Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  Jail, he thought. This place is a tomb.

  Their footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, joined by the creaking of a door below. A voice rebounded. “Dietrich, that you?”

  Two forms emerged. The half wall the Priest had described was clear to see with the light on behind. The front was lined with sandbags, with cutaways for rifles to stick out while offering some degree of protection. The shadowy form of the three turrets also loomed—one near the landing in the center of the ceiling, and two more against the far wall. All three were unmanned Miniguns with protective shields, capable of firing something in the ballpark of three thousand rounds per minute.

  “Parker, that you?” the Priest called out.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, and continued up the passageway to meet them. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you.” Parker hugged Dietrich, and then the man behind stepped up to do the same.

  “Ritchie,” the Priest said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you boys again.”

  “Welcome home, sir.”

  “Come, come,” the Priest said. “Let me introduce you all in the light.”

  The massive door atop the passageway began to shut with the grinding sound of gears. Karl turned to see the slit of sunlight dim until it disappeared entirely. The door slammed closed and locked with a mechanical noise.

  They were led to the entrance at the bottom, where Parker typed a code into a second keypad. A green light on the console blinked, and the metal door opened. The room inside was bright in comparison to the hallway, yet only a line of unmanned computer monitors illuminated the space. A rush of cool air played at Karl’s hair from a vent above, and fed into his nostrils. Fake, acrid, temperature-controlled air. On the far wall was a small armory, with an organized line of machine guns and pistols on racks. Ammunition boxes sat on a table beside it, along with a number of handheld radios on chargers. Two grenade launchers with circular magazines lay behind the ammunition boxes, and beneath the table were a number of drawers. Karl was counting the rifles … seven, eight, nine …

  “General Metzger,” the Priest said, snapping Karl’s attention away, “please let me introduce you to Ritchie Smith and Mason Parker.”

  “My pleasure.” Karl extended a hand and bowed slightly, shaking first Ritchie and then Parker’s hand, offering a wide smile. Ritchie was just as young as his voice indicated over the keypad radio. Parker was older by a number of years, and stood as tall as the Priest. They wore similar attire: green army jumpsuits and leather boots. The Priest went on to introduce Liam Briggs and the two officers, and gave a hurried tale of their exploits, starting with the battle for Albuquerque and ending with them standing there in the entryway.

  “Parker here was left in defense of our fine establishment while our army marched,” he told the officers.

  Parker nodded. “Until Seth Cross returned,” he said. “We marked you off for dead, Dietrich.”

  “Back on the battlefield, I had marked myself off for dead as well. How many have come back?”

  “Thirty-four came back in one group, which included Seth Cross. Donaldson and Freddy showed up together an hour later, and a few others trickled in throughout the night.”

  The Priest shook his head. “We lost over two hundred … what are our numbers? Where do we stand?”

  Parker eyed Karl and the officers. “Sir, maybe you should discuss this with Mr. Cross?”

  “Nonsense. But please, let’s go inside. I’m starved.” The Priest unslung his rifle and handed it to Parker, who placed it in an open rack. He then unclasped his pistol belt and passed it over.

  Karl felt Liam’s stare in the corner of his eye as he swung his rifle off his shoulder and took his pistol out of the holster, handing it to Parker handle first. He nodded to his officers. Liam made a low grumbling noise and handed over his weapons.

  “Sir,” Ritchie said. “We’re going to have to pat you all down. It’s the rules, sir.” He glanced to Dietrich, who stood looking down at him. “Not-not you, sir. You’re an officer.”

  The Priest smiled. “Of course.”

  Karl lifted his arms, and the man named Ritchie gave him and his officers a quick inspection, finding nothing in their empty pockets. Afterwards, the next door was opened, revealing a stairway. Ritchie stayed behind to watch the monitors while Parker led them down a flight of stairs and through another doorway at the bottom. This door opened to reveal a tubular hallway. The entrance they had taken was a two-story buried structure, which served as the gateway. Below the monitoring room was the bottom story, containing holding cells and a guard post. The hallway they were traveling now was the main entrance, connecting to the subterraneous silo.

