The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  “You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Jeremy said.

  The group stopped before a pit, over ten feet wide. They were prodded forward until they were only a foot away from the ledge. The stench and the flies were awful. The bloated and decomposing bodies of Alice’s missing citizens lay before them in a mass grave, arms and legs in dramatic poses, overcome by rigor mortis.

  Frank shook his head. “You’ll never get away with this. You’ll rot in hell—” A fist struck the back of his head, and Frank fell to his knees, his hands flailing to his side to stop him from falling face-first into the grave. A slight landfall of dirt cascaded into the open hole.

  Then the soldiers kicked at all of their knees until the whole group was kneeling, skirting the edge of the wretched pit that opened like the doorway to damnation. Simon felt faint from the stench and the dozens of flies that were tickling his skin. Martin Howard was at the head of the line, his body trembling, and when Mark Rothstein walked up behind him, Martin began to vomit. Mark gripped the rosewood handle of his machete and unsheathed the cruel blade, gleaming in the sunlight.

  “All right, Martin. So much for your little solar project, huh? Any last words?”

  Simon was kneeling beside Martin and saw the man’s eyes flutter on the brink of passing out. “Fuck them, Martin,” Simon said in a hiss. “Fuck them all.”

  He said it louder. “Fuck you all!” He heard laughter from some of the soldiers and Sultan’s chuckles the loudest. He half-turned to see Mark Rothstein from the corner of his eye.

  “Keep your chin up high, Martin.”

  Martin turned, facing Simon with tears rolling down the sides of his cheeks, and he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Oh, God—” he let out, as Mark Rothstein brought the blade down in a swift motion. The blade passed clean, cutting halfway through Martin’s neck. A hot mist sprayed over Simon and up into Mark Rothstein’s unflinching face.

  Before Martin Howard could die, Mark kicked him square in the back with the heel of his boot, throwing the man forward to bleed out amongst the dead.

  Mark wiped the blood off his face with his palm and licked his lips. Simon was next in line.

  A soldier called out, “Let me try my pistol.”

  It was the man dangling the battered baseball bat in his hand. The soldier patted the handle of the gleaming revolver strapped over his chest.

  Mark shook his head. “Save your bullets. Now, Mr. Kalispell,” he continued. “What did you say the name of your dog was?”

  Simon looked straight ahead. He could feel the recorder tucked in the liner of his jacket against his stomach.

  “Don’t matter.” Mark shrugged. “I’ll find a name that suits him.”

  Simon felt his vision throb with the pounding of his heart. The guard leaning on a shovel flicked his cigarette butt into the pit and onto Martin’s back, where it smoldered.

  Mark continued. “Your friend, Will Holbrook told us all sorts of things this morning, only an hour or so ago. We can be very persuasive when we want to be. Especially when we have a person strapped to a gurney. He screamed out Bethany’s name during a fascinating routine involving a razor blade and his fingernails. Bethany is someone important, we gather. Will seemed to have regretted having said anything at all, because he grew quiet—even under the most excruciating of circumstances.

  “The boy was strong, I’ll give him that, but I’m afraid he reached the end of his rope. There’s only so much blood a man can lose. We would have offered you the same treatment if we thought it might have done any good. But you don’t seem the type to crack under interrogation. So, I’ll skip the foreplay and give you one last chance to tell me who she is, redeem yourself.”

  Mark leaned in close, seeing the stony redness in Simon’s face as he muttered, “If you so much as touch her … I swear to God … you have no idea what you’re unleashing.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Mark looked to Sultan, and they both let out a laugh. “I’m quaking in my boots. Just shivering. Will told us all sort of things, even about you, Mr. Kalispell, and your journey. When this is all over and Hightown is ours, we’ll have you to thank.”

  Me to thank?

  Mark Rothstein raised the blade of his rosewood machete, still wet with Martin’s blood. “Stand back boys, this one’s ripe to pop.”

  The events that followed were difficult for Simon to comprehend. His pulse was beating rapidly and his vision was a blur. He was about to turn, jump, beat at the face of Mark Rothstein, when shots rang out in the distance.

  He flinched low.

  There was a popping sound, followed by more, and then something extraordinarily heavy whacked into his chest. His body flew backward, sending his back crashing against Mark Rothstein’s shins. The air was forced out of Simon’s lungs, and he tried to gasp. The group of Red Hands and Dragoons began shouting, jumping to the ground, and firing their weapons. Mark kicked Simon forward and shouted to the Dragoons beside him.

  Simon saw a flash and felt a jolt of pain. All turned to black as he fell face-first into the open grave.

  Chapter 51

  Migration

  There was commotion on Brian and Carolanne’s journey when the supply column was forced to halt. Carolanne looked at Brian with large eyes.

  “I’m sure everything’s fine,” he told her, unable to see anything in the rear of the covered supply truck.

  They held hands, and soon the column began moving again toward Alice. Brian peeked out from the cloth door covering the back of the truck, and saw the forwarding guards were remaining behind. Before long, they were safely behind Alice’s front line, and parking on the supply grounds.

  “Something’s strange here, right?” Carolanne asked, as they jumped down from the back of the truck.

