Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  “Yes,” Karl said. “I’m eager to know more about Alice. But getting back to your previous engagement with Marcus Johansson, could you not offer them a home as the bunker here was flooding?”

  “Sir, I say in all confidence that there was nothing that could have been done. Marcus’s blood is not on my hands. The deaths of his people rest entirely on his shoulders. My current settlement is small. We don’t stay in any one location for long. It’s been our way to travel from area to area—wherever there’s food and water. When it’s dried up, we move on. They could have joined us to do the same. Marcus, and then Seth Cross, they didn’t agree with those conditions. Living in this bunker for so long gave them a sense of security. They believed that walls could keep them alive. I believe that if you stay anywhere long enough, some other group will come paint a target on yer ass.”

  “What good was your treaty then?”

  “I guess …” Mark paused to scratch his beard with grimy fingers; his thick knuckles were covered in faded tattoos. “I guess in the end it didn’t amount to jack.”

  “And here you are now, seeing if I’ll agree to the same terms?”

  “Well,” Mark said, and nodded to the Priest, “from what Dietrich described, you and me, we want the same thing. Something that Marcus and Seth didn’t so much as care about.”

  “And what is that?”

  “… The world.”

  Karl reflected for a moment and then looked right into Mark’s eyes. Mark seemed to quiver, and then Karl let out a laugh that made everyone at the table jolt.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed, and patted Mark heavily on the shoulder. “Right answer, Mister Rothstein. Perhaps we can work something out. You have a head on your shoulders; I’ll give you that. I’ll need a full assessment of your numbers, armaments, and available resources. As far as treaties, I will dictate the terms, and you can either accept them or decline. It’s as simple as that. They’ll be fair, I assure you.”

  Mark exchanged glances with his men and said, “We’ll listen.”

  “But first,” Karl continued, “tell me about the other town, the one that’s closer, with running water.”

  “I think it would be best for these men here to tell you.” Mark motioned to his two colleagues, sitting beside the silent Michael Rogers. One was a wretched-looking man with deep scars running down his face and a chewed-up ear, named Laurence. The other was a tall black man with long, skinny dreadlocks tied together at his shoulder blades. “Laurence here was a citizen of that town, but for all intents and purposes, they believe he has disappeared while scouting for supplies. What he found was us, and we share an opinion about what’s best for his establishment, which his people will be opposed to.”

  “And what opinion is that?” Karl asked.

  “Laurence, and many of his colleagues, believe survival can only be had through aggressive tactics and campaigns. Others don’t see it that way.”

  Laurence nodded and said, “I know the ins and outs of that town like the back of my hand. If I was to come back, they’d open the gates for me, sure as shit.”

  “And why is that?” Karl asked. “I would think it suspicious if one of my men up and vanished, and then came back after we presumed he’d disappeared.”

  “They’ll open ’cause I’ll tell ’em to open. I was one of the original founders, under command of President Clark.”

  “President? Ha! Who would want such an archaic title?”

  “They’re not a soldiering bunch,” Laurence said. “Beyond some defenses, they don’t amount to much in terms of fighting. They’ve been lucky. The way the town sits, in the middle of the woods and far from cities, it hasn’t seen extensive combat. That’s made them think they’re impervious to attack. They got scouts that go out to round up anyone they can, even the weak and frail.”

  “So tell me, Laurence, why are you leaving them? It would seem you have a good thing going. Plenty of food and water, shelter. But yet, here you are, betraying the security of the people you’ve lived with.”

  “Those people,” Laurence said, crossing his arms over his chest, “don’t amount to nothing. I helped found the settlement, and instead of President Clark listening to me, building our fighting force, scouting for arms and supplies, he cowers behind the walls. The way I see it, I have two choices: either wait for a force such as yours to invade and slit my throat; or, I can be on the winning side of the battle, and partner with the likes of your people here. The president and his men, they got brains, they’re a sharp group, but they know nothing of warfare. Very few behind those walls do. Over half are elderly, sick, injured, or maimed. He’s running a charity, where the majority of the people can’t contribute.”

