Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  But the shots were not intended for Hightown’s soldiers.

  Two red mists popped into the air from behind the mound hiding Iain’s scouts. Iain took off in a sprint toward the mound, and swung out to the side. Two of his men lay on their backs, their heads like squished grapes inside their helmets. The third man wobbled up to his knees, a dramatic dent on the side of his helmet and a trail of blood from an unseen wound.

  The scout looked up at him, his eyes blinking, not focusing. He seemed to register who was standing before him and opened his mouth. “Ia—” was all he got out as Sergeant Marcus pulled the trigger and killed the last of his own men.

  Hightown’s uninjured guard ran up to Iain’s side, his rifle up, swinging between the dead scouts and Iain.

  “Who—who the hell are you?”

  Iain didn’t answer, just looked down.

  “Who are they? Where did you come from?”

  The soldier was young—clean-shaven, chiseled chin. Iain bet his hair was cut down to a buzz under his helmet. One hundred percent prime American soldier.

  “Where—”

  “Get that damn gun out of my face, private,” he said, turning to the soldier. “Your men okay back there?”

  Iain slung his rifle over his shoulder and began walking fast toward Hightown’s injured guard and the presumably dead one. The young soldier followed, his rifle still aimed.

  The injured man squeezed at his thigh, the blood seeping out.

  “It’s not that bad,” Iain said.

  The man gritted his teeth. “Who-who the fuck are you?”

  “Iain,” he said. “Iain Marcus. Those fuckers back there killed a man I was traveling with. I escaped, but they took all of our water and food. Left my friend dead. I tracked them here, watched them from a distance. When I heard bullet fire, I made my move.”

  Iain’s hands danced over the injured man’s leg in well-practiced fashion, cutting back the material of his pants, pulling gauze from a medical kit. The injured man gritted his teeth and said, “Call-called in reinforcements.” He was pale, on the verge of passing out. “They-they’re on-on the way. Oh-oh, Christ … I’m b-bleeding o-out.”

  “It’s all right, Derrick,” the young soldier said, and kneeled at Iain’s side. “You’re not bleeding out.”

  “Your name’s Derrick?” Iain asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Derrick, you’ll be fine. You got a bullet stuck in your thigh, but it’s right here. I can practically see it. It’s far from the artery.”

  The young soldier kept an eye on the perimeter, and glanced over as Iain finished wrapping Derrick’s wound. When Iain finished, he sat back on his heels, his hands covered in blood.

  “Here.” The young soldier passed Iain a camouflage bandana and unscrewed his canteen, pouring water over Iain’s hands. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  “Same place as you.”

  “You a Marine?”

  Iain shook his head. “Special Forces, eighteen Z—operations sergeant. Was Special Forces, a long, long time ago. My friend, Michael, the one those repugnant pieces of shit killed, he was Special Forces too. We traveled far together, survived a lot … only to be killed for a few sips of water.” Iain spat in the brush.

  “Where you headed?”

  Iain shrugged. “Here is as far as I know.”

  A voice called out from deep in the woods, “Derrick! Derrick!”

  Derrick opened his mouth, but the young soldier called back first, “Here! We’re here!”

  Iain turned to the young soldier. “What’s your name, private?”

  “Turner, sir. John Turner.”

  “You got a cigarette there, John Turner?”

  The soldier opened a pouch on his vest. “These are hard to come by,” he said.

  “Then you know how much I’ll appreciate it.”

  The private pulled out three cigarettes, handed one to Iain, and put one between Derrick’s trembling lips. “They’re here,” he told his comrade.

  Derrick sucked at the cigarette.

  A dozen men crashed through the brush, rifles up, scouting the perimeter while medics swarmed over Derrick and the dead soldier. Rifles were pointed at Iain.

  A man wearing sergeant insignia walked up to John.

  “Who is he?” He pointed to Iain.

  “My name’s Iain Marcus,” Iain said before John could reply.

  “He saved us,” Private Turner said. “He’s special forces. Killed those three in a bat of the eye.”