  The Priest had told the officers the complete layout of the bunker on the second evening of his journey with the Red Hands, and explained the story of his people. Seated around a campfire, he tended to the wound on his leg while saying, “The bunker withstood the destruction of warfare and kept the elite who had the money for a room safe from harm. However, it did not stop the spread of the disease, which was unknown when the doors were sealed shut. We brought it down with us and only enjoyed a week of the bunker running at maximum capacity before people started falling sick. Out of the fifteen hundred residents and five hundred employees, who also had to pay for entry at a reduced rate—myself being one of them—under four hundred survived. The disease took a few days to wipe out over fifteen hundred people. Those days were marked by an insanity that I do not think I’ll ever witness again. Those who were healthy panicked at the grisly sight of their fellow man being turned inside out. Whole floors were sealed off and never reopened.

  “A meeting took place to see if we should open the front gates, but we started hearing over the radios that the disease was not limited to the bunker alone. It was everywhere, killing without discrimination. Marcus Johansson decreed that the bunker would remain shut. But several dozen of the residents disagreed with this choice and made an effort to storm the armory. Armed security forces met the resistance before the depot doors, and twenty citizens were killed before the rest were subdued.”

  It was on the other side of the tubular hallway that the men were now crossing where the door to the armory was located, and where the fighting took place.

  As they crossed the hall, the Priest’s story continued in Karl’s thoughts. “The morgue wasn’t suited to hold the number of bodies piled up. There’s a crematory down there, but it was a pointless task. Several of the bottom living quarters were designated as burial grounds, and the dead were sorted in rows, and sometimes piled in heaps. The floors were then sealed, the oxygen vents shut down, and the electricity turned off. I led many gatherings in prayer over the dead. Not one of the survivors was without loss.

  “In the aftermath—after weeks of recovery, of cleaning, disinfecting, trying as we might to overcome our losses—people began to once again have a positive outlook. We survived war and disease. We would prosper, and we had more than enough supplies. Our water came from a well, with hundreds of gallons stored as backup, sealed away in containers. We had enough packaged food to feed two thousand for a year, a fully operational hydroponics garden, and enough fuel to keep our worries low. But the world is not without its constant woe. A pipe in the fuel tank sprung a leak and it took days to repair. We had lost the architect, the foreman, and dozens of our mechanics to the disease. Once fixed, the loss of fuel was declared slight … then it happened again. Another leak. It was a reoccurring problem, caused, we were told, by faulty washers. But even without fuel, the mechanics informed us that we could continue to run the bunker at low power from the small solar array high atop the mountains—enough for the emergency lights, the ventilation, and water line, so long as the panels remained clean enough to receive sunrays.

  “Our genuine troubles came a short time later, from the water pump. It broke down and it was beyond the capability of our men to fix it, although they never stopped trying. For weeks they labored down in the inner workings … but still not a drop. It was sai
d that the construction of the bunker was rushed in the face of the impending war, and our misfortunes were blamed on the already dead. As for who is to blame, I think naught for the consideration, as it is all a test from the man high above. His plan shall be revealed one day; but until that day comes, I will follow the path He lays under my feet.”

  Liam spat a dark trail of tobacco juice into the campfire. “So you don’t got any water?” he asked.

  The Priest shook his head. “Too much, actually. Our misfortunes hit a perilous climax early one morning over a month ago. The people blamed it on our mechanics lacking the proper experience, but whether that’s the case or not, we’ll never know. There was an explosion and the pumps blew out, spewing water in such volume that the three mechanics drowned before they could reach the stairway. Their labored screams came from over the radios until their voices disappeared. The whole floor was sealed. And when the water found its way up to the next floor, it too was sealed. Again, the rushed construction was to blame, for we were told that the structure had been designed to stop such an occurrence. Sometimes it took weeks, days, or only hours for the water to take over whole floors, one at a time. The lower levels, where the dead had been interred, were the first to flood, and the water that now comes up is septic. The floor devoted to growing our gardens is destroyed … row after row of tomatoes, beans, strawberries, and even corn. All gone. So are our medical offices. The water will reach the upper mechanical wing soon, taking out our electricity and fresh air. Eventually, we’ll all be squeezed out the door like a cork from a champagne bottle. And so, it did not take much deliberation for Marcus Johansson to decide on invading Albuquerque, where we had intercepted a limited number of radio communications, and sent scouts to survey the land.”

