Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  But he did not fall.

  Using the oar as a crutch, and Doctor Freeman putting his arm under his opposite shoulder, Karl stepped forward, feeling the pull of the duct tape with each step. A warm wetness spread from many of the wounds, and his vision throbbed with dazed pain. His ankles, at least, felt sturdy, supported by the stiff tape wrapped around his torn boots to keep them on his feet.

  As they neared the street ahead, he took one last look behind him. He saw the maple tree he had leaned against, the embankment where he had collapsed by the rowboat, and all the way to Alice on the distant shore, where his men had been slain. Trails of smoke still rose high into the air.

  His soldiers would now be getting interrogated, hung from the streetlights, or shot in the backs of their heads. That’s what he would be doing if he had won the battle, and he would have won the battle if not for whatever trickery had befallen him.

  What had exploded down in that cellar? Definitely not the atom bomb. He’d be nothing more than a whisper of smoke if that device had detonated. Was there even an atomic weapon down there at all? Was it a trick?

  “Are any of the officers alive?” Karl asked.

  “What’s that?” the doctor said, laboring under Karl’s weight.

  “Who’s alive? Did you see Captain Black, maybe Mister Rothstein? What about Nick?”

  “Didn’t see anybody. I was in the basement when the fighting started. The explosions from the front line rattled the house, and when I got upstairs and looked out the window, the horizon was on fire. The men were running around like dimwits, looking for you and Nick, or someone to tell them what to do. Then the front yard blew up all over and I heard a noise, something I hadn’t heard in ages: a helicopter. It came swooping down, blowing the trenches to rubble.”

  “How did you manage to get out?”

  Karl felt him shrug under his shoulder. “I turned and left out the back door. I was lucky enough to find a boat on the dock. There are more who left—I saw them jumping in the dark water, swimming away. A few boats trailed far behind me, and I expected to see them pull up to the same embankment. I waited, but they must have moored somewhere else. I was just turning to leave when your rowboat cut through the mist.”

  Karl suppressed his first emotion, which was anger at his men fleeing from a fight, no matter how hopeless. But he needed every available soldier he could muster, all that survived. “How many …” He paused as a wave of nausea passed. “How many do you think escaped?”

  “No idea. Don’t know if any survived the swim. And I couldn’t guess if any escaped the trenches at all.”

  They were silent as they took to a wooded trail. The morning was bright and warm, and the sun made Karl’s burnt clothing reek of charcoal, smoke, and sweat.

  “How did they break our line?”

  “I don’t know. Something happened to the men during the night—they were getting sick. I tended to some in the house when the fighting began. They were vomiting, had substantial diarrhea, and were exhibiting severe hallucinations and abdominal cramping. Food poisoning is my guess, or a norovirus.”

  “How many?”

  “In the house, only a dozen or so. But reports coming in from the line suggested it was widespread, an epidemic. The men in the house though, they were developing blistering rashes all over their bodies, from head to toe.”

  Karl shook his head.

  “This was a diversion—all of it. The explosion in the cellar, the men being poisoned. I don’t know how they did it, but they did.”

  “It would appear so.”

  After an hour, Karl became severely lightheaded, and they had to take a break to rest.

  “You think they’re going to follow us?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes. They’re going to round up every last one of us they can find. They’ll send scouting parties for miles around, if they haven’t already, and they’ll see our boats—”

  The branches nearby crackled, and they heard distinct voices. Doctor Freeman helped Karl stand, and they got ready to run.

  “Don’t move,” Karl whispered and unholstered his pistol, aiming it toward the brush. The voices grew louder; the leaves underfoot crunched. Karl’s finger tensed over the trigger, his blurred eyesight peering down the sights.

  Three men came out from the thicket, one semiconscious and being dragged by the others. They froze when they saw Karl and the doctor, and the lead man swung a machine gun from its shoulder sling. His eyes went large and he said, “Karl? General … sir, is that you?”

  Karl lowered his pistol and sighed.

  “You know,” he said, “I should shoot the lot of you for desertion. Come ’ere and give me a hand, would ya?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Thirst

  At sundown, the men tried the handles of homes in a residential section, not wanting to make noise kicking down a door, until they found one unlocked. Doctor Freeman helped Karl to a couch in the small living room as the two soldiers closed all the blinds.

  “I hate sleeping indoors,” Karl said, waving his hand at a shaft of illuminated dust motes.

  The other injured man had been dragged into the living room beside the couch, and blankets were found to make him comfortable.

  Doctor Freeman inspected the wounds to the man’s abdomen and chest, his delicate fingers dancing over various lacerations. He then pulled the blanket up to the man’s chin.

  One of the soldiers watching, a young, tall boy named Greg, said, “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “Nothing to be done,” he said, and turned his attention to Karl. “Lie back, please.”

  Karl did as instructed, issuing a reluctant groan.

  “Don’t any of you got a bottle?”

