated fog.

  Captain Black had told him he was strong.

  Captain Black had told him the fear he used to feel was weakness leaving the body.

  Captain Black had told him he was the toughest man, above all the others.

  On the dusty lot before the Odyssey Police Department, they brought a prisoner before Steven and threw him to the dirt on all fours, along with two long blades. He was a scraggly man, and he bowed his head, pleading before Steven, who loomed above him like a towering god. The prisoner had been found guilty of some crime or another; Steven did not care what it was. His uncle and cousin had abandoned him. No one in the world cared for him as much as the brotherhood to which he was about to belong.

  The prisoner before him muttered, “Oh, Jesus Christ,” and Steven grabbed him up by either side of his head. When he dropped the prisoner, the man’s eyes looked funny, and he did not move.

  And Steven did feel strong.

  He did feel special.

  The exhilaration of taking a man’s life gave him a high that no drugs could reproduce.

  He cut the slain man with a knife and dipped his hand in a trail of blood and plastered his palm over his chest, swearing his allegiance like the many before. He became a soldier then—a part of the brotherhood.

  And when it was time to prepare for Masterson, Steven again found himself in the dirt lot before the Odyssey Police Station. Four prisoners were brought before him, all mongrel men, and five machetes were tossed in the dust. Practice, Captain Black had called it, for the days ahead. Practice.

  Steven picked up a blade and slaughtered two of the men before they had time to react. The other two he exchanged blows with, but his strength crashed the blade down upon them. One prisoner fell missing the crown of his head, and the last trembled before Steven, too afraid to fend for his life.

  Steven had laughed and tossed the man about like a cat plays with a mouse before ending his suffering with the sharp edge of his weapon. He was a god at that moment. The ability to take life was easy. The miscreants left scouring the earth deserved it. They were beneath him. He was the largest, toughest man in the entire world, and the delight he felt testing his strength and being victorious in battle was euphoric.

  The red handprint on his chest was now covered over many times with both blood and paint. In Masterson he had killed dozens. Bullets whizzed by him, but he no longer feared death.

  Steven Driscoll was an instrument of war.

  ***

  The Red Hands arrived at the gated entrance of Nick Byrnes’s mansion. Karl Metzger and his lieutenants greeted them as they marched forward, and the soldiers in the yard cheered at their arrival. They were guided past the rows of trenches being constructed that crisscrossed the yard and the fresh cement foundations for machine gun nests. Park benches from the firehouse were brought to the grassy part of the yard and arranged in a U shape.

  Nick stood at the doorway of his house, watching the activity in the yard.

  So this is the army I was promised?

  The men dropped their gear, and bottles of hard alcohol surfaced all around. The air filled with tobacco smoke, and Mark Rothstein lit a bonfire in the middle of the U-shaped tables.

  In tow with the army were a dozen or so prisoners, bloody and bruised and filthy. They were shackled around the wrists and gagged with cloth and thick tape. They were brought to the tennis court on the side of the property and placed inside the tall chain-link fence. Barbed wire had been added to the top earlier that day, and the bottom of the fence had been secured to the ground.

  Soldiers produced food of all varieties, dumping everything on the tables, and the cooked and smoked meats were eaten with such relish that they soon disappeared. Trucks began making runs to the kitchen and storeroom, the men removing whole bushels of produce and gigantic slabs of meat. The soldiers fed piles of wood to the bonfire, and whole animal carcasses roasted over the flames.

  Bottle after bottle of whiskey, vodka, and tequila appeared and were soon empty, tossed into the raging fire.

  A few produced instruments and took up improvised performances while the men became drunker and drunker and the piles of shattered bottles and animal bones grew larger.

  At the head of this debauchery sat Karl Metzger, his knees too tall for the chair that he sat upon. Beside him sat Nick Byrnes, slumped with a bottle of bourbon on the table before him. Glass after glass had been poured and swallowed. Sultan and Mark Rothstein joined them at this front table, tearing into the flesh of whatever animal was placed before them. Choice cuts of meat were served on platters, one after the other, along with anything else that could be cooked over fire and eaten.

  Some of the newly arrived men presented themselves to Karl Metzger in turn. Karl introduced his men to Nick Byrnes, calling him the general of Alice. Trophies of war were presented to Nick until the floor around the table was piled high with revolver
s, bottles of wine, champagne, various knives, an antique Japanese katana, whiskey, cigarettes, cigars, heroin, preserved meats and fruits, pornography, painkillers, cocaine, and marijuana.

