Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  Word of Seth Cross’s reentry preceded his appearance, and Karl had been peeling off the lid of the first of many cans of oysters when the man approached. Soldiers pressed in from all directions, forming a circle around the meeting.

  “Karl,” Seth Cross said in a low voice. “Karl Metzger, sir.”

  Karl turned to face him, biting a mollusk off his knife. “Good afternoon, Mister Cross. Please, no need to call me sir. General will suffice.”

  “Y-yes, sir. General.”

  Karl chewed. The rush of calories made him feel giddy.

  Another man stood beside Seth Cross, dressed in similar attire: a military jumpsuit, pistol belt, and black boots. “Please allow me to introduce Lieutenant David Brown.” The man named Brown nodded. There was a trace of red at his hairline, and Seth Cross’s jumpsuit had a light mist of the same. His shoulder was bandaged, and he wore his arm in a sling.

  “You did not think it appropriate to wash and change before coming out to stand before me?” Karl asked. The men looked at each other. Seth Cross was about to speak when Karl continued, “Please, do go on. What would you like to say?”

  Seth Cross stood tall. “We’ve come to discuss terms.”

  Somewhere to his side, Liam laughed.

  “Terms, you say?”

  “Yes, General. We’ve—”

  “Terms of surrender?”

  Seth Cross swallowed visibly. “Sir, it was a poor decision not to hear you out before acting in such a rash manner. I had the best intentions for my people.”

  “Mister Cross.” Karl paused to chew an oyster, and then continued. “Please tell me, why on earth should I consider terms with you? Your own people have willingly sided with Priest Dietrich. You have nothing to offer.” Karl tossed the empty tin to the ground.

  “My-my people.” He swallowed visibly again. “I have been a good leader—”

  “They are not your people any longer. You stand before me armed. I ordered my men to allow you to remain in such a manner because I believe in having a fair fight … most of the time. You should have come out shooting.”

  Seth Cross looked to David Brown, and in a fast and practiced motion, Karl unholstered his pistol, aimed the long barrel, and pulled the trigger. Seth Cross’s head snapped back and he fell violently backwards. David Brown’s eyes shot large. In a twitch of uncertain movement, he wiped at the red splatter covering his eyes with one hand and scratched at his holster with the other. He stopped short of drawing his weapon, contemplating the press of Karl’s men. Some were laughing, and a few clapped. The man’s knees appeared to be giving out.

  “Mister Brown,” Karl said. “Do you have anything to say?”

  The man opened his mouth, but as he said, “I—,” the Priest came up to his side and shot the man square in the temple. David Brown toppled over, and did not move.

  “He’d never have followed you,” the Priest said, wiping the blood off the barrel of his pistol with a rag. “He’d try to slice your throat at first opportunity, and flee into the night. No need to try and rehabilitate him.”

  Karl holstered his pistol and sat back down on the boulder. “Pass me another tin, would ya?” he said to Liam.

  The last reserve of soldiers approached through the brush, along with the motorized brigade. Doctor Freeman was among them. He dismounted his horse. “Ah! Good doctor,” Karl said. “Please, sit. Celebrate with us.” Karl motioned with his knife blade toward the box of canned goods.

  The doctor blinked his beady eyes, looking at the bodies of Seth Cross and David Brown, and then settled on Karl. “Are those oysters?” he said, and took a tin from the box.

  Liam was chewing through the soft flesh of the smoked creatures, making a sour expression. “Never had a taste for ’em,” he said, and offered the rest of the tin to Karl.

  Karl motioned with his blade to Doctor Freeman, who took them eagerly and said, “You shouldn’t turn down such a delicacy.”

  Liam took a swig of water from his canteen and laughed. “Delicacy? Don’t smell as such.”

  The doctor shook his head and chuckled. “All we need are a few crackers, a touch of caviar, and a wedge of lemon.”

