The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  Back inside, Jeremy was awake, standing in the kitchen with Bethany. Both of them were bleary-eyed.

  “The convoy will be here in two hours,” Jeremy said, blowing back the steam from his coffee.

  Bethany nodded. She knew it was time to go, but the thought of leaving was terrifying.

  “I’m going to get dressed,” she said, walking to the bedroom.

  Jeremy called after her, “Remember to put on the vest.”

  “I will,” she called back.

  Simon turned to Jeremy. “My stomach is in knots.”

  “Mine too.”

  “I … what if there’s a problem when I sneak past the guards?”

  “There won’t be. You can’t think like that. If anyone can sneak over the line, it’s you.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I know what you’re afraid of.” Jeremy looked to the pistols and rifles laid out on the living room floor. “You don’t want to use any of them—but if it comes down to it, you have to.”

  “I don’t know.” Simon shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

  “If not for yourself, then for Winston, Bethany—for everyone in Alice. Even me.”

  By the window, Winston’s head shot up rigid, and his fur stood on end. Simon saw this and listened to the sounds in the distance.

  Jeremy looked at him with concern. “What is it?”

  “Shhh—listen.” They stood motionless. Then, in the distance, the slight rumble of an engine could be heard. They went to the window. They watched as two Jeeps drove toward the barracks.

  “What do you think’s going on?” Simon asked.

  Jeremy shrugged.

  The Jeeps drove closer. Then they slowed in front of the door to their apartment and came to a full stop. Jeremy recoiled.

  “Come on; get dressed.” Jeremy pulled Simon from the window, and they rushed to secure the white, police-style bulletproof vests around their chests and button up their shirts. Simon grabbed the voice recorder and slipped it into an open slit he’d made in the hem of his windbreaker the night before. There was no time to sew it up as planned.

  Someone was knocking on the door while Jeremy was shoving the assortment of weapons under the couch. He tossed Simon his Colt .45 and grabbed a pistol for himself. Winston was barking, and Bethany came out from the bedroom with large eyes. Her shaking hands touched her lips.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Simon whispered. “But we have to answer.”

  The knocks echoed loud, sending Winston into a fit of barking.

  “Winston, quiet!” Simon commanded. Winston disobeyed. Simon opened the door, holding Winston back with his leg.

  “Hi,” he managed to say. “Can I help you?”

  The bearded face of Mark Rothstein smiled back at him.

  Chapter 49

  Delirium Tremens

  Nick’s eyes opened into slits.

  He blinked repeatedly, hoping to produce some moisture between his raw eyelids that rubbed against his eyeballs like sandpaper. He needed water, but the slightest movement of his body caused waves of nausea and pangs of intense pain in his forehead.

  After some initial uncertainty, Nick knew he was in his bedroom downstairs. He felt silk sheets plastered against his clammy skin and a mattress under his body. He had made it to bed the night before.

  Thank God.

  Slowly, he moved and flexed his feet and hands. His right hand stuck to the sheet at first before coming away with a sting of pain. He brought his palm before his eyes, squinting to focus on blood-covered fingers.

  What did I do last night?

  Nick racked his brain. Slight fragments of memory returned to him, but the last thing he recalled was sitting at the table outside as the bonfire grew large. The wood for the fire had run out, and the men commenced to burn anything that would catch fire. Chairs, tables, desks—anything made out of wood—were brought out from the house and thrown on top of the blazing inferno, for no other reason than to watch things burn.

  That was Nick’s last memory.

  Now he was in bed, and his head was swimming. He pushed himself up to his elbows, examining the room. It looked as though a hurricane had passed through. A line of his clothing extended to the doorway—his shirts, holster, belt, and one boot. His other boot was still on and so were his pants, inside out and around the one ankle. Glass shards were everywhere from where he had apparently thrown and smashed the bottle of bourbon. The furniture was toppled over, the lamps on the bedside tables were destroyed, and bloody handprints smeared the walls. In the corner were the two women Karl had sent to his room, stripped to their underwear with their hands tied at their wrists around the radiator. When they saw Nick stir, they began to tremble.