  Karl put the end of a thick cigar between his teeth and inhaled a plume of smoke.

  “Ah,” Karl said, “and here he is. Nick, may I introduce you to the fine gentleman who may very well be responsible for us being here today. Steven, come forth, my boy.”

  Karl waved Steven over, and without the slightest show of emotion, Steven reached down and shook Nick’s hand.

  Nick looked up through weary eyes at the man towering before him. He flinched as a knuckle cracked in Steven’s palm.

  “My pleasure,” Nick said.

  After a moment of silence, Karl spoke up. “The lad’s the silent type.”

  He laughed, and Steven walked off. Karl leaned toward Nick when Steven was out of earshot. “He’s the one I told you about.”

  Nick nodded, his vision hazy with booze.

  “I saved the very best for last, my boy,” he said, patting Nick on the shoulder. “Mr. Rothstein, Sultan, if you would please?”

  The lieutenants stood from the table, Sultan smiling at Nick and saying, “Oh, you gonna like this, my man.”

  They walked off, and after some time, returned dragging behind two women with their hands tied together about their wrists. Their eyes were large.

  “Here we have it,” Karl said, his hand presenting the women. “The very best, despite the layer of filth on their skin. We will make them presentable before the night is done.”

  “Wha-what’s this?” Nick slurred, narrowing his eyes to focus on the two women.

  “A gift deserving of the king of the manor.” Karl raised his voice to address the group. “A gift befitting the king of Alice, the general. My sergeants kept them unspoiled just for you. They are fresh.”

  Nick stared at the two girls. The blurriness made the fear on their faces difficult to process, and his mind could not decipher the unfolding events. Nick remained quiet, his gaze absent.

  “Sultan,” Karl said, “would you please have these ladies cleaned properly and then delivered to the general’s room?”

  “Shaw-thing, my man.” Sultan walked away on bouncing toes, dragging the girls behind.

  “Oh, and Sultan?” Karl turned to face him. “The general’s private quarters, if you will.”

  “You got it.”

  Nick’s private wing of the house had three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a wood-paneled library with deep, rich leather couches, a massive marble fireplace, and a private doorway to the backyard guard tower. A stairway at the end of the long hallway led to the attic-studio apartment, with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the yard and river. This was where Stephanie had set up home and where Nick often resided—although he tended to enjoy nights spent alone, downstairs. Nick looked back at the house as Sultan dragged the two girls away. The attic windows were dark.

  “Th-those girls—” Nick began.

  Karl interjected, “Nicholas, ease your mind.”

  He poured a large swallow of bourbon into the tumbler on the table. Nick raised the glass to his lips and drank. Karl poured another.

  “Eat and be merry, for you are the king.”

  Nick swallowed again and grabbed the bottle from the table, taking another swig.

  He muttered something to himself, shaking his head back and forth.

  “What’s that you say?” Karl asked.

  “What’s … happening … to me? What … have you done?”

  Karl snarled. “Only what you wished for, Nicholas. And now, with the army here, we can finally begin.”

  Chapter 46

  Voices

  Simon, Jeremy, Bethany, and Will Holbrook sat around the circular kitchen table in silence; the fresh cups of coffee steaming. The voice recorder lay before them with all eyes fixed upon it. They had just listened to the taped conversation twice, and then after, Bethany had explained to the three men that she was General Driscoll’s niece.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Winston made a grumbling noise, curled up on a blanket by the couch, and Simon snapped out of his contemplation.

  “How did you get this?”

  Will stared at the cup of coffee placed before him, the vapors rising to his face.

  “Nick gave me the recorder months ago so I could ‘be more organized,’ he said. I never used it. I felt stupid hearing my own voice reminding myself that Nick needed something. I was with both Tom and Nick the first time Karl Metzger arrived in Alice. I accompanied them to the checkpoint, where they had a brief talk with the man while I stood off to the side. I didn’t hear a word they said, but I could tell that Tom and Nick came back from that meeting with a difference of opinion. Tom looked forlorn. Something wasn’t right. Then, the night Tom was killed, Nick sent me to the supply depot to set up a table and chairs for a meeting and to make it private. He knew I wouldn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t, but I was suspicious. The supply depot is locked twenty-four hours a day, even when Margaret Alton is there, and only a few people have the key. At night, the place would be barren.

