Someday Soon

by Brandon Zenner

  Brian aimed over the wide man’s shoulder to Karl, but the soldier was fighting back, despite the blade still implanted. They twisted and turned as Brian pulled the trigger, the shots wild. He saw Karl jerk to his side and grab his right shoulder as a bullet came within inches of his head. The wide man managed to break free, the knife falling to the ground, his hands at the wound. Brian pulled the trigger again, but before he could see where it struck, three sharp stabs of pain walloped into his chest, and the world turned black before he hit the pavement.

  There he lay, on the trail by the shoreline, his unflinching gaze turned to the sky and horizon as his life drifted out over the water, and his body was finally at peace.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Devil Fingers

  Bethany kept looking over her shoulder as they fled, saying, “Where’s Brian?” but no one answered. Simon looked back, but the trail turned around too many bends. Once they neared the border and the path ended, they cut through the same section of town they’d traversed when entering Hightown, only now there was enough early morning light for them to no longer be invisible. Still, the town was deserted, more so than when they’d entered.

  “We need to move,” one of the soldiers said, despite that the party was running as fast as they could, out of breath, with Uncle Al dragged along and his bare feet striking rocks and branches. There were five of them altogether, and two of the soldiers were injured, one with less serious wounds to his chest, and the other with a bleeding arm beneath his shredded sleeve, which he held close to his body. They were close to the perimeter when Bethany said, “Wait—we have to wait for the others to catch up.”

  “There are no others,” the man with the injured arm said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I was the last out of the house. There’s no one behind me.” He shook his head. “We lost them.”

  “That’s not possible. There were at least three soldiers behind us—I saw Brian.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “Last I saw Brian, he was holding them up on the trail.”

  She craned her neck in the direction they’d come from. The weight of Uncle Al, along with the injured soldiers, made their escape slow, and by now, the enemy should have caught up. There was nothing to suggest that they were still followed. “He’ll be right here,” Uncle Al said.

  No one replied. Simon removed his thin jacket and cut strips for Uncle Al to tie around his feet. The material he had wrapped between his ankle and the metal cuff, still trailing some links, had slipped away, and the skin beneath was battered.

  “We can’t leave anyone behind,” Uncle Al said.

  Bethany got to her feet and checked the chamber of her rifle.

  “Where are you going?” the man with the injured arm said.

  “I’m getting the others.”

  “Wait,” Simon said, reaching for her arm. “Beth, hold up.”

  She pulled away. Her face was stern, set to the horizon. “I’m not leaving him.”

  “We have to get out of here,” the man with the injured arm said.

  “You all go on then,” she said, and looked at Simon. “If something happened to him, if Brian didn’t make it, how could I tell Carolanne? How could I explain that we just left him without knowing? He might be alive, injured … or if not … we owe it to him to find out.”

  The man with the injured arm cut in, “In about five minutes the jets are going to start dropping bombs, and the homes on the ridge are on their target list. Not to forget that we were chased here by a large brigade. You’re crazy to turn back.” With that he stood and started toward the gate.

  “Wait,” said one of the uninjured soldiers, a tall man named Sam. “They haven’t caught up to us—chances are they fell back. I know Brian, we worked together for a short time in the kitchen. I’ll go. I’ll sprint there and back, check the trail. Beth, you owe it to your uncle to stay at his side.”

  She paused. Sam stood and checked the magazine in his assault rifle.

  “I’m going with you,” Bethany said.

  “No, you’re not.” Uncle Al looked up. “He’s right, Bethany. I’ve lost so much, everything I’ve fought for since before the disease reared its head. Please … don’t leave me too.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Simon said. “We’ll meet at the vehicles.”

  She looked at her uncle and then Simon, and nodded. “Go fast. Hurry. If they’re still there, if it’s an ambush, don’t stay and fight. Run. Run back to me.”

  “I promise.” He hugged her hard and fast, and then kissed her long and slow. They separated, and he turned to Sam. “Let’s go.” With that, they turned and ran.

  ***

  “What do we do?” Sam asked.

  Simon didn’t answer.

  The trail was deserted. Karl and his men were nowhere to be seen, but all around lay the destruction of war: bullet shells, splinters of blown trees, pools of blood. There appeared to be no pain in Brian’s expression as his clouded eyes stared toward the horizon.

  In the far distance came the thunderous roar that could only mean one thing—the planes were coming.

  “We have less than five minutes,” Sam said. “We can’t carry him back, we’ve got to move. Chances are, here by the edge of the bay, him and the others who died on the trail will be spared from the bombing. We’ll send a recovery team.”

  Simon looked at his friend, lifeless on the ground, remembered the things Bethany had told him: Brian’s journey with Steven from Nelson to Aurora, Brian saving her life when a group of filthy men seized her and began dragging her away. He killed them all. One with a knife, and he got injured in an explosion while doing it, knocked unconscious while defending her life. How was Simon going to tell her, tell Uncle Al, that their last remaining family member was dead …?

  … he would tell them of the serenity in Brian’s expression, the lack of pain, his placid gaze watching the sun rise.