  Liam stood and dusted his pants. “Keep it all,” he said, and walked toward the open entrance of the bunker, where the Priest was going over papers and ledgers with an officer from the Red Hands and a member of his own community. The captain kicked the booted foot belonging to Seth Cross out of his way as he passed, and shouted to a group of soldiers who were idling about in a circle, finishing tins of their own. “Hey,” he said. “Clean this shit up.”

  The soldiers responded, “Yes, sir,” and finished eating as they moved toward the corpses.

  “Set ’em up proper. How the people here are accustomed.” He motioned toward the woods, where the old tortured and crucified bodies still lined the entryway to the bunker. “Do onto others as they would have done onto you, right?”

  “Sir,” one of the soldiers said, reaching down to grab Seth Cross’s shoulder. “I think it’s do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

  Liam scratched the stubble on his chin. “Same shit. String ’em up.” He turned and disappeared into the bunker.

  Two ropes were thrown over branches of nearby trees, and Seth Cross and David Brown were strung up by their ankles, where they remained for the rest of time.

  Chapter Nine

  Meeting of Three

  The Red Hands remained in the bunker, removing box after box of food and supplies. There were stores of preserved vegetables from their gardens, hundreds of boxes of MREs, bottled water, gauze and bandages, pills and medications, and even stores of hard alcohol.

  Karl stood beside a soldier taking inventory as a procession of men loaded the crates onto carts and vehicles. The Miniguns from the hallway were dismantled and brought outside. He sipped from a bottle of brown liquor and offered it to the Priest, who declined with a wave of his hand.

  “You know,” Karl said, “we can’t take them all.”

  The Priest nodded.

  “The women, the children; it’s been hard enough keeping the men away for this long. And there’s fear in many of their faces. Distrust.”

  “Yes,” the Priest said. “Some. But many know that this is the next step in our evolution as a society, and are eager to step out from the abysmal underground. The bunker is little more than a tomb. A reminder of what they have lost. It’s time to start over.”

  Karl patted his front pocket and produced a cigar. He bit into the end and rolled the wide tip over a flame. “I’ve held counsel with Mister Briggs and several officers. It’s decided that some of the more concerned citizens will relocate to Marianna when we move out, along with the supply wagons and the bulk of what we can’t carry on our backs. They can tend to the withering crops, and receive some training in the form of warfare. Those who can fight and are eager to explore this world will advance with the main expeditionary force of our army. The others, the more desirable … nothing can be done to protect them. If there are some you wish to spare, I’ll allow you to quietly escort them away from our proximity. They will have to brave the world alone. Please know this is not an offer I have given in the past. You have delivered on your word. Our numbers have grown, and we will not go hungry for many nights. This is a one-time deal to show my gratitude.”

  There was a brief pause in their conversation. The loud din of the soldiers working, or drunk, was all around. Then the Priest said, “We shall endure,” and nothing more was discussed.

  In the three days that the Red Hands occupied the bunker, mingling with their new brethren and sharing in the spoils of alcohol, tobacco, and painkillers, the water flooded two additional levels. Karl estimated they would get one more night, maybe two, until the electricity would cease. In the dark, that’s when his command over the men would lessen, and they would become the demons they desired to be. There would be no stopping the angry brood from taking their earthly pleasures while hiding in the shadows. One night in the
dark would be permitted before moving out and sealing the doors shut for good.

  Although the inventory of fuel was plentiful, many of the barrels had expired, despite the Priest assuring Karl that the drums had received large doses of stabilizers. It was decided to send everything of value back to Marianna, and scout the road ahead far and wide, before all the fuel spoiled. Despite the abundance of food, Karl knew that it would not last forever. The army needed its strength. They needed all their might for what was in store for them. There were still battles to wage—large battles—and cities to topple if his people wanted to endure for many years. All the canned goods in the world would not stop Karl’s anxiety over knowing that it would eventually run out, spoil, and his army would starve.