  He couldn’t deal with this right now.

  The pangs of pain in his head were overwhelming, and the threat of vomiting was real.

  He got out of bed and wobbled to the bathroom, where he drank mouthful after mouthful of water from the faucet. It did not sit well, and within moments he was kneeling at the toilet making an awful mess.

  After several minutes, he stood and took only a few slow sips of water. His throat was burning something fierce, and his palm was shaking as the tap water pooled inside. He stood and waited to see if the water would stay down. When it seemed it would, he stumbled back out with his palm pressed to his forehead, as if he needed to hold his brain still.

  In the bedroom, he tried not to look at the two women tied in the corner, who had averted their eyes. He must have put on a spectacular show last night.

  Nick gathered his clothing, his head throbbing each time he leaned over to pick something up, and swung his holster over a shoulder. A few steps out from the doorway, he stopped and tried to regain his mind. He put his clothing on the ground, removed a Buck knife from his holster belt, and returned to the bedroom.

  The women shrieked as he returned, naked down to his underwear, his bloody hand holding a shimmering blade. In a swift motion, he cut their bindings. He turned to leave and did not look back, leaving the bewildered girls behind.

  Nick’s wing of the house was cut off from the other side by a solid mahogany door, and he was alone as he walked down the curving hallway. The pathway made it appear that the hallway went on forever in a circular manner. When he reached the end, he stopped before the doorway leading to the attic apartment

  Luckily, his keys were still jingling in the pocket of the pants he carried. He unlocked the door, but it only opened a quarter of an inch.

  “Shit,” he muttered and started banging on the door. “Steph, it’s me. Open up.”

  A moment later, he heard her walking down the steps.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Steph.” Hurry up, goddamn it.

  She unlocked the padlock Nick had forgotten he’d installed for her on the inside.

  “Nick!” Her eyes went large. “Oh, my God, what happened to you? Are you all right?”

  She grabbed at his hand, looking at the dried blood. He pulled himself away.

  “I’m fine.” He brushed past her up the steps. “Rough night is all.”

  “I’m sure. I saw the whole thing from the window.” She followed behind him, tying her purple robe around her waist as she stepped into the open space of the apartment. He stopped only a few steps in, the upstairs being one large and open room, with only the bathroom and a closet behind closed doors. The sun shone bright through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the yard and river.

  A feeling of guilt struck him, as if he might have done something shameful the previous night that he couldn’t remember.

  “My head is spinning. Do we have any aspirin?”

  “Let me take a look at your hand.”

  “Aspirin first, please.”

  Stephanie sat him in the bathroom and gave him three aspirins and a glass of water.

  “Jesus,” she said, examining his palm. “How did you do this?”

  Nick studied the
deep horizontal slash. The water churned inside his stomach, and he thought he was going to vomit again. “A broken bottle. It was an accident.” The wound was gaping, probably in need of stitches. He stared into the flap of skin covered in dried blood.

  “Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.” Nick fell on his knees before the toilet, heaving up the water and the bitter aspirin.

  Stephanie rubbed his shoulders as he gagged on bile.

  “I’m dying,” he muttered.

  “You’re not dying,” she told him, and turned to start up the shower.

  ***

  Nick felt better, but his whole body was still trembling. At least the shower helped calm the pounding in his head, and now, clean and dressed, he was able to drink a full glass of water and sip at a bowl of soup. The warm broth both stung and soothed his raw throat.

  There was a knock at the door.

  He looked at Stephanie, not sure he could deal with talking to anyone right now.

  “I’m not dressed,” she told him.

  You’re never dressed, he wanted to say, but he got up from the table. Ever since they’d moved into the mansion, all Stephanie bothered wearing was her purple silk robe and pajamas.

  The banging increased as Nick got to the landing.

  “I’m coming; I’m coming,” he said.

  He unlocked the padlock and swung the door open.

  Karl stood alone, smiling his toothy grin. “Ah, good morning, Sir General.” His voice boomed.

  “Karl, what’s the matter?” Nick was shocked at Karl’s clear eyes, as if the man had not touched a sip of alcohol last night, although he remembered Karl going drink-for-drink with him.