  Karl nodded. “So tell me, what are their numbers?”

  “Last I knew, close to six hundred. About half are the cripples and such. About two hundred, a little less, see things our way. Despite the large stockpile of food, we’re just waiting for someone to come steamrolling through, taking it all and leaving us dead. The rest are loyal to the president. Some can fight, but most are soft and meek people who belong behind desks. They survived this long by riding on the backs of hardworking people like you and me. They can design walls and keep the water running, but they can’t protect any of it.”

  “All right,” Karl said. “So the ones who see things our way, will they join us? Will they give it all up; fight against their fellow man, such as what has happened here in the bunker?”

  “Sir.” Laurence leaned his elbows on the table. “If they got something to fight for, someone to lead them, they’re ripe for it. It ain’t natural living behind walls like that, just think’n about death and knowing how fragile life is. Aside from the scouts, the rest of those people never venture out. They’ve grown stir-crazy. If we don’t invade and lead them in mutiny, they’re liable to revolt on their own for no other reason than they’ve gone plum mad, and burn the place to the ground. Many of them, and I know this for a fact, can’t wait to see President Clark dead. They’ll take up arms against him without hesitation.”

  Karl nodded and the table went silent. After a moment Mark spoke up. “And that brings us to our next subject.” He motioned to the dreadlocked man, sitting beside Laurence. The man leaned his muscular forearms on the table, smiling a mouthful of blazing white teeth.

  “What was your name again, King or something?” Karl asked.

  “Sultan,” the man said. “And what I got for you, General, ohh … you gonna like it, my man.”

  “Sultan,” Mark Rothstein cut in, “is a delegate from another settlement far to the east, closer to Alice. His brigade is perhaps the largest force we’ve yet encountered. He is here with a hundred and fifty of his soldiers, camped with ours.”

  “We hold a military shipyard,” Sultan said.

  “All right, Sultan,” Karl said. “Go on.”

  “Us at the docks, we’ve been aware of Laurence’s settlement since its inception, and of Alice a short ways to our south, although we’re pretty sure they know nothing of us. We’ve even sent small expeditions up against both of their defenses, to see how they’d manage. Alice is impenetrable, for now. But Laurence’s town, we know their strengths and weaknesses, and our little melees have softened them up a bit. Remember, they’re not getting any bigger. But us, the three of us here in this room, well, we got numbers. Real numbers. Together, we’d be unstoppable.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What we need,” Mark said, “is a plan. You and Dietrich, you took this bunker with minimal casualties. You fight not only with fists, but with your minds.”

  Karl nodded but didn’t answer.

  Mark continued. “Together, we can take Laurence’s town, no problem; but we’re hoping to do it with minimal bloodshed. That’s why we want to discuss a strategy with you.”

  “After the town is ours,” Sultan said, “I’ll take you east, to my people. We got things to discuss there.” Sultan went on to explain his colony and gave a brief overview of why they wanted Kar
l to meet them, although he knew little of their actual proposal.

  When he was finished, Karl said, “Alice … is what I want. Alice is what we need to survive. It is the end result of everything else that we do. We can enslave their people to maintain the gardens, and live a full and prosperous life.”

  The men all nodded.

  “Give me the details of this town we’re to attack first.”

  Laurence stood and unrolled a map on the table, holding the bounding corners.

  “There.” Mark pointed to a black dot surrounded by green woods. “Odyssey.”

  Chapter Ten

  Harvest

  After an hour of respite following the miles of marching, the army was back on its feet, continuing east. On Mark’s advice, Karl decided against scavenging in Nashville, which was out of the way.

  “Nothin’ there,” Mark said. “We spent a week goin’ street to street. Even the bones are picked clean by the crows.”

  The march continued for days, passing through small and dilapidated towns, nothing more than morgues, and across large patches of previously farmed lands. In the evenings Karl, Liam, the Priest, Mark, Sultan, and Laurence went over maps and strategy, until the layout of Odyssey was burned into their memories.