  The Priest told them all he knew of their leader, Marcus Johansson, a retired prison guard before the war, and many of the other people living underground. Seth Cross was mentioned, and he was not a beloved member of the community. The man was known for his rash decision-making, like pressing the battle onward in Albuquerque, straight into machine-gun fire, when it was evident that the fight was lost. How many lives the man was responsible for taking would never be known.

  The Priest spoke late into the night, and no one interrupted his stream of conversation. Karl poked at the fire with a stick, watching swirls of escaping embers drift into the air like fireflies. It was the next part of the Priest’s speech that interested him the most—more than all of the food and ammunition in the bunker combined.

  Several months earlier, the Priest’s people met a group of marauders who had established a small colony to their north. They were quick to make an alliance; however, the group was not keen on invading Albuquerque along with them, and did not see eye-to-eye with the former leadership. They offered little help with the bunker’s impending destruction, stating they didn’t have the resources. Their relations had been strained, but not broken, and the Priest promised he could establish a meeting. Even more, this other colony knew about another civilization, far away on the East Coast: a town named Alice, which was the largest and strongest force of men that was known. Clean water, the Priest had told him, and food. Enough to feed a city. At this, Karl’s ears perked up, and the Priest told him all he knew about Alice, which was minimal. But all the same, Karl said, “Enough food, working gardens, and fresh water to feed an army indefinitely?”

  The Priest shrugged. “It would appear so. You’ll have to talk to our colleagues in the north.”

  “What do they go by, what are they called?”

  “They don’t call themselves anything. Many were bikers back when there was enough fuel. Belonged to some gang or another. The man in charge is named Mark Rothstein.”

  “I want to meet them. Immediately.”

  The Priest promised again to send an emissary, and told them all he knew of the bikers’ leadership. When he’d finished, Karl asked him, “Your people, and yourself being a man of God, does it not bother you to kill others?”

  The Priest answered without the slightest trepidation. “My hands are guided by the Lord’s intentions. The same is true for the people that I muster. We are His weapons, His design. No different than Templar knights, only we brandish rifles, not swords. Those worthy of inclusion to His kingdom, killed by my hands, will rejoice at having found majesty. Those who deserve eternal damnation will get there either by my method or some other. It makes little difference how death finds them.”

  That night by the campfire remained in Karl’s mind as they marched across the hallway in the underground silo, nearing the far door. It opened before they reached the handle, and a man appeared, stopping short before Parker and the Priest.

  “My God,” the man said. “I just heard the news … I thought you were dead.”

  Two men followed, wearing identical tan jumpsuits and baseball-style hats that indicated they belonged to the security force. They exchanged handshakes and hugs with the Priest.

  “Mr. Cross,” the Priest said. “Praise be it, I’ve returned. And I’ve brought salvation with me.” He motioned to Karl and the officers.

  Seth Cross broke off his embrace with the Priest to offer a cold stare in their direction. “Who authorized these men to enter? We’re at war.”

  “From what I’ve been told,” Karl said, his deep voice reverberating in that circular space, “your war is over. You’ve fought and lost. I am here as a comrade, adviser, and friend. We have much to discuss.”

  Seth Cross opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the Priest said, “Now, now. Let’s talk inside. Please. I’m starved.”

  “These men aren’t to step another foot onto our property. They are to be returned to the entrance and processed in a holding cell until I’m briefed on the whole scope of events.”

