Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  “Are you and your men military?” Seth Cross asked over a spoonful of what looked like lumpy mud.

  “Some,” Karl replied. He kept his palms cupped around the metal coffee mug, absorbing the warmth like a lizard on a hot stone. “I myself had a brief foray in the armed forces.”

  “What branch?”

  “Army.”

  “Where’d you serve?”

  “Didn’t see any action. The virus saw my unit dead before deployment. Captain Briggs can attest to that; he was one of the few survivors.”

  Seth Cross sat hunched over his plate and tapped the edge with his spoon, holding the handle like a child, with his thumb on top next to his knuckles. “Hmm,” he said.

  After a period of silence, with Seth Cross lost in thought, his gaze trained on Karl, the Priest cleared his throat and said, “We’ve traveled here along with a small contingency of Karl’s men. A dozen in total. We left them a half mile out so we would have the opportunity to speak to you first and not present a threat at the front door when we arrived. What they have with them is an answer to our prayers. Water. Fuel. They carry an offering, a show of what they have available at their disposal and what we could share if we join forces. They’ve carted two barrels of clean, fresh water all this way.”

  “There are streams and lakes all around. Water is everywhere. What makes yours so special?”

  The question was meant for Karl, yet the Priest answered. “The same thing that made Albuquerque’s water special. The same thing that so many of our men and women died to take as our own. Their water is filtered and abundant.”

  Karl cut in, “There’s more than enough for my people and your own. Our water is free from radiation and the terrible biological impact of so many corpses being thrown into many of the water supplies, which, if you had spent more time outside, you would learn to be a problem. It makes the water undrinkable for a duration, depending on severity. You can take your chances, move your people out of here when the time comes to live beside some stream; or we can share my fresh and filtered water.” Karl glanced at his watch, then crossed his legs and rested his palms on his knee. “In only a matter of minutes, the twelve men that we traveled with will make themselves visible on your monitors. You can see the barrels for yourself.”

  Seth Cross said nothing. He brought the spoon back up to his mouth, slurping up the brown mass.

  “Where’d you say you came from, Karl? Originally.”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me now.”

  “Perhaps I could.”

  Seth Cross laughed and wiped a drip of stew off his chin. “Maybe you just look like someone I once knew.” He paused to take another slurp. “Or maybe not …”

  “Seth,” the Priest said, “what are you getting at?”

  “General,” Seth Cross said, turning to face the Priest. “It’s General Cross. Please address me by my title.”

  The Priest said nothing.

  “What I’m getting at is that I know you,” he said.

  “We’ve met?” Karl pointed to his chest with a thumb.

  “Not face-to-face. But I know you. I know who you are.” He glared across the table. “I remember the newspapers. I grew up in Stone Acre. The papers said you were moved to Haddonfield to face death row. You were all over the headlines. The butcher, they called you, or something like that.”

  The guards around the table tensed, and the few who were leaning against neighboring tables or sitting in chairs stood rigid.

  Karl sipped his coffee. It had cooled significantly. He kept his stare locked with Seth Cross, despite seeing Liam looking his way from the corner of his eye.

  “Look,” the Priest said. “What’s done is done. The world is a different place. We have all committed crimes against our fellow man, and in this time of peril, is it not met with absolution? I can attest to my own atrocities, and yours as well, Mister Cross. We have executed our enemies in brutal fashion. Left them outside the bunker doors to wither upon the implements of their demise. My hands have seen their fair share of blood, as have your own.”

  Seth Cross brushed him off. “This man,” he continued, “has massacred women and children alike. His atrocities are extreme. He lacks any semblance of human emotion, and seeks pleasure in killing.”

  “Correction,” Karl said. “I take no pleasure in killing. It is but a thing to do. A thing that must be done.”

  Seth Cross eyed a guard at his side. “Take these men to holding. Don’t open the bunker door for any of their people.” The guard nodded, and the throng closed in behind Karl.

  The Priest said, “Seth—”

  “Dietrich too.”