  On a flat stretch of land, they came to a field of wheat grown wild. The lead scouts swung machetes to hasten their pace, and the men behind collected the dry, chest-high stalks. In similar fashion, the army found fields of corn, but to their dismay, the ears were rotten and infested with plump white grubs and patches of mold. Some in the group ate the kernels anyway, and succumbed to stomach cramping and diarrhea. A few experienced varying degrees of hallucinations along with pangs of both pleasure and dread that were surreal in nature.

  “Ergot,” Doctor Freeman said, examining a patient’s eyes. “Don’t eat the corn.”

  A field of soybeans offered the largest reward, despite the majority of the plants having withered. The ones that were still alive were ripe with plump, elongated pods.

  A day’s march after harvesting the soybeans, the army came to a flat field that stretched to the horizon, covered in low shriveled plants set in rows.

  Karl smiled.

  “What are you so happy about?” Liam asked. “They’re all dead.”

  “That building there.” Karl pointed to a barn the size of a warehouse and tugged at his horse’s reins. They rode to the building and dismounted as a soldier pulled the sliding door open. Before he took a step inside, a pungent odor drifted out.

  “Ah, would you look at this?” Karl said, going to a large bale of dried and brown leaves. More sat in orderly piles, and even more hung from drying racks and from the rafters.

  The officers entered first, and then the men pressed eagerly forward.

  “Tobacco,” Liam said.

  “Yes, Mister Briggs. All of it.”

  “Holy mother of God.”

  Karl crumbled a leaf in his hand and took a deep breath.

  “Open the doors at the opposite end, and let the men pass through in a line to take their fill. There’s enough to last a lifetime.”

  When Karl and the officers had taken all they could manage to stuff in their sacks, the men made their pass, and all began attempting to roll the tobacco, mostly to fruitless frustration. Those who knew how to do it began rolling cigars of various sizes, and the men removed their gear and sat around like children playing with a new toy.

  Karl lit a cigar and inhaled the rich smoke, sitting with his back against the side of the barn. A moment later, a man came running through the company.

  “Sir,” he said, out of breath, “we got movement.”

  “Where?” Karl was on his feet so fast that the man stumbled back.

  “Th-there. Up there, by the shed.”

  Karl looked to a modest wooden shed, where a group of his men were standing in the doorway. He stomped to the building, Liam and Mark at his side, all three men trailing tobacco smoke.

  The soldiers parted for them to enter. The walls were lined with an assortment of old and rusted shovels, tampers, and rakes. Spider webs connected one tool to the other. In the middle of the floor, before the circle of men, was a metal trapdoor. Loose hay and straw was swept aside.

  Karl bit at his cigar, rolling a loose strand of tobacco around on his tongue.

  “We saw something up by the house,” the soldier said. “Just a flash of movement. By the time we realized he wasn’t one of us, the guy was at the door to the shed.”

  Liam leaned over and grabbed the handle, but it didn’t budge. “The metal is thin,” he said. “Wasn’t built to withstand a bombing.”

  “What we have here is homemade,” Karl said. “Open it.”

  A man came forward holding a pry bar, his hands and face covered in layers of grime. The rest of the men readied their guns and scuffled about in anticipation. The end of the pry bar fit in the rut between the door and the floor, and the soldier pressed his weight down, his face contorting with effort. Another man joined him, and they pressed and lumbered their weight against the metal rod. The door creaked and bent.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” Karl said, and flung his still burning cigar out the door. A soldier at the doorway ducked as it trailed by. “Move.” He pushed the men out of the way, feeling their body heat radiating from the effort. He gripped the cold metal, gritted his teeth, and pressed down. Every muscle in his body flexed, and the bar seemed to bend as he strained. The dry heat inside the shed was stifling, and a layer of sweat rose fast on his skin.

  Without warning, the door popped free and the pry bar hit the floor, scraping Karl’s knuckles. A metallic clinging sound echoed up from the hole, as what Karl guessed was the padlock dropped down the entry shoot. The men aimed their rifles and stared into the foreboding abyss.