  As the Priest and a small unit traveled to the delegates in the north, a dozen motorcycles were sent out to snake the land, reporting the occasional warehouse of goods and the more abundant tractor-trailer still with its cargo. Some of the exploratory scouts rode along with flatbed trucks, with barrels of fuel tied on the backs to expand their reach. On one occasion, they returned with news of an entire field full of brand-new and never used military jeeps and hummers, dozens of them. The location was marked on a map, along with every known military base and area of prior operation, and the looting there turned up vast armories. Some of the smaller hauls included a trailer full of cigarette cartons, which the men applauded and took greedily as they were handed out from the back of the truck.

  Reports came from Marianna, the scouts recounting that the gardens had all but given up producing crops, and that before the haul of goods from the bunker had arrived, the stores of food were so low that on four occasions fights had broken out to stop the near starving men from overtaking the warehouse. On the last occasion, a man stabbed a guard in an attempt to steal food. He was brought to trial on a makeshift stage, and an explanation of his crimes announced to the attending audience. His wrists and ankles were stretched out, tied to beams of wood on both sides, and a butcher stood behind him with his collection of blades. He cut the man from the base of his skull down his back, then across each arm and leg, flaying the wailing man alive before the spectators. The loose skin was nailed to the door of the warehouse, and no further attempts at stealing were reported.

  Karl heard this news in the cafeteria, and thought long and hard.

  “We need some damn farmers,” he said to Liam. “Even the few from the bunker who claimed to know their way around crops have only dealt with hydroponic systems. Not one of these morons knows how to plow a field.”

  “Do you?” Liam asked.

  Karl stared at his captain. “I know how to lead men and punish those who disobey.”

  “Yes, sir.” Liam looked to the ground and fidgeted with his gun belt.

  “Stop that,” Karl said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karl left his captain in the cafeteria to go to his dormitory. His men were spilling out from the doorways of the rooms, and the red carpeting with its ornate patterning now held trails of grime from their boots.

  He glanced at his watch, then stopped walking and tapped at the weathered crystal display. The time hadn’t changed since he’d last checked.

  Great, he thought, and changed his course to the storage rooms to see if he could find a spare watch, or a new battery. On the way, he passed a group of soldiers sitting around a table in a foyer, a half bottle of dark liquor passing between them while they played cards. A nearby doorway belonged to Doctor Freeman, and the stench of decay drifting out was undeniable.

  The men nodded to Karl as he passed, saying, “Sir.” Karl addressed a soldier slumped in a chair. “You there,” he said. “What time do you have?” The man looked at his watch, but before he could respond, Karl said, “Give me your watch.”

  “My watch?” the man said in a slur. He examined Karl’s wrist. “What’s wrong with the one you got?”

  Karl stared at the man, and the others around him inched their chairs back. A few turned and walked away as Karl’s hand moved to his pistol.

  A voice behind him shouted, “Karl, they’re back!”

  Liam caught up and repeated, “They’re back, sir. The Priest, and maybe a hundred more.”

  Karl turned and began walking as Liam strode behind him.

  “Are we all set?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They proceeded down the hallway toward where the officers resided. They ducked into an office room, and Karl went to take a swallow of whiskey from a side bar as he heard the commotion of the visitors being led to the meeting room a few doors down. He poured another swallow and drained the glass, then turned and left.

  At the meeting room, he swung the door open and everyone turned to face him.

  “General.” The Priest smiled, his hand on the shoulder of a short and stout man wearing a weathered leather jacket with a long, scraggly red beard. “Please, let me introduce you to our colleague from the north: Mark Rothstein.”

  “Ah, Mister Rothstein. The pleasure is all mine. Please, sit.” He motioned to the chairs around the circular table, and pulled out one for himself. Liam sat beside him, and three of Mark Rothstein’s companions sat along with them.

  Full introductions were made, and then Mark said in a gruff bark of a voice, “I see you did away with the women and kids. Smart move. I told Marcus Johansson as much. All they bring is unwanted attention, if you ask me.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. They’ve been moved away for now. Only, Mister Rothstein, we are the unwanted attention. Don’t think any different about it. If you’re going to take up with us, you should better understand the desires of my organization.”