  The sergeant scratched his chin. He looked between Iain and Private Turner. “So he did. Tell me what happened.”

  Iain finished his cigarette and ground it out in the dirt, listening to his new friend tell the tale of his heroic endeavors.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Jacob

  Jacob chose to be exiled from Alice rather than face imprisonment. The choice was given to him through the bars of a holding cell as he sat on a cot, his head held in his palms. The blood on his fingers had dried, yet they were sticky against his forehead.

  Before discovering the town of Alice, Jacob survived for six months on his own. General Tom Byrnes, Alice’s beloved leader, had a soft spot for service men, and allowed him to become a member of the community. He was allotted quarters in the barracks, an apartment complex with running water, and he shared a room with a soldier named Barry Reed. The first night that Jacob arrived in his new home he stripped out of his ragged clothing, stiff with filth, and stood under the jets of his shower for a half an hour. A shower. Hot water. Tears streamed down his face, flowing with the grime that washed off his skin. Even more, his new accommodation had electricity. It was rationed to several hours in the early morning and the evenings going into the night, but he was told that soon enough they would have a steady stream of fuel, and the electricity would operate all night long. Nothing more was mentioned about where the fuel came from, since the project of getting it was still in its infancy. Jacob didn’t care. He could read a book in the evening by lamplight, comfortable on a couch with a throw blanket over his legs. He had unrestricted use of filtered water, a clean uniform, fresh food from the gardens … and all he had to do in return was keep lookout in shifts like a regular job.

  For many months, Jacob stood guard atop a lookout tower, observing the tree line in the distance, past the zigzagging trenches that encircled the bottom portion of Alice Springs Park. He was appointed time in the garden, as was every member of Alice, and although he was not particularly skilled at gardening, the task was easy enough. Pull weeds. Go up and down the rows, hunched over, and pick at the little green sprouts protruding between the vegetable stalks. Easy. And sneaking the occasional tomato off the vine, or a crisp cucumber, was generally overlooked.

  The middle-aged Tom Byrnes was responsible for the town’s founding, and his son, Nick Byrnes, was second in command, and responsible for leading a small group of soldiers to clear out the vagabonds who had infested the area before Alice was established. It was Nick who offered Jacob the ultimatum from the other side of the jail cell. His father was unaware of Nick’s offer, and would have been at odds to let Jacob go. Once a member of Alice, and privy to information only given to the citizens, turning someone loose was unacceptable.

  The need for fuel was in constant debate, with Tom giving speeches from a stage behind Alice’s volunteer fire station, saying, “Soon—any day, fuel is coming!” The soldiers, men, women, and children were told that an agreement was in the works with a neighboring colony. Only the soldiers involved in transporting the fuel were privy to more information. In the meantime, the gardens were doubled, with enough crops to feed three times their population. For what purpose, Jacob did not know. He was taken off of guard duty and moved to labor. All those hours spent digging seemed to be a huge waste of effort. His hands blistered and burst, but still, he turned the soil over, one shovelful at a time. The plan was to convert an existing soccer field in Alice Springs into a cornfield. Day after day, he tore
away the earth—held firmly in place by the roots of the knee-high grass.

  But he didn’t complain. Not at first.

  He accepted the work. He endured the ache in his arms and back, the scrapes on his fingers, and the constant bug bites. This was not the life he envisioned for himself, apocalypse or not. He was a soldier, a fighter, and had managed to survive on his strength and skill alone. During a small melee one morning, when the whistles blew and the townspeople fled to their predetermined location along the trench line, he himself shot and killed three hostiles. He saw them drop from behind the scope of his hunting rifle, as a dozen more were decimated in a hail of gunfire from the trench line.

  Jacob made Tom aware of his exploits one morning, when he had an opportunity to approach the man while breakfast was served from the buffet line. Tom dismissed him when Jacob insisted he’d be of better service as a permanent member of the guard. They needed workers, Tom told him. It was only temporary. They’d talk later. And that was that. Tom walked to a table with his food tray in hand. Nick was standing in line behind his father, and as he was served a scoop of scrambled eggs, he told Jacob that he agreed with him wholeheartedly. He looked over his shoulder, making sure his dad was out of earshot, and said that using able-bodied men to tend to the gardens was a waste of manpower. Skilled people like Jacob should continue training, be made into better warriors, and join the elite in Alice’s hierarchy.