  “We’ve had a busy morning,” he said. “Come now. Time is of the essence.”

  Chapter 50

  The Pit

  “Simon Kalispell, I presume?” Mark Rothstein’s words were as gruff as his weathered face.

  “Yes. Mr. Rothstein, right? Can I help you?”

  Two armed men stood behind Mark Rothstein, and several more were standing by the Jeeps.

  “Call me Mark. Yes, as a matter of fact, you can help me. We require your assistance. Both you and Jeremy Winters.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Please, it’s best if you come with us.” Mark stared at Simon, unflinching. In their proximity, Simon could see old and faded tattoos on most of Mark’s exposed skin, his knuckles, and jutting out from under his shirt collar.

  At the waiting cars, Simon saw the other lieutenant, Sultan, leaning against the Jeep with his arms crossed, looking up at the sun with a pleasant grin.

  Simon did not move from the doorway.

  “There’s been an incident,” Mark went on, “outside of town. We’ve heard that you’re the best scout in all of Alice, and Jeremy knows the lay of the land outside the gates better than anyone. We need your expertise. Is there a problem?”

  Simon looked to Jeremy.

  “No,” Jeremy said. “Of course. We just have to put our shoes on.”

  “Good.” Mark stepped inside the apartment. “And who is this?” He reached down to rub Winston’s head.

  “Winston.”

  “What a good-looking boy.”

  Winston’s tail was wagging, his side leaning into Mark’s leg.

  “An old boy, huh?”

  “He’s got a few years on him. And a few still ahead.” Simon finished lacing his boots and walked over to Bethany.

  “Okay, be back soon.” There were a million words that he wanted to say, but he couldn’t say a thing, and neither could she. The looks on their faces as they made eye contact said it all. Bethany was on the verge of tears as Simon gave her a hug. He looked straight into her eyes.

  “I hope you have a great day,” he said and turned.

  Simon knew that the convoy was expected soon. If she could get there, if he could break free … the plan might still work.

  “We’ll have the boys home in no time,” Mark told Bethany. “I assure you.” He smiled wide behind his beard.

  Bethany offered a meager smile in return.

  Simon grabbed his windbreaker, and the men stepped outside.

  “Right this way.” Mark led them to the rear Jeep, then walked to the lead car. Simon and Jeremy exchanged quick glances. Jeremy’s face was pale.

  Sultan stood, smiling. “You doing us a big favor, you know.” He held the back door open for them to get in. A soldier sat beside them, and Sultan went to the front seat.

  They drove north to Ridgeline Road, and then followed the road east.

  Sultan spoke without turning around. “What you all do before this—before the war?”

  Simon spoke first. “I was a student.”

  Jeremy answered. “I was a soldier. Still am a soldier.”

  “Ah, an army man,” Sultan said, amused by something. “Ha! Be all you can be, or some shit, right?”

  Jeremy didn’t respond. Simon focused on the feeling of his pistols tucked in his pants.

  “Me, I always been in sales, man. That was my shit, back in the day. Coke mostly, but pills too. Some heroin here and there, but that shit is nasty.”

  “What did Karl do before all this?” Simon asked.

  “Karl?” Sultan laughed. “He done what he’s always done—what he’s doing now.” Sultan seemed to dismiss his own thoughts. “Who knows? A gangster maybe, or some shit like that. Probably in jail when it all went down. That’s what I heard anyway. But you can’t always trust the beats you hears on the streets. Ha!”

  Simon felt sweat droplets form on his face.

  The Jeeps drove past the guard post and into the uninhabited and unprotected areas outside of Zone Blue.

  Jeremy asked, “What exactly do you need us to do?”

  “Hold on,” Sultan said. “We’re almost there.”

  They headed farther north and parked on the side of the road adjacent to a large open field beside three other Jeeps, and a small crowd of soldiers.

  “Here we go,” Sultan said, as their car came to a stop. He got out from the front seat and opened the back door for Simon and Jeremy.

