When Simon had fired all five shells of his .12 gauge, he discarded the weapon and drew his pistol.
Bethany, Bethany, Bethany, he repeated. Then, the words were replaced by a new mantra, one soaked in the fighting of which Simon was now engaged: Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick …
Simon ran into the dizzying corridor of trenches, with Brian and Frank quick at his heels, throwing grenades toward the machine gun emplacements in the distance. His mind was processing his surroundings with such clarity that events seemed to unfold in slow motion, his body and consciousness moving at such speeds that his rational thoughts were left behind as if time did not pertain to his cognizance.
Around every turn, every corner, Dragoons in dark brown uniforms came before him with sinister expressions, the steel of their pistols gleaming from their chests like badges of hellish sheriffs, and each in turn was struck dead. The majority of Nick Byrnes’s men had eaten dinner from the stores of food in the mansion and were largely unaffected by the poisonous stew. Their minds were sharp, undistracted.
Simon was reloading his pistol as a group of Dragoons came rushing from around the bend in a narrow lane. Simon snatched a thick-bladed machete from the hand of a lifeless soldier and sprinted over a mound of dead Dragoons, jumping into the air on nimble feet and cutting and hacking away, turning and twisting his body in such a way that it appeared unnatural and animalistic.
Blood soaked his hands and face, sprayed upon his chest, and coated his hair in a mat. His vision was a throbbing red, and his only thought was, Nick, Nick, Nick. He was not the wind, the rock, or the tree; he was the predator, the bear, the cheetah, the tiger, a wild animal, able to move with blinding grace and a mind free of congealed thoughts. Simon was the alpha beast, the apex predator, the fastest and deadliest animal among a sea of carnivores, all with their fangs gleaming in the flashing lights of the explosions all around.
Man upon man ran forward and faced their demise upon the roaring current that was Simon Kalispell. He could not be stopped or hindered, even when bullets grazed him or pierced the fleshy part of his thigh.
He moved through the twisting trenches, roaring with rage, hacking through arms, necks, sinew and flesh, dropping whole limbs to the blood-soaked earth, making streams of muddy ground from the dead and dying. The eyes of the doomed witnessed the wild effigy of a man turned war god, covered in the mud and gore of his slain, while awaiting their own turns to face his blade.
Brian and Frank could not keep up. They were barely at Simon’s back as they shot and killed dozens, helping Simon slash his way across the line.
At the far end of the trench, in a stretch of level ground separating an entrance to the trenches from Nick’s front door, a wide-bodied sergeant named August scratched at the blistering rash around his neck and gave his battle-hardened men a few fierce words: “By God, the hour is upon us. We go now to turn this tide of war in our favor or face ruin at the hands of our enemy!”
The men shouted a howling cry and went screaming and snarling into the narrow gully of the trench before them, their bodies and minds shaped for one thing: war.
Simon broke into these men as they turned a corner, moving like the wind and water, as fierce as fire, jumping over the stabbed and lacerated before they had time to fall, and taking on the next man in turn. He was a blur of red, a vision of hell. Sergeant August ran forward at the end of the procession, his rifle at the ready, and Simon crashed down upon him, whacking through the man’s helmet before continuing across the dirty terrain without missing a step.
Turning the corner were four riders, their warhorses hammering the earth as their neighing mouths snarled whiffs of steam. Simon grabbed a pistol from a fallen man and squeezed off the rounds with a hunter’s precision before leaping in the air and cutting the remaining men down from their saddles, sending the horses to trample the dead and dying in the narrow lane.
The air all around Simon seemed to expand and contract with his every breath. He did not stop. He did not falter.
Frank Morrow had been shot, and Brian had fallen behind, dragging the general along by his shirt collar. As the soldiers of Alice caught up, Brian released the dying Frank to his people’s care and sprinted up the trench lane to catch up to Simon.
“Guard the general! Guard the general!” they cried.