  The guards exchanged glances. “Sir?”

  “He’s in the company of murderers. Take him away.” Seth Cross made a shooing motion with his hand, and scooped up the last trail of stew.

  “You’re making a mistake,” the Priest said. “A terrible mistake.”

  Karl took a final sip of the coffee and placed the mug on the table. He felt hands grabbing his shoulder, his arm, but he stood on his own. Liam and the two officers did the same, their chairs scraping against the concrete floor. “A fine cup of coffee you brew here, Sir General. I thank you for your hospitality. I look forward to many more cups.” He bowed his head and then turned to the guards behind him. “I follow your lead.”

  Chapter Seven

  Uprising

  Before being led away from the cafeteria, Karl saw Seth Cross stand and issue commands to the guards beside him, while wiping his mouth on a crumpled napkin.

  “Send a team to the monitoring station, weapons free. Those doors are not to open,” he said. “And get these men processed as fast as possible.”

  The guard responded, “Even Dietrich?”

  “Especially Dietrich.”

  The guard removed a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on his belt, but Seth Cross said, “No. Not here.” Karl turned to see the man looking around at the people at tables nearby, all craning their heads to see or hear what was going on with their beloved Priest and the strangers who were allowed entry. “Just take them to the cells.”

  Two guards led the procession, with Karl and Liam behind, followed by Dietrich, Iain, and Novell, and then four more guards. In the far rear, Seth Cross followed the entourage. The guards kept their hands on their holstered stun guns and extendable batons, but none drew to keep their profiles low.

  People gathered at the sight of the Priest being led through the lobby toward the entry hallway, and the Priest called out to them, “Seth Cross has betrayed us!”

  “Dietrich, what’s going on?” The voice of Parker shouted from the crowd.

  The Priest pointed back. “He has betrayed me! Seth Cross has betrayed us all! I am being sent to jail for no other reason than that I have questioned his leadership! I have returned from battle only to be faced with tyranny! Am I not your leader? Am I not—” His words were cut off in a huff, from what Karl imagined to be a shove.

  The hallway door opened, and the entourage entered. The circular passageway was wide enough for two men to walk shoulder to shoulder down the metal catwalk.

  “Pray,” the Priest said as they neared the end of the hall, his words echoing. “You, Mister Cross, must pray for redemption! It is your actions that will see our people dead!”

  Seth Cross’s voice could be heard saying, “I don’t—” before the Priest spun around. His hand grabbed the snub-nosed pistol concealed in the rear of his pants, and he aimed and fired point-blank into the face of the escort behind him. The noise was deafening, and the entire group recoiled as if they were standing atop an explosion. The man who’d been shot splattered red in all direction, and the guard standing behind him fell to his knees. His hands clasped at his throat where the bullet had pierced straight through the first guard’s head before lodging in his neck.

  The two lead escorts turned, batons drawn, as Karl and Liam sprung upon them. Karl grabbed the man before him and pulled his head into
his chest. The man’s eyes were huge and pleading as he scratched at his holstered stun gun. Liam wrestled with the other guard, who was swinging his baton, but their close proximity made his efforts futile. Another shot rang out, and then another. Karl lifted the guard off his feet and pressed his forearm tight against his throat. The man grabbed at Karl’s arm, kicked his feet, and sputtered out strings of saliva. All it took was a mighty shake and a twist, and Karl felt and heard the rewarding sound of something break. He dropped the guard in a heap and turned to see Liam raining down blows on the other escort, who was lying curled up on himself, as Sergeants Marcus and Novell stomped him with their boots.

  Behind them, Karl turned to see three more guards either dead or dying, blood pouring from the metal gangway to pool in the rounded floor below. Seth Cross and the last guard were scrambling to the far door, both yelling, “The alarm!” The Priest fired again, and Seth Cross slammed against the wall, blood rushing from his shoulder. He was crying out in pain as the door opened and the guard shoved him through.

  “All right then,” Karl said, feeling the smooth cold grip of the security baton in his palm. “Quick now.”