  “Reckon so.”

  Brian looked at the soldiers walking around the blacktop—men with red handprints painted over their hearts. Other soldiers holstered huge steel pistols over their chests. Everyone’s expression was blank, stern.

  “It’s not usually like this,” Brian told her. “They’re always happy to see us. We trade cigarettes and knives and whatnot.”

  The gasoline trucks began pumping their fuel into the underground storage containers while the cargo was unloaded onto pickup trucks.

  “Come on, let’s get to work,” Brian said, pulling Carolanne’s gaze away from the soldiers. “Keep your head down, and don’t look at anyone crosswise.”

  They helped unload the few crates of goods that Zone Red supplied other than the gasoline and oil. A few of the craftier soldiers in Hightown had begun work on a small mushroom farm early on in the Zone’s establishment, and with its success, the indoor growing room now took up three times the amount of space and grew a variety of edible fungi.

  Today, Brian and Carolanne were unloading a box of chanterelle mushrooms, two boxes of shiitake, and several smaller crates containing herbs, such as wild sage and thyme, all headed for the kitchen, where Brian was expected to work.

  When the cargo was unloaded, they stood in line with the small procession heading into Alice, holding a single suitcase.

  As the line inched forward, Carolanne said, “Brian, I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  She whispered, “What if they turn us away?”

  “They won’t.”

  A tall guard beside the gate looked at Brian and Carolanne as they stepped forward, reading from a clipboard.

  “Names?”

  “Brian and Carolanne Rhodes,” Brian said.

  The guard scanned the list.

  “You were approved by Tom Byrnes.” He looked at them through narrow eyes. “Why’d it take so long for you to arrive?”

  Brian swallowed back a lump in his throat. “I was still needed in the kitchen.”

  The guard looked back to the papers. “I see you’re a chef.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you, girl? What’s your reason for being here?”
>
  Carolanne looked ready to crack. “I—um, we’re married. I work in laundry. I do laundry.”

  The guard stared at her. Carolanne’s cheeks flushed red, and Brian could feel her trembling beside him. If the guard asked her another question—anything—he didn’t think she would be able to answer.

  The guard looked at his clipboard.

  “Hope you can cook worth a damn.” His eyes flicked up at Brian.

  Brian let out a breath. “Yes, sir, I can.”

  “You’re going to have to surrender your firearms, and I’ll have to inspect your bag.”

  “That’s fine.” Brian put his suitcase on a folding table. “We’re not armed.”

  The guard paused, looking at him. “You came in with cargo, unarmed?” He shook his head.

  “Yes, sir. I reckon it wasn’t the smartest idea.”

  They held their breaths as the guard stuck his dirty hands into their clothing and meager belongings, tossing everything about. He pushed the open suitcase toward Brian.

  “Pack it up and be on your way.”

  They walked off fast. Bethany was supposed to meet them at the gate, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is she?” Carolanne looked around. “Where are we supposed to go?”

  “I haven’t a clue. None of the normal faces are here, not even Pat O’Hern, and he’s always at the trade grounds. Just follow along with the group.”

  They followed the flow of people to the heart of town and found the supply office. A soldier sat behind a desk, and when they gave him their names, he checked some papers and produced an apartment key on a numbered key ring.

  “You’re to report to the kitchen ASAP,” he told Brian.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They walked away. Foul-looking soldiers littered the streets and smelled something fierce. Many of them were drunk and working on getting drunker.

  “I don’t want to wash their clothes.” Carolanne looked at them, repulsed. “I don’t want to go near their clothing.”

  “By the look of it, most of ’em don’t ever wash their clothes, so you might get off lucky.”

  When they got inside their small apartment, they closed and locked the door.

  “I’ll ask around about Bethany,” Brian said. “Remember what Uncle Al told us. We can’t appear desperate or off-kilter. We gotta go about our day like it’s any other.”

  Carolanne nodded.

  “Brian,” she said, “I’m scared.”

  “I know you are. I know. I am too. But we got to follow the plan. First, we get Bethany out of here. Next, when Uncle Al sends word, we begin the operation. Let’s get cracking.”

  Brian put the suitcase on the kitchen table and began handing the clothing to Carolanne, who folded each item in turn and placed them aside. When the suitcase was empty, he cut away the liner and unscrewed a piece of material at the bottom with a Swiss army knife. Brian reached in and removed a small bundle, wrapped in cloth.

  Carolanne moved the suitcase off the table, and Brian placed the item down.

  “You sure you know how to use this thing?” Carolanne asked.

  “Steven and I used to talk to the truckers on the interstate all the time. There wasn’t much else to do in Nelson. I still got my ham radio license back at home or maybe down in the bunker.”

  Brian unwrapped the small radio made for a truck or a car along with a folding solar charger, a handheld microphone, and a Morse code telegraph key.

  “I meant that thing—the Morse code thingy. You actually know Morse code?”

  “You have to learn it to get your ham radio license. It’s been a while, but I remember it plenty.”

  Carolanne watched as Brian went to work connecting the wires.

  “I got to leave for the kitchen in a minute,” he said. “The rest of our stuff is in the produce boxes. I’ll bring the weapons back tonight.”