  Two guards stepped around Seth Cross, but the Priest raised his palms. “Now you wait just a minute. Who are you to give me a command? We are of equal rank, Mr. Cross. Don’t think any other way. If I deem these men worthy, then my word is law.”

  “I’ve been declared leader—”

  “Only because I had not yet returned. If you want to put it to a vote, so be it. Parker, hear my words—we will vote, if Mr. Cross so wishes. We will let the people decide. The people whom I’ve consoled for months at a time. The people who have told me their fears, their worries, and to whom I have lent a guiding hand in their time of need. Who do you think they will vote for? You are a man of the system, a product of the machinery that has turned the world into what it is today. The people, they don’t know you. They don’t trust you. They do not heed your words as they heed mine.” The Priest exhaled a breath and his face softened to a smile. “All I’m asking is that you listen to me and trust what I’m telling you. Let these men inside, for as we will discuss, I owe them my life, and all they have to offer for you—for us—is hope and prosperity.”

  Seth Cross brushed his hair back with a palm, his other thumb tucked in his pistol belt. Karl noticed the man was wearing a sidearm, though the Priest had told Karl no one was allowed to carry firearms inside the bunker. The security force carried Tasers and batons only.

  “All right, Priest. We can talk in the cafeteria; get you something to eat.” He looked at his watch. “We’re between meals. It will be quiet enough.”

  “Excellent,” the Priest said, smiling again. “I follow your lead, sir.”

  Seth Cross turned and led the men into the inner workings.

  Chapter Six

  Company of Murderers

  The air was cool and steady, a constant light breeze flowing from overhead. Still, the men at the table were sweating, sipping coffee—real, fresh coffee—and picking at plates of heated up MRE meals.

  Karl touched his lips to the hot side of the tin mug and sipped at the steaming black coffee inside. Dietrich was explaining to Seth Cross the story of his encounter with the Red Hands, and a brief assessment of their manpower.

  The warmth of the caffeinated liquid in Karl’s stomach sent pangs of pleasure
through his body. He glanced around the cavernous cafeteria, extending, he was told, nearly the entire diameter of the circular silo floor. Three out of every four lights were extinguished to save electricity, yet still, it was easy enough to see the scope of the interior. Table after table sat in rows, many with shadowy faces staring back at him from some of the farther reaches. Although the atmosphere was pleasant, the walls painted a neutral tan shade, the environment was similar enough to prison.

  As Dietrich emerged from the entry hallway, more and more people had gathered, shaking his hand, offering him the highest praise. Many greeted Karl as well, thanking the man who had brought back their beloved Priest. Seth Cross’s security detail kept the crowd moving so they could be led toward the cafeteria, one floor down. From the entry hallway, they passed the armory. Karl could see the lobby, with the bulletproof glass reception area, where firearms would be doled out from inside. Based on the Priest’s assessment, they had lost a great deal of their firearms in Albuquerque, yet their armament remained impressive. Dozens, if not hundreds, of brand-new rifles, hand grenades, some plastic explosives, a few shoulder-mounted rocket launchers, and more importantly—what his men always needed—ammunition. Enough for a small brigade.

  Before going downstairs to the cafeteria, they passed straight across the bunker’s reception room. Dozens of plush couches sat atop thick carpeting, and a massive, yet dark, chandelier hung in the center of the room from a domed ceiling that was painted to resemble a clear blue sky with wisps of soft clouds. With most of the lights off, the ceiling gave an odd juxtaposition: a sunny sky turned dark.

  People emerged from doorways and shadowy corners as word of the Priest’s return spread through the bunker. The population was a gloomy and mourning mass, like frightened animals, grieving over the deaths that befell their community, and terrified of their future prospects. Children were among them, aged from the very young to teenagers, and there were elderly and women. The throng followed them down a flight to the cafeteria, where Seth Cross’s guards kept them back from the table so they could conduct their meeting in peace. Parker drifted away to leave the men to talk.