  “Simon—”

  “I know,” he said. “Let’s go.” He paused for another moment, debating whether to close Brian’s eyes. But then he turned and ran back up the trail, letting Brian watch his final sunrise alone.

  ***

  Simon said, “Down—get down.”

  Sam turned from the road they were skirting and fell into the brush at the side of the pavement. The roar overhead was so close it tickled the inside of his eardrums, and near deafening explosions emerged from the bay, where they had witnessed the first bombs dropped on the warship docked in the water, turning the sunrise into a horizon on fire. But there was another rumble that did not come from the planes.

  Lying on their stomachs in the brush, rifles aimed, they watched two Hummers and two pickup trucks drive fast toward the exit. There was just enough time to take a mental snapshot as they passed. The backs of the pickup trucks were full of men, dour-looking faces black with dirt and soot, uniforms frayed. Simon saw one with a bandage wrapped around his head. A shade of red seemed to envelop them all.

  Once the vehicles passed, Sam said, “That was them, wasn’t it?”

  Simon nodded. Karl Metzger survives, he thought, and tried to decipher how far out of town Bethany and the soldiers would be by now. If they stuck to the same route as they had taken when coming in, they should be far enough away in the brush to remain hidden.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sam said.

  They stood and ran as fast as they could. One of the ammunition warehouses must have been bombed, for at that moment an explosion cracked so loud it caused them both to turn and witness a pillar of fire blossom over the trees and buildings, thick, black veins of acrid smoke like devil fingers tickling the sky, and streaks like fireworks bursting in every direction.

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam shouted.

  The road opened up to a paved lot before the gated exit. Sam and Simon sprinted, sweat falling from their faces, their fingers, as they jumped over the ruins of a fallen guard tower, turned … and came upon the body of the soldier with the injured arm whom they had b
een fleeing with. He lay dead, barely recognizable. The exit was a few feet away. Simon halted.

  “Simon—” Sam said, before seeing the body. “Shit …”

  The other injured soldier lay with his face pressed to the pavement in a pool of red. And the same went with the uninjured man. They were dead, all of them.

  “Beth …” Simon muttered, then louder, “Beth! Beth!” He looked all around.

  “She’s not here,” Sam said, his voice urgent. Another ball of fire erupted like a geyser from hell. He grabbed Simon’s shoulder and pulled him. “She made it to the vehicles—she must have.”

  They ran through the exit and onto the outside perimeter, searching for her. “Beth! Beth!” Simon yelled as loud as he could. “Albert! General Driscoll!” And then he saw him—the mighty general from the north, Albert Driscoll, the founder of Hightown and Alice, responsible for saving countless lives. The old man sat slumped over against the wall beside the door, shoeless, surrounded by piles of broken rocks. There was a hole in his forehead and a pool beneath him. On the wall above was a terrible splatter from where the bullet used to execute him hit concrete.

  Sam said, “It-it was all in vain …”

  The terrible realization hit Simon like a frozen spike at the base of his skull. They have Bethany. Karl Metzger, the Hummers and trucks …

  And that was when he knew that Karl Metzger’s fate lay in his hands and his hands alone. Even if they found Bethany safe and alive at the escape vehicles, he was going to end the miserable duration of Karl’s reign with his own two hands. He would track him to the rim of the universe and push him over the edge, or die trying.

  No more … he thought, and ran, sprinting over the pavement in the direction of the fleeing enemy vehicles.

  ***

  When they reached the vehicles, they were both doubled over, panting. Simon held on to hope that she’d be there, waiting, or maybe one of the trucks would be missing. But she wasn’t there, and the transports were parked as they’d been left. Simon took long sips of water between labored breaths, and the liquid seemed to absorb into his body the moment it passed his lips.

  Sam climbed into the driver’s side door of one of the transport trucks and turned the ignition. “Come on,” he said. “We have to redirect troops to follow Karl. They must be fleeing to Odyssey. There’s time to catch up.”

  Simon paused from drinking, his breathing still ragged, and wiped a trail of water from his chin. He removed the flak jacket and gear, letting it drop to the dusty ground, and finally felt free. His sweat-soaked shirt underneath was cool, and he said, “No.”

  “What? Come on, Simon.”

  Simon shook his head. “If the colonies catch up to Karl, they’ll obliterate everything within a ten-foot radius of him. I’m going to get Beth back my way.” He shook his head slowly. “No more following orders. I’m doing this alone. I’m doing it now.” He walked to the opposite transport.

  “Wait,” Sam yelled. “I’m going with you.”

  “No,” Simon shouted back. “Go back to the colonies and tell them Karl survived. They need to know. They need to turn their sights on Odyssey faster than anticipated. But I have to get there first.”

  Sam seemed to think it over in the silence as Simon tossed his gear inside the transport and turned the ignition. The engine was loud and the seat rumbled. He leaned out the open window and shouted, “Don’t forget to tell them where Brian fell … and all the Rangers who died. I don’t think Richard Jarrett made it far from the house.”

  Sam nodded and turned the wheel. “Good luck,” he shouted back and saluted.