  It was no secret that Nick was at odds with his father when it came to governing Alice. It was evident in his demeanor, in the way that he spoke. Nick promised a stronger army, an influx of fuel, and better defenses. Tom talked about solar power, and the need to maintain gardens much larger than the population needed.

  The fight happened a few weeks later. Every night Jacob would return home, his dirty hands and fingers cramped into hooks from holding the shovels, picks, and rakes. He had splinters, blistered feet, and the occasional bee sting. His roommate, Barry, would be home before him, his crisp fatigues folded on the couch, and his rifle leaning by the door. Jacob rarely spoke to him anymore. He preferred to spend his time in his room, alone, letting his sore muscles melt on his mattress.

  Barry was a member of Alice’s Ranger division, and allowed outside of the perimeter on hunting and scouting patrols. He shared with Jacob the occasional prized goods that he found, like cigarettes, which were in constant demand. Jacob endlessly complained that he could hunt—that his talents were being wasted out in the fields. Barry would say that it was temporary, and once the gardens were finished, he could ask to be reassigned. This angered Jacob even more. Having spent the entire summer out in the fields, it seemed like an eternal endeavor. Having someone with the freedom to leave the town regularly tell him that everything was fine was insulting.

  Once a week, Barry hosted a poker game in their apartment. In the past, these games had been fruitful for Jacob. The Rangers had enough to bargain with. After sharing half a bottle of whiskey, Barry would start making stupid bets. He’d throw in a bottle of wine and a pocketknife for a few working ballpoint pens.

  But during the last few weeks, the late-night card games weren’t going well for Jacob. He blamed it on being exhausted. On coming home aching, tired, his head throbbing. He was playing poorly, and on one particular evening, with the whiskey flowing, he did something stupid. He took off his watch, the battery long dead, and tossed it on the pile of cigarettes, match packets, and batteries. Barry paused, and said that he didn’t think it was a good idea. Jacob watched the glare from the candles reflect off the inscription from his mother and father on the back of the watch.

  Barry again told Jacob to reconsider, and Jacob felt heat rise in his chest. He took back the glass of whiskey before him, and said, “Hit me.”

  Jacob lost the hand. Barry didn’t move to take the pile. Two other members of the Rangers were at the game, and they remained silent as Jacob stood, the waver in his legs giving evidence to the alcohol he’d consumed, and Barry said to him that he didn’t want his watch. But Jacob turned and left, closing his bedroom door behind him. Barry once more yelled that he wasn’t going to take the watch, but Jacob had already collapsed on his bed and let his mind swirl to a drunken stupor.

  The sun was up when he awoke, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper against his eyes. Once the room stopped spinning, he drank a full glass of water, holding the glass with a shaking hand. The poker game from the night before had been cleaned up, and Barry had already left for his daily routine. He was late for work, but if no one had knocked at the door yet, it had not become an issue. The thought of standing exposed beneath the blazing sun for the next seven hours was cruel. But he had to. Moderate drinking was permitted, but being too hungover to function was not. Everyone in Alice had to work, all of the time. It was part of the deal.

  He dressed, and then sped to the toilet as his stomach lurched. Christ, he needed some aspirin.

  After a few dry heaves, he spit away the tangle of drool from his lips and made himself stand. He grabbed his hat, put on his boots, and stepped out into the blinding sun. It was so bright his eyes teared, and he walked to the fields squinting and shielding the rays with his hands.

  And so, his day began in abject misery. Each push of the shovel against the knotted earth was arduous; each swing of the pick had no strength behind it. He couldn’t speak to any of the workers, and managed to avoid the supervisor, old Pat O’Hern.

  Since he was late, lunch was served only two hours after he’d arrived, and he couldn’t yet think of eating. But as the hours went by, he grew hungry, and his exhaustion conspired with the sun’s strong glare to hasten the onset of a migraine.