  One of Mark’s men spoke up, “What’s that gotta do with women and kids?”

  “They are but playthings, if my men wish it so.” Karl waved his hand dismissively. “In this particular case, I will allow the good priest here to move them from the vicinity in order to qualm any griping we might encounter from the peasants we’re allowing into our ranks.”

  The man nodded and said, “Why not just kill all the people and let your men have their ways?”

  Karl rested his elbows on the table, his tall knees brushing the bottom. “What is your name again?”

  “Michael,” the man said.

  “Michael?” Karl leaned forward. “Michael what?”

  The man glanced around at his fellow soldiers, but no one looked his way. “Rogers. Michael Rogers.”

  “I wasn’t asking your last name. It was sir I was looking for. You are to address me as such at every available opportunity.”

  The man smirked a nervous smile and again looked to his fellow soldiers, but no one offered him assistance.

  Karl then said, “In just a moment, I will begin bashing your head in with this chair that I sit upon, and I won’t stop until your brains speckle the floor like a Jackson Pollock painting. Your friends will offer you no aid, for if they do, I will deliver to them the same treatment. Your shattered body will then be tossed to my men for further insult, perhaps to be cut up and braised in a stew, or to be used as a toy while you’re still warm. Do you understand?” The man’s eyes were large, and Karl said in a hiss, “Do … you … understand?”

  “S-sir. Yes-yes, sir.”

  Karl watched Michael’s face beat bright red under his dark stubble. He could feel through the trembling in the man’s eyes his pulse hammering fast, his skin breaking out in sweat, his bowels on the verge of releasing.

  Then Karl averted his gaze to Mark Rothstein.

  “Tell me about the towns.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mark cleared his throat. “I, um … we had a previous treaty with Marcus Johansson, for our mutual benefit. We raided a few settlements together and shared in the plunder.”

  “And yet you left him high and dry in Albuquerque? And offered him no help as this establishment began to drown?”

  “No, sir. It was nothing like that. I told him—warned him—that Albuquerque wouldn’t fall. We’d sent scouts thataway, four in t
otal. Only one escaped after being taken in, and the defenses he described there were beyond our capabilities. Hundreds if not thousands of strong, well-fed soldiers. Hardened bunkers with a network of trenches, and dozens of guard towers. They were wearing matching, clean uniforms, suggesting military order. The city is impenetrable. Yet, Marcus’s scouts had not gone far enough into the city, and didn’t see the true size of their forces. In the end, he relied on his own intelligence over ours.”

  “You couldn’t sway Marcus not to attack?”

  “No, and for the life of me, I don’t understand why.” Mark’s voice did not waver under Karl’s inquisition. “There are three establishments where we know that water flows freely. Albuquerque is the closest march. I pressed Marcus to reconsider and attack the smallest of the three settlements, but he thought it wiser to go straight for the more ambitious and lucrative victory. I told him he’d lose, but he simply dismissed me. He was sure of his men’s abilities, despite my telling him he’d be fighting alone. Think he was more frightened of the long march, of facing the world. Being in this bunker warped his perception. The largest of all three of the settlements, and the farthest away, is on the East Coast. Alice, it’s called. That one wasn’t even considered, although it offers the best possible chance for long-term survival. They’re bigger than even Albuquerque, and by all assessments, they got enough gardens to feed thousands if maintained proper. Acres of crops: apple orchards, cornstalks, zucchinis … you name it. And an operating reservoir with a water filtering plant. We know this ’cause they exiled one of their own, many months ago, for causing a fight that saw one of their men dead. His name is Jacob, and he stumbled on us after roaming the woods for over a month, nearly starved. He hates their leaders so much for kicking him out that he wants to see them crumble—by any means. He knows the layout of the town, and has drawn us some good maps.”