  The slain men were relieved of their weapons. “I’ve got one bullet left,” the Priest said.

  Karl turned with his officers toward the far entrance. “Not to worry.”

  They raced through the doorway and up the stairs, approaching the monitoring station. As the Priest typed a command into an electronic keypad, a red strobe light began flashing in the hallway.

  “They’ve sounded the alarms,” the Priest said, and pushed the door open. “They’ll come flooding in soon.”

  Ritchie turned from the monitors to face them, recoiling back. A second man was by the armory, fumbling to put the magazine in a machine gun. Karl and the Priest stepped toward Ritchie while the others dealt with the man with the gun. He was sliding back the bolt when they were on him, ripping the rifle out of his grip and forcing him to his knees. Displayed on the monitor behind Ritchie was the scene from the hallway: the dead guards, and one crawling across the catwalk. On another monitor, a dozen Red Hands were assembled outside the gate, removing two fifty-five-gallon plastic drums from a horse-drawn cart. Karl glanced at a clock on the wall above the monitors. They were right on time.

  “Ritchie,” the Priest said. “Easy now.”

  Ritchie swallowed. “I-I didn’t sound the alarm.” His eyes were huge.

  “Okay,” the Priest said. “I believe you, son.”

  “I don’t know w-what’s happening …” His rattling knees shook his whole body.

  Liam and Iain approached Ritchie’s side.

  “I ain’t,” his voice quivered, “gonna fight you.”

  Karl signaled his men to stop. “All right,” he said. “Then open the door.”

  Ritchie exchanged glances with the Priest.

  “It’s okay,” the Priest said, and reached to a corded microphone on the control terminal. “Hear me out, son.” A red light came to life on the console, and the Priest began to speak over the bunker’s public-address system. “As many of you have already heard, I—Priest Dietrich—have returned. I must be quick with what I tell you. Seth Cross has betrayed me, and all of us in turn. He had the chance to help our colony, help our people, and has decided to turn down a proposition we need to ensure our survival. Just moments ago, he ordered my immediate incarceration, based solely on the fear that his leadership will come into question. His decision has resulted in the death of several of our comrades; and for that, I am truly sorry. I didn’t want for anyone to get hurt. I tried to explain to Mister Cross that there is a way for us to be free of our impending doom at the raging flood that will see us all drown in the coming days.

  “Our people died on the field of battle, slaughtered like a swarm of ants. I did not return to live out the remainder of my days waiting for death to take me. When we made the decision—and may I remind you that it was cast to a vote—to march to Albuquerque, we decided to do what must be done to endure, even if that meant spilling blood. We were to become conquerors, invaders, and we were at peace with that resolution if it meant our endurance. Today, I had to make that judgment once again. Our battles are not over; they have just begun, and this next battle is happening on our turf.”

  The Priest paused to study Ritchie.

  “I have not returned alone,” he continued. “A brave group of fighting men found me on the outskirts of Albuquerque and patched my wounds. They offer us a proposition that Seth Cross has cowered from. These men know how to endure this violent new continent, and they have extended their hand to unite our two tribes, so we can become the fighting force needed to ensure our survival. Our numbers have dwindled to a skeleton crew; but together, with the might of the Red Hands, we will live not only to see another day, but thrive for years to come. Seth Cross had an opportunity to see our communities come together, but instead, he sentenced me to rot in a cell out of fear that his leadership would be questioned. Because of his unwillingness to lead our people, I declare his control revoked. You now have the chance to stand with me, along with the wise General Karl Metzger, leader of the Red Hand brigade. I swear my allegiance to the General and the Red Hand army, and in all that is holy, I encourage you to do the same. All who follow me will prosper. All that oppose me will be left to suffer, to face this world against the raging tide of what’s left of humanity beyond these walls. You will find nothing but a quick death. That, I assure you.”

  Ritchie’s trembling subsided to something barely noticeable, but still the boy was pale.