  Chapter 52

  Puzzle Pieces

  Sunlight flickered in through Simon’s twitching eyelids.

  Consciousness was hazy. It took a moment to focus on the blue sky and silky, white clouds overhead.

  Then reality came rushing back.

  “Bethany!” Simon shouted, attempting to sit up. Arms held him back, grabbing at his shoulders, and for a moment he thought the pile of corpses had come alive, pulling him down into the bowels of hell. Then he realized he was not lying in the pit at all, but rather on a hospital gurney. The arms grabbing him belonged to a clean-shaven man wearing camouflaged fatigues.

  “Mr. Kalispell—Simon—lie down, please!”

  His head was throbbing and his chest was on fire. Each movement sent spikes of pain throughout his body. Simon relented and let his muscles relax.

  “What happened? Where’s Beth? Is she safe?”

  The man didn’t answer. Fingers were holding his eyelids open; a penlight shined straight into his pupils.

  “I’m not sure who Beth is,” the man said. “Now, Simon, tell me what you remember. What’s your last memory?”

  “I was … I thought I was dead … I was about to be killed, and then, I don’t know. There was gunfire, and everything went black.”

  The clean-shaven man nodded. “Do you know what day of the week it is?”

  “How long was I out?”

  “A few hours.”

  “Wednesday. Where are Jeremy and Frank?”

  “They’re here. They stepped away a moment ago.” The doctor took a seat beside the gurney. “My name is Mark Buckley; I’m a hospital corpsman first class. You’re in the care of General Albert Driscoll. What you remember is correct. You sustained a ricocheted bullet shot to the chest and blunt trauma to the back of your head.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Simon’s hands fluttered over his torso, scanning his body. His chest felt like it was on fire, and touching it made the flames grow wild.

  “Relax, please,” the corpsman said. “You’re a lucky man. The bullet didn’t penetrate the bulletproof vest you were wearing, but your chest is going to ache for some time. The blow to the back of your head concerns me the most, but I don’t see any indication of a concussion, and your skull isn’t broken or fractured. You’re going to have a bad headache.”

  All at once, Simon remembered the tape recorder and started patting for the pocket in the jacket he was not wearing.

  “My coat—where’s my coat?”

  “On the chair.” The doctor pointed to a chair next to the bed where the jacket was placed after being cut off his body.

  Simon leaned from the gurney, stretching to reach it.

  “Stop—stay right there. I’ll get it.”

  The corpsman handed Simon the jacket, and an emptiness filled Simon’s chest as he felt the void where the recorder should be.

  “Oh no, oh no, no, no … it must have fallen out in the pit. Where are Jeremy and Frank? I need to talk to them.”

  “They’re speaking to the officers. They should be back any minute.” The doctor looked over his shoulder to a guard standing beside a white tent only a few feet away. “Parker, go see if you can find the two sergeants. Tell them that Mr. Kalispell is awake.”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard took off.

  Simon relaxed back on the gurney. All around him, men in camouflage were walking around with purpose. The doctor continued inspecting Simon’s injuries, but Simon’s mind was elsewhere. He gazed over the field, inspecting the tents and mobile offices, looking for the familiar features of his two friends.

  A few minutes later, he saw them. Jeremy, Frank, and a man wearing fatigues came walking out of a large camouflage tent erected in a clearing close to Simon’s gurney. When they saw Simon looking at them, they smiled. “Simon,” Jeremy said. “You’re awake.”

  “Jeremy, the recorder—I don’t have it!”

  “It’s okay, Simon. It’s okay. We have it. It’s being delivered to General Driscoll as we speak.”

  Simon let out a breath. “Oh, thank God. I need to speak to him, to General Driscoll.”

  “We�
�ll be moving out shortly,” said the tall, gray-haired man accompanying Jeremy and Frank. “I’m Lieutenant General Casey Edmonds, the ranking officer under General Driscoll. Your friends here have told me your story, and I’ve listened to the recording. You’ve been shot, I understand.”

  “Where are we?” Simon asked.

  “We’re right outside of Zone Red at a forward post,” the doctor said. “I was with the cargo team delivering supplies when we spotted what appeared to be a group of people in the far distance across a field. We halted the procession, and two of our snipers went out to scout. They reported a gang of maybe a dozen armed men surrounding several others whom we recognized from their outfits as belonging to Alice. Through binoculars, we recognized the leader of Alice’s Ranger battalion, Frank Morrow.

  “As we were waiting for orders from HQ, we saw a man get nearly decapitated. When we saw the executioner get ready to kill the next in line, the commander on duty made the decision, and we opened fire. We moved in and rescued your two friends here, Jeremy Winters and Frank Morrow. We hauled you out of the pit unconscious, but alive. I’m afraid most of the men responsible for what happened have escaped.”

  “It’s … begun,” Simon whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  “The first shots have been fired. Was Bethany on the return caravan?”

  Jeremy shot Simon a fierce look. Apparently Bethany’s identity was still a secret.

  “Who’s that?” the lieutenant general asked.

  “It’s just … was there a girl on the caravan, a Bethany Rose?”