The remaining Dragoons were retreating into the house, as the yard now belonged to the people of Alice. The enemy took up position in the windows or stopped as they ran across the open lawn to turn and fire their weapons, only to be mowed down without discrimination.
Alice’s army swarmed through the trenches, pressing up against the dirt wall facing the mansion. The people of Alice and Nick’s Dragoons were now eye-to-eye over the short distance between the trenches and the house … and then Simon marched out alone and stopped in the open yard, staring up at the mansion. The machete in his clenched fist dripped with the blood of his slain.
Nick, Nick, Nick …
Simon, adorned in his bloody robes, seemed to have emerged from the earth itself, from some dismal plane, a clay effigy of a madman before the gates of hell, causing the Dragoons in the house to stare wild-eyed, entranced at this terrible vision. The shooting slowed. In the sky above, the helicopter had taken heavy fire and was spiraling out of control with a trail of circling smoke following its twisted descent. It plummeted to the earth, producing a wall of fire in the distance behind Simon, draping his glistening form in blinding firelight.
Simon breathed through clenched teeth.
“… Nick … Nick … Nick, Nick, Nick!”
His voice grew in volume, louder and louder, until the words became guttural.
“Nick! Nick! NICK! NICK! NICK!”
His voice was not his, but that of some monster, a bringer of plagues, and he beat upon his chest with his fist, shouting, “Nick! Nick!” The army in the trenches behind Simon was mesmerized by this man, their fellow soldier, and they roared a cry of victory.
Simon sprang toward the house with blinding speed, and Brian—who had been crouching low at his heels—jumped to join his comrade in battle. The armies resumed shooting at each other, and the people of Alice rose up from the dirt and flooded into the mansion of Nicholas Byrnes, following Simon Kalispell and Brian Rhodes.
***
Something startled Nick Byrnes awake.
The empty glass tumbler in his hand seemed to vibrate. The fire had burned down to faint trails of smoke and cinder in the fireplace, and the classical music had played out. The room was silent.
When did I fall asleep? What the hell was that noise?
All the previous day, Nick had checked on the line, going from checkpoint to checkpoint on the back of his great stallion. The men on the line all had the same question for him: “Where’s Karl Metzger?”
He did not have an answer.
There was movement again, a trembling. The whole house seemed to shake. The intricate chandelier swayed overhead, the little hanging crystals clinking, making a melodic sound.
Nick heard muffled shouts carry through the walls. He sprang to his feet, grabbed his holster and assault rifle, and ran down the hallway. He unlocked the mahogany door at the end and turned the handle.
Mother of God …
The room was crawling with his men, flooding through the doorway, shouting and screaming. Injured men were being brought in on stretchers or dragged in from the trenches, leaving red trails in their wake.
Nick’s head swam, and his knees went weak.
Men rushed to circle him, barking at him with a barrage of words.
“We’re under attack!”
“The front line has been breached!”
“Alice’s soldiers are in the yard!”
“We’re getting killed out there!”
“What do we do?”
“What do we do?”
“What do we do?”
Nick ran to a window and looked out over the trenches. A black helicopter was buzzing in the air, raining down a barrage of bullet
s and explosions, and the entire yard looked as if it were ablaze.
Oh, dear mother of God …
Nick recoiled. He could not speak. He could not process what he was seeing. Bullets began striking the window frame, and patches of drywall and wood exploded off the walls behind him.
Several officers grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down and out of the room. His rifle slipped to the floor.
Back in the hallway of Nick’s private wing, with some of the noise of the gunfire suppressed, Nick was able to regain his composure.
“Jesus Christ! Why didn’t someone get me sooner?”
“We tried,” one of them said. “We were about to break your door down.”
“Never mind. What the hell is going on?”
“We’re under attack. The line’s been breached, and they’re gaining ground!”
“Can we push them back?”
The men looked at one another, exchanging pale expressions. “Sir, we’re trying.”
The color drained from Nick’s face. All at once, he was aware that the alcohol he had drunk the previous evening was making his head spin.
Where the hell is Karl Metzger?