  “I set up a table and chairs far back, between the rows of supplies. At the last minute—I don’t know why—I just put the digital recorder between two boxes, next to the table. Early the next morning, before Margaret Alton arrived for inventory and after the meeting, I took the table and chairs away and put the recorder in my pocket. I should have told someone sooner … but I didn’t know what to do or who to tell. Everyone was caught up in the revelry of the executions and accepting Karl Metzger and his men as heroes.”

  “Will.” Bethany put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s important is that you’re doing the right thing now. There was nothing you could have done. Not by yourself. But now, with friends and numbers, we can help bring this recording to light.”

  “I was going to play it over the loudspeakers,” Will said. “But now, it’s too late for that. I should have done it before the executions, before we accepted the Red Hands into Alice with open arms. If I played it out loud now, I’d disappear with all of the rest. The people of Alice are unarmed. We can’t face these men alone. This … is all my fault.”

  Everyone looked at Will, waiting for someone else to reassure him. The boy was young, about the same age as Simon had been when he’d left for British Columbia. That seemed ages ago—another lifetime.

  Simon broke the silence. “Will, you can’t dwell on ways of altering the past. Remain in the present moment and figure out how your current actions will shape the outcome of the future.”

  Will nodded.

  Jeremy reached to the table for the recorder. “Let’s listen to it one more time.”

  He clicked play.

  ***

  The sound of Nick’s boots clacking on the cement floor grew louder, and then it stopped. “Nicholas, my boy,” echoed the voice of Karl Metzger. “All hail the chief.”

  After a moment of silence, Karl spoke to his lieutenant. “Mr. Rothstein, would you give us a moment, please?”

  The sound of footfalls as Mark disappeared in the shadows.

  “Nick,” Karl spoke, “my condolences for your fath—”

  “You son of a bitch,” Nick said. “How dare you?”

  Karl sighed. “I was only being cordial. This is no way to great a guest, Nicholas. No way to talk to your new partner.”

  “You were early. You were five minutes early. You fucked it all up.”

  “Hardly.” The sound of a chair scraping the ground, and the creaking of the flimsy table. “Don’t … play … coy … with me, Nicholas Byrnes.”

  “We had a plan, an agenda. I followed my instructions to the tee. You—you were five minutes early. You killed him, you killed my father!”

  “Calm your voice, Nicholas.”

  “This is all your fault, all your—”

  “Calm your voice!” Karl’s words bounced off the walls, and Nick grew quiet. After a moment, Ka
rl spoke in a tranquil manner. “Let me set things straight. You had a plan—but it was not the plan. Your plan called for me to bomb the recon office right after your father’s visit, and then my soldiers were to come in and save the day by flanking Alice’s attackers. Then, you thought your father would have no choice but to let my men into Alice, and you would have the army that you always wanted. The people, these peasants, would see you as a leader—their leader. Even your father would say that you were right all along and that he wished he would have listened to your advice sooner.”

  “But you were five minutes early …”

  “Yes. I was. Your plan was ill-conceived, Sir Nicholas, so I set forth my own agenda to correct the ailments of your directives. With your father in charge, we would never be able to achieve our goals. This is something you know—something you have always known.”

  “No, it’s—”

  “You want power, and that’s what I’ve given you. The people of Alice are going to accept you with open arms. Accept you as the general. The course of events that I have put into motion will ensure that our plan succeeds. We will control the oil, capture the gasoline supply line, and eventually own the refineries. I want Hightown on a silver platter. Resources are the new currency, and we—you and me, Nicholas—can have it all. We have enough water to last a lifetime, and soon, all of the fuel we could burn. We will own the land. Can’t you just picture it? We will own this world. Only, we would never have succeed with your father still alive.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him … we could have made him step down.”

  “Correction, Nicholas. I did have to kill him. What did you expect? Do you think the peasants in this shithole town would have accepted us attacking Zone Red with him still alive? No. Such things are done with the use of force. Don’t lie to yourself. You want Zone Red just as much as I do, maybe even more so. You hate General Driscoll and his elitist soldiers. The world is going to be yours, Nicholas—ours. You’ve known all along what the cost was going to be.” The table creaked again. “You just didn’t have the gall to kill your father yourself.”