  Outside, Simon made eye contact with Martin Howard, Frank Morrow, and Chris Lockton, who were standing in the field by the side of the road. There were a dozen well-armed Red Hands and Dragoons forming a semicircle around them. Simon swallowed. Martin was sweating and his eyes looked glazed over. No one spoke.

  Mark Rothstein walked over from his parked Jeep. “Now that we’re all gathered together, let’s get this show on the road.”

  The soldiers began walking forward, forcing everyone to move.

  Martin spoke. “Where are we going?”

  “My man,” Sultan said. “Why you so worried? Look right up there.” He pointed in the near distance where they could see a few Red Hands standing about. “This will all be over lickety-split.”

  Simon felt his pistol rubbing against his skin as he debated all of the possible scenarios that could unfold.

  Should I turn and shoot Mark and Sultan? Make a run for it?

  They would kill him no more than a few steps out. It was pointless. They were outnumbered and outgunned.

  Mark Rothstein spoke from behind them, “So, here we are, gentlemen, at a crossroads of your own creation.”

  Martin Howard looked like he might throw up.

  “We’ve heard some troubling news recently,” Mark went on. “We heard that a group of citizens were conducting private meetings. At first we weren’t sure what the group was meeting about, but we had some assumptions. As it turns out, our beliefs were correct. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lockton?”

  Chris Lockton cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact … yes. The group in question was involved in treason of the highest order.”

  Everyone turned to Chris.

  “You!” Martin looked incredulous. “Chris—you son of a bitch!”

  Chris ducked to the side behind several of the Red Hands, as Martin leaped toward him.

  “How could you, Chris? After all t
his time together! You’ve been working with them all along, haven’t you? You double-crossing sack of sh—”

  Martin’s words were cut short by a swift fist in his stomach from one of the Red Hands. He doubled over, but was grabbed by his shoulders and set back up on his feet. In the confusion, Simon exchanged glances with Jeremy.

  It’s now or never.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, gentlemen,” Mark Rothstein said.

  Simon turned to see Mark’s dark eyes glaring at him. Several of the guards had their rifles aimed point-blank at the square of his back.

  “We wanted you to pull them out back in town,” Mark said, “to make a public example of what we do to aggressors. Hand them over. Slowly.”

  Jeremy looked at the soldiers and then at Simon. “Do as he says.”

  They lifted their jackets and let the soldiers take the pistols tucked into their pants. Right after, a fist struck Jeremy hard in the face. Blood poured out of his nose, but he did not fall.

  “Tough one we got here,” the soldier said, shaking his hand. He rubbed his knuckles and stepped forward to continue the beating, but Sultan put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No point, man,” he said. “Just wait.”

  They pushed the group onward toward the soldiers in the field, who, they could now see, were leaning on shovels and smoking cigarettes. One was dangling a baseball bat loosely at his knees.

  Mark continued. “The people of Alice will rejoice at us having found the party responsible for supplying our enemy with information, causing the death of their beloved leader, Tom Byrnes.”

  Frank Morrow shook his head. “You sons of bitches. You’ll all get yours. Every single last one of you.”

  “That is,” Mark Rothstein said, “if we decide to tell them. We now have enough of our men in Alice to no longer care what you peasants think. And without their leaders, the people will fall.”

  Jeremy spoke. “They’ll fight back, you know. They’ll fight you tooth and nail. You might win in the end, but they’ll rip the hearts out of half of you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Winters … I do not think so. We will soon be implementing our new town-wide security system. When the foghorn blares and an attack is imminent, the people of Alice will be made to gather in the gymnasium at Alice Elementary, which will act as a bomb shelter. The memory of your fearless leader being blown to pieces in a bombing is still fresh in everyone’s mind. When that happens, and the people are huddled together in that dark, cavernous room, do you know what we’ll do? I’ll give you a hint. What’s the best course of action to take when you find your foes hiding in a cave? Why, you simply seal the entrance and walk away. Let the course of events unfold as they will. The windows and back doors have been barricaded. Saves ammunition, that way. When the Priest gets back to town we’ll use some gas on them, if he has enough left. Ease their suffering.”