  “You are free to make your own decision,” the Priest proclaimed. “Do not fight for Seth Cross. Do not rise up against the Red Hands: either stand down, or join us in battle. You will be rewarded, in this life and the next.”

  The red light on the console turned off, and the Priest lowered the microphone.

  “Ritchie,” the Priest said. “I apologize for sneaking the gun in past you, but it was necessary. Everything that I said is true; I never wanted anyone to get hurt or killed. Please open the gates, or we will do it ourselves, and I will again have to lament the brutality you will endure. What you are presented with is an opportunity. A chance to prove yourself.”

  Karl watched the second hand tick away on a large clock behind Ritchie. On the monitor below the clock, he could see the sergeant in charge check his own watch and then speak commands to the men beside him. They were quick about it, removing plastic explosives and the RPGs from the barrels that he told Seth Cross contained water. In the bottom of each was more C4. In the event the doors would not open on their own, the army was to blow them to shreds, and then roll the barrels down and detonate the explosives to take out the Miniguns and anyone defending the bottom of the ramp.

  Behind the twelve-man unit, Karl could see his army approaching through the veil of the thick pines. Over three hundred seething and frothing men were ready to rip the colony to shreds if he so wished.

  The sergeant was helping a soldier arm an RPG when he stopped and looked at the doors. They had opened.

  Chapter Eight

  Smoked Oysters

  The tin made a sucking sound as the airtight seal opened, and a drip of oil trickled out as the lid was peeled back. A musty combination of smoke and the ocean rose to meet Karl’s senses, and he savored the strong aroma. He pierced one of the smoked oysters with the tip of his combat knife and marveled at its glistening round form before biting it off the blade and sinking his teeth into the rich mollusk.

  “It’s funny,” he said to Liam, who was sitting beside him on a granite boulder. “People have fought and died over tins such as these. One little can has enough protein and minerals to fuel the desires of man.”

  Liam examined a chunk of shellfish meat between two fingers, the oil dripping to his knuckles, and said, “Sure. I guess.”

  It was while they were unloading the second crate of canned goods from the storage room that Seth Cross had emerged from the depths of the bunker. Those loy
al enough to fight on his behalf were fewer in number than anticipated, and the Red Hands had dealt with the pockets of opposition quickly, sweeping from one floor to the other. The Priest had led the advance, calming the fears of the more alarmed citizens of the bunker as they passed, and giving celebratory handshakes to others.

  They encountered the majority of resistance in two areas: first, before the doors to the armory; then again three floors down in a wing of living quarters that was converted into offices and an infirmary after the primary medical wing was flooded. The armory took little manpower to overtake, as it was at the entryway to the bunker and Seth Cross’s men were still scrambling to assemble. A larger group had gathered in the medical wing, and were attempting to flee farther belowground. The Priest had called out to them over the exchanges of gunfire, “It’s not too late! Lay down your weapons and join us! Rejoice at having deliverance find you in a time of peril! You will not win this battle; do not fight for a man who cannot lead!” Some heeded his words, laying their weapons down, and emerged after two dozen of Seth Cross’s soldiers were slaughtered. They rose with shaking hands held high. Some were injured, many splattered in the gore of warfare, and all were wide-eyed and terrified. They were patted down and made to stand facing a wall. The Priest reassured them their digressions would be absolved, and they would be allowed to rejoin the citizenry. When all were assembled, the Priest and a handful of Red Hands aimed and fired. “They’d never have followed us,” he’d told Karl. “God is a better judge of a man’s soul than myself. He’ll sort them out proper.”

  Karl allowed for Seth Cross and his one or two remaining loyalists to further flee down into the depths. Guards were put at the doorway to the stairwell, and the rest of his men began mixing with the citizenry of the bunker, exchanging plundered goods for new knives, boots, and whatever else they could trade. Karl emerged aboveground, along with a dozen of his men, and some of the spoils of victory began to appear. Crates of high-calorie survival bars, industrial-sized cans of beans, and boxes filled with smoked seafood were piled outside, awaiting transport.