  Simon put the truck into drive and wheeled onto the main road. Following Karl’s path would be tough, but with the help of a map, he was reasonably sure he could decipher their route to Odyssey. He would bring ruination to what remained of the Red Hands.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Perilous Decisions

  Karl and a force of thirty men followed behind the insurgents as they sprinted down the trail by the water and turned around a bend. Liam staggered a few steps and dropped to a knee, clutching his side. “Go on,” he said. “Jesus, that guy stuck me good.”

  On a stretch of trail that was long and straight, the water lapping the shore, the enemy was out of sight around a far bend, lost behind a wall of trees and seagrasses. Still, his men fired into the brush indiscriminately. At this point, if Albert Driscoll were to die, Karl would at least feel a sense of completion, justice for this terrible infringement. The gall of these men to breach his home and take what he possessed—the only possession he’d acquired from his years of warfare. The injustice was intolerable.

  The reeds rebounded and evaporated into airborne puffs from the feathery plumes as bullets continued to follow their getaway. His soldiers sprinted on, panting, sweating as they closed the distance of the long stretch, and the curve beyond led to a small beach and the end of the trail.

  “Are there any men left on the line?” Karl asked, the words difficult to say between labored breaths. “Well?” No one replied. He looked over his shoulder to the men fanning out as they took to the streets, running in the direction of the western gate. “Is anyone manning the line?”

  The men looked at one another. Someone said, “I don’t know, sir.”

  Karl gritted his teeth and ran. Fucking Liam had to go and get himself stabbed. I’m left with morons. “Find out! Call it in!”

  A man got on his radio, and after a moment said, “We got a handful just south of the gate, on their way out. I called them back.”

  “Tell them to mind the old man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karl continued pursuit, but the group slowed and a few doubled over, holding stiches on their sides. Karl looked back. “What are you waiting for?”

  None of the men moved quickly. “Jesus, come on!” Karl yelled.

  “Sir,” one of them said, his cheeks burning bright beneath the layer of grime that seemed a part of his skin. “The colonies are on their way. We should get back to the trucks, flee while we can. If we go running after them it will take longer to get back to the vehicles. If we turn back now, we can at least drive to the gate, meet the others.”

  Never did the men speak so directly. The fucking brashness of this one! There were a million injuries Karl wanted to hurl, a million punishments, but for the sake of time, he swung his rifle into his hands and pulled the trigger. A bullet whacked into the man’s chest and he fell to his back. The other men recoiled. Karl aimed another shot at the man’s head and fired.

  “Anyone else have any fucking opinions?”

  He gazed from one soldier to the other, waiting for the typical, “No sir,” but what he saw was something else. A few gripped their rifles tight, and some gazed back. Anger. They were angry.

  Holy shit … I’m losing them.

  There was a pause, and in that absence, the men sweating, unsure which side they would choose if Karl aimed another shot, he thought that the dead man was probably correct. The colonies would be arriving at any minute. With them would be the extreme force of their ground troops, surrounding the perimeter. There was a good chance they were out there already, and escape was futile.

  “Perhaps ole headless there had a point,” Karl said, cracking his lips into a thin smile. “Back to the trucks. We’ll get to the gates as the others deal with the insurgents. Let’s get the hell out of this dump.”

  There seemed to be a collective sigh as the men loosened the grip on their rifles and turned back the way they’d come.

  ***

  The vehicles came to a stop outside the exit, and the engines remained idling as the men aboard the pickup trucks dismounted and fanned out to form a loose perimeter. Karl opened the door of his Hummer and stepped out. Liam remained inside, tending to his wound. The former king stood against the wall, a beaten old man, his clothing frayed, his hair matted with filth.

  He approached his soldiers recalled from their escape. They’d managed to meet the small group of insurg
ents as they exited Hightown, and stomped their folly.

  Karl smiled as he walked toward Albert Driscoll. “Oh, sir, how I’ve missed you so—”

  He stopped short … was it possible? There on the ground, kneeling before a circle of his men, was a girl, a woman, strands of her long dark hair fallen from the tight bun, her helmet cast aside. One of his men gripped the top of her hair in his palm like a rope.

  “You …” Karl said. “By all that’s holy, I’d just about given up on you.” He smiled and let out a deep chuckle. “It’s fate, my dear.”

  She met his gaze, fire in her eyes, and he’d never felt more enthralled, not even in the final stages of battle. “Fate?” she said. “Fate! You fucking—” She moved forward to jump at him, but the man holding her hair yanked back, and she fell, grabbing her head.

  “Get your fucking hand off her,” Karl said, looking at the soldier.

  The man let go without hesitation. “Sir,” he said, stepping back.

  She lay on the ground in the center of the circle of his men. “My dear Bethany,” Karl said.

  He saw movement to his side as the old man took a step forward. “Don’t touch her,” Albert Driscoll said. “You have me, so let her go. She’s no use to you.”

  Karl didn’t turn to face the exiled king, but rather stared down at Bethany. All those nights fantasizing about her capture, dreaming of her beauty. She was the one who was supposed to be kept in chains in his bedroom, not this grumpy old bedfellow. He turned to Albert Driscoll, unholstered his pistol, and aimed. The general raised his hands before his face, said, “Kar—” before the bullet shot cracked loud, and the old man’s head jerked back.