  Karl tossed the pry bar and patted his pockets for a roll of tobacco leaves.

  “Well?” he said, maneuvering the leaves between his fingers. “Get on with it.”

  The men looked to one another, then someone produced a flare. He sparked it to life and tossed it down the hole. Without hesitating the first man descended the ladder with a second fast behind him. The lead man called down, “If you got yourself a gun, you’d better aim it elsewhere.” Before reaching the bottom, they jumped to the ground and swung their rifles around. A third and fourth man followed, and then Karl stepped to the ladder. He heard shouting as he went down, his men yelling, “Drop it! Drop it!”

  Flashlights were turned on, and as Karl stepped over the burning flare, he lit a fresh cigar, rolling the end in the flame to get an even burn. He stared at a filthy, feral man at the other end of the narrow enclosure, holding a bolt-action rifle. The man looked back at him, his eyes twitching from one soldier to the other, his mouth agape behind a scraggly beard.

  “Who-who …” was all the man could say. The rifle trembled in his hands, and his whole body shook. A dark spot spread from the front of his pants.

  “Easy now,” a soldier said.

  Liam and Mark joined Karl and stood behind him with pistols drawn. The soldiers continued to press in, and the man paced back until he hit the wall.

  “Oh, for the love of …” Karl stepped forward and snatched the barrel of the gun, twisting it from the man’s grip. The man just stood shaking, his eyes fluttering as if he’d pass out. Someone found a lantern, and the small room illuminated. There was a dingy couch beside Karl, and a table with a folding chair further in the room, with a hot plate and a mound of crusty cookware atop. A cot hung on the opposite wall, with a soiled blanket and pillow. The bunker extended about twenty feet to a door in the rear, and the men approached it with guns at the ready.

  “You know,” Karl said to the man, “this didn’t have to go all that bad for you. What’s your name?”

  The man opened his mouth and then closed it.

  “If you had displayed yourself in a more courageous demeanor, then perhaps you could have joined rank with the brotherhood.”

  The man looked a
t him, his wet eyes pleading.

  “No,” Karl said and grabbed the man’s bicep, his fingers touching around the thin bone. “You’re not worth the effort to beef up.”

  “I-I can fight.”

  Liam began to laugh and so did the rest. Karl pressed against the man’s chest until he sat backwards onto the couch.

  “Stay there,” Karl said. “Don’t move.”

  The soldiers who had entered the rear room returned.

  “Some supplies and a generator. No fuel. He’s got a mess of bullets for that rifle, but nothing more.”

  “Food?”

  “Some shelves of canned goods, and plenty of water for one person.”

  “If you have all that,” Karl said to the man on the couch, “why not eat it, put some meat on those bones?”

  “Not-not enough.”

  “Not enough what?”

  “Food.”

  “You have plenty.”

  “Gotta make it last.” His filthy shirt bobbed up and down with his sporadic breathing.

  “There’s never enough, but if you’d ventured out farther than this little shithole of a room, you’d know there’s always more. Just a day’s ride west are acres of soy.”

  “I … never, never enough …”

  “You’ve gone plumb mad, haven’t ya?”

  The man didn’t respond.

  Liam spat to his side. “Can I just fuckin’ end this?” He patted his combat knife.

  Karl laughed and said, “I might just take him along for entertainment. Keep him trailed to my horse.”

  “You … no, please …” the man said.

  Karl stood in contemplation, everyone watching him.

  “What the fuck are you all doing? Get moving. It stinks down here.”

  All at once, the men began filling boxes with the bottles of water, cans of peaches and beef stew, the bottles of propane, the ammunition, and the man’s rifle. They found a .22 pistol and a box of bullets in a kitchen cabinet, and Karl inspected the barrel and cylinder before tucking it in his belt. When everything had been ransacked and removed, with the man not moving from the couch, his head hung low, Karl tossed his cigar to the floor and twisted it out with his toe. He waved his hand at the drifts of smoke.