  It was an hour until dinner—an hour until quitting time. His name was called out, and when he looked up, with sweat blurring his vision, his head throbbing in pain, he saw Barry walking toward him, his heavy boots clomping in the soil. He said, “Jacob, my God, man, you don’t look good.” He smiled, made some joke about being hungover too, and then held out his hand, showing the watch. “I don’t want it,” he said.

  Barry’s uniform was neat, new, his hands mildly dirty. No calluses, no blisters. His hair was parted, his face shaven that morning. He was smiling.

  Jacob stood, shovel gripped tight, his vision throbbing red. He swung like he was batting at the moon, and Barry’s body twisted around and fell.

  Nobody saw the swing, but a few workers heard the terrible whack of metal against skull and came running over. They stopped short of Jacob, who stood tall over Barry’s body. He was a thing of dread, a monster of rage, huffing up strings of drool, his red eyes bright, his body filthy, his muscles taut, his hands clenching the splintering handle. He would later recall that he barely remembered swinging the shovel. It was more like a dream, like he watched himself do it from above. But he did it. He killed Barry, and then he pointed at all the people standing around him, the crowd gathering and armed men approaching. He yelled and shouted, accusing them all of doing this to him, of turning him into a beast. Three men pounced on him, put him in cuffs, and locked him away.

  He slept that night on a cot in a holding cell in the basement of Alice’s police department. A few times during the night he awoke in pure darkness, no candle burning for him in that dungeon. But the darkness felt good, comforting, cool on his sun-beaten skin.

  The next morning a soldier came and gave him a piece of toast and a glass of water. He said that he’d be put on trial for murder, and perhaps executed by firing squad. More likely, he’d spend an eternity behind bars, each day snuffed out to be replaced by total darkness. Jacob protested that he was defending himself. The soldier just shrugged, and said that it didn’t seem that way. But it would be up to the jury to decide.

  Hours passed into evening, and then into night. He had been relieving himself in a bucket, which nobody came to empty, and it had passed the halfway mark.

  Two more days passed with no human interaction other than a guard in the morning and evening. The darkness of night was no longer reassuring. It was
so pitch-black that nothing seemed able to exist during those hours. He tried to sleep, but woke up in a panic, and spent most of the nights curled up on the cot, blanket over his body and head, trying to hide from the demons that terrorized his thoughts. These people thought they were civil. They thought they had the right to keep him imprisoned, just as much as they thought they had a right to keep him laboring in the gardens. The world had almost ended, humankind practically wiped from the face of existence, and yet, here he was, awaiting trial.

  No.

  Right and wrong no longer existed. They were notions, and nothing more. He was being tortured, after having already faced the hurdles of surviving the plague and enduring the near-destruction of the world.

  Days passed, and it was in the afternoon when Nick arrived at the cell and offered Jacob a way out. He told him that although he had killed one of their own, Nick understood that such things can happen, and that Jacob had an almost justifiable grievance. The people in Alice didn’t treat him right. He shouldn’t have been out in the fields. But nevertheless, he was no longer welcome in Alice. The trial was planned for the following day … but he could leave that night if he wished. Nick would set him free and deal with the fallout from his father.

  It didn’t take much consideration on Jacob’s part. He wanted to be far away from Alice. So late that night, before the darkness panicked his thoughts, he heard footfalls down the hall, and soon saw the bouncing glow of a flashlight. His eyes took a minute to adjust to the intense beam. The lock rumbled as the key turned, and the hinges creaked. He stood on aching legs, his clothing stiff from the sweat and dirt soaked into the fabric, which he had not changed since that fateful day.

  The voice of Nick’s assistant, Will Holbrook, said to follow him, and turned back toward the stairs. Jacob followed. At the top of the staircase, Will gave him a backpack containing clothing, water, survival bars, a sleeping bag, and a pistol. He was led through the quiet streets, down toward checkpoint Z in the wooded western section. The escort stopped at the guard post, and Will told Jacob that he should never return.