“All right,” Nick said. “Radio for reinforcements—now! Flank the enemy off the yard. Have the men fall back to the house, and you all—defend every doorway in this hallway.”
The room shook with another explosion somewhere close—in the house. Plaster rained down from the ceiling.
“Now, goddamn it!” Nick shouted, and the men dispersed. A sergeant opened the mahogany door leading to the house to get to a radio. He took several steps into the room and then vanished in a flash of bright, orange fire. The heat could be felt pouring through the doorway.
A man standing beside the doorframe toppled backward. “Fuck!” he shouted, patting at patches of fire on his chest and arm.
Nick turned and ran down the hallway as his few loyal officers took up position in the doorframes. He unlocked the door to the attic apartment, and ran up the stairs. Stephanie was standing at the top, wide-eyed with tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hands squeezed the cord of her purple silk robe.
“Nick …” Her voice wavered, her body trembling.
Nick stormed past her. The front and rear wall-length windows had been shattered and lay open to the outside, struck by bullets or rattled by explosions, and the wind was whipping the room into a frenzy.
Stephanie clung to Nick’s arm as he marched toward the front window. Strangely, the noise of battle quieted. There was a voice. Someone was shouting his name, repeating it over and over, screaming it like an animal, a monster. Nick froze.
His feet skirted dangerously close to the jagged glass frame of the front window. As the wind blew his dark hair back, he stared in amazement at his lawn set ablaze. The people of Alice lined the trenches, running to the front, pressing their bodies against the trench wall, ready to pour into his house.
Standing in the yard was a man—barely a man, but a thing of war itself, shirtless, carrying a large blade and shouting Nick’s name over and over, with the frame of a helicopter in the far back roaring with fire. The man began to run, sprinting toward the house, and the people of Alice hollered so loud that the gunfire could barely be heard. Bullets pelted the ceiling above him, and the edge of the window by his feet was splintering. Nick jumped away.
Oh, God … dear God. Oh, God in heaven. Where are my reinforcements? Are there any reinforcements? … Is the line destroyed? … Is all hope lost? … I’m not going to die like this. I’m not going to die like this! This is not the way things were supposed to happen!
The roar of the attack rattled the fibers of the house, the timbers and beams groaning from the onslaught. Stephanie huddled in a corner, crying and shaking. Nick stood in the center of the room, watching the open doorframe … waiting.
***
Brian chased after Simon as he crashed through the door to Nick’s mansion. The people of Alice were fast at his heels and filtering in. Dead and dying Dragoons littered the floor, and pockets of fire burned all around. The air was thick and reaching boiling temperature.
Brian, along with several soldiers, followed Simon as he turned to the right and kicked in a solid mahogany door, charred black and still smoking from a recent explosion.
The hallway was long, and it turned in a circular bend.
Just a few steps in, and enemy soldiers opened fire, hidden behind a doorframe ahead. Brian ducked to his side, stuck in an exchange of gunfire. Simon and a group of Alice’s soldiers had sprinted past the door, able to dodge the enemy before they had time to react. Simon paused, looking back.
“Go on!” Brian shouted. “We’ll clear the room. Go!”
Simon turned, and sprinted forward.
During a momentary cease in the gunfire, two of Alice’s men stormed into the enemy’s room.
Brian was right behind them, but by the time he entered, the two men were already slain. A beast of a man stood before him, and the two limp bodies of the soldiers lay slumped at his feet.
The room was a library of sorts, the books and leather furniture strewn about, everything riddled with bullets. A blaze of twinkling sparks blew in from a half-open door in the back of the room, fluttering through the air like fireflies. Small fires burned among the books and debris.
The giant of a man turned to face Brian.
Brian’s eyes shot large, and his mouth dropped open.
“You … you were dead.”
Steven stood before him, his forehead furrowed by a scar. His torn military fatigues were ripped, displaying his muscular chest. His body was black with soot and stained and splattered with carnage.
“St-Steve?”
The eyes staring back at Brian seemed to register something, but it was hard to decipher an emotion of any kind.
Several more of Alice’s men stormed through the doorway, crashing into Brian’s back. They stopped short, staring at this giant before them.
Brian half-turned, lifting his arms horizontally. “I got this. Go on. Go.”
The men did not move. They were transfixed by Steven, who stood in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on Brian, like some Romanesque statue of a warrior deity.
“Go!” Brian shouted. “Go—now, goddamn it!”
The men scurried out, and Brian kicked the door shut.
“Steven … is that … is that really you?”
Steven’s eyelids fluttered, and he started walking toward Brian.
Brian stepped backward, looking over his shoulder at the fireplace mantle.
“S-Stevie, I—”
“You … left me.”
“No, Stevie, I would never—”
“You … tried to kill me. You left me for dead.”
“Steven.” Brian’s back hit the cold marble, and Steven continued toward him. There was fire in Steven’s eyes, a haze of madness.
“You son of a bitch.”
Steven closed the last few steps, and Brian shoved his rifle at him in the open palms of his hands, his face aghast.
“I ain’t gonna fight you, Steve. I don’t want to do this.”
Steven smacked the rifle out of Brian’s open palms and his massive hands grabbed Brian by the collar, lifting him high in the air. Brian stared down at him: his cousin, his brother. He did not kick or throw a punch.
Steven turned and threw Brian across the room to crash and roll over the ground. Brian got to his knees, wheezing for air.
“Steven, I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you so much. You’re my best friend.”
Steven stopped short for a moment and then continued.
“No, no, no!” Steven said through clenched teeth. “You tried to kill me. You left me for dead. Everyone deserted me, even my own uncle. My family. You—they said that you were dead! They told me that they found your body!”
“Steven.” Brian crouched on his knees, looking up at his cousin. “I came back for you, I swear it. Your uncle loves you—he was devastated when I showed up without you. We
all love you. Everyone. You’re my brother, Stevie. Listen, I got to Bethany. I got her to Uncle Al. But they have her. These guys that you’re with, they have her prisoner. We gotta save her. We gotta get her out of here. They’re torturing her, Steven. Your sister. They are torturing her.”
Steven shook his head. “That ain’t true. They told me she’s dead, too. They told me you died trying to get to her. Sent scouts that saw it themselves; told me so.”
“Well, I ain’t dead.”
Steven closed his eyes against the facts trickling into his ears.
“No, Brian—no!” He grabbed Brian by the collar and dragged him to stand, then punched him hard.
“Fight back, goddamn it! Fight back!” Tears began rolling down Steven’s face as punches flew.
Brian dodged a few blows, but Steven’s fists found their way through. He fell before his cousin, blood stringing from his nose.
“Fight back, Brian! Fight back!”
“I ain’t gonna fight you … never again.”
“No, Brian. No!” Steven hollered to the heavens. He stopped throwing punches and his hands went slack. Then he fell to his knees.
“Stevie.” Brian reached out and squeezed his cousin’s shoulder. “Whatever you’re messed up with, it ain’t too late to get out.”
Steven shook his head. “No. I’ve … done things. Things that can’t be made right.”
“Steve. Stevie, it ain’t—”
The door to the outside flew back on its hinges, kicked in by the heel of a boot, and three men stormed inside. A gale of fluttering sparks enveloped their bodies.
“What the hell is going on in here?” The voice bellowed from the badly injured Mark Rothstein. A soldier helped him through the door, and by his side stood Captain Black.
“Steven,” the captain shouted, staring down at Brian on his knees. “This is him, isn’t it? Your cousin. Go on then; this is your chance. Kill the son of a bitch. This is what you want, right? Vengeance. Kill this man who left you for dead—fulfill your destiny.”
Steven stared at the ground.
The captain stepped forward, raising his rifle.
“Stand aside then, lad. I’ll help you. It’s okay.”
Steven turned to Brian. “Run,” he whispered, and then stood tall, facing the three men.
The After War Page 42