  The two men shook their heads. The other soldier, Reed, was a few years older than Greg. Both were unharmed by the battle, but the same could not be said of the third soldier, who was unconscious for most of their journey. Karl wanted to leave him behind, miles back, and had even told the two privates to do so. But upon their pleading that they had the strength to carry him, Karl relented.

  “What happened to him?” Karl asked as Doctor Freeman snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

  The two soldiers moved chairs close to the windows, peeking out from time to time.

  “The three of us were in the trenches,” Greg said, “when almost everyone started acting funny. Aubrey here was sick, grabbing at his stomach, all twisted in pain.”

  “Yes, yes, he was poisoned,” Karl said, then gritted his teeth as the duct tape was cut from his thigh and the rancid layer of clothing near the wound was peeled back. “Jesus Christ … you all sure you don’t have some whiskey? Vodka? Check the cabinets.”

  Greg stood, leaving his rifle leaning against the windowsill, and started going through the cabinets in the kitchen. Karl focused on the pictures on the wall to take his mind off the pain. Happy faces, people in nice clothing posing: a gray-haired man and his wife, smiling, over and over again behind dusty frames. Their unbridled happiness angered him, and Doctor Freeman paused to say, “Karl, relax. Please.”

  He looked away.

  “So, he was shot?” Karl asked Reed.

  “Yes, sir. In the stomach. Something also hit him on the head, shrapnel, or a rock, or something. The whole line was blown to pieces. I got hit in the leg here.” The soldier lifted his pants leg, showing a discolored welt on his calf. “Don’t know what it was, but it knocked me off my feet. Thought for a minute it took my leg clear off.”

  Greg came back in the room. “Sir, I found this.” He displayed a half bottle of cooking brandy.

  Karl’s eyes lit up and he reached out. “Give it here.”

  The room became dark as Doctor Freeman continued to work by flashlight, splashing disinfectant over the wounds and slipping the pointed end of a sewing needle back and forth into his flesh. The pain was beyond comprehension. Karl hoped he would pass out and awaken all patched up and made right again. But he remained conscious for the duration, eac
h stab of the needle causing daggers of electric distress.

  He took a long swig from the bottle.

  “Doctor, you’re going to have to finish soon for the night,” he said. “We can’t have the flashlight shining through the blinds.”

  The doctor turned to Greg. “Go outside and see if the light is coming through the blinds.” He turned back to Karl as the soldier stood to leave. “I’m nearly done. You need water. A lot of it. You’re dehydrated, and I don’t have an IV.”

  Karl was aware of how profusely he was sweating. His mangy shirt and pants were soaked through to the couch cushions. Back on the riverbank, the doctor had packed a canteen of water in his briefcase, but that water didn’t last half the day’s march, and none of the men had a drop since.

  The front door opened and Greg returned. “Can’t see much. A little light through the corner of the blinds.”

  “I’ll finish fast,” Doctor Freeman said. “You’ll need to go scouting,” he told the soldiers. “We need water. Food, maybe.”

  “Now?” Greg asked.

  “Yes, now. Get to it. And be quiet.”

  In the stillness, all Karl could hear was the gentle rustling movements of the doctor at work and the occasional moaning from the man on the ground.

  “How long has he got?” Karl asked.

  Doctor Freeman shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. Surprised he’s still alive after being pulled around while bleeding out. But then again, I could say the same for you. Back at the riverside, I didn’t think you’d make it for more than a mile. God only knows how much blood you lost.”

  Karl huffed a laugh. “Oh, doctor. Your bedside manners are impeccable.”

  With the soldiers still away, the last stitch was sewn, and gauze was placed over the wounds, held in place with strips of duct tape. The pulling of Karl’s skin as the tape clung to his flesh was about as painful as getting the stiches, and at times it was worse. When the doctor finished, he took off his bloody gloves and rummaged through his bag, examining the labels of pill bottles.

  “Here,” he said, opening the cap of one and putting the bottle on the table. “You need one three times a day.” He handed Karl a large white pill, and Karl took it down with a swig of brandy.

  There was an inch of liquor left, and Karl offered Doctor Freeman the bottle.

  “For your nerves,” he said.

  “My nerves are fine.” But he took the bottle anyway, and searched through his bag, finding a small cylindrical device in a leather case. He unclasped a small lock on the side and removed a paper-thin glass tumbler.

  “You keep a glass in there?”

  The doctor poured a drink. “It’s a traveling cup,” he said. “Over a hundred years old.” He held the delicate rim to his lips and drank.

  Karl took the last swig from the bottle and placed it on the coffee table. In the dark room, Karl could just make out the shape of Doctor Freeman sitting on a chair beside the couch. They talked for a while about where they were going, and decided on a new plan now that they’d found Reed and Greg.

  Talking was becoming difficult. Pain was everywhere, emanating from deep within his more serious wounds, and spreading to every inch of his body. His eyelids were closing when the front door creaked open and two shadowy figures emerged. Karl reached for his pistol on the arm of the couch before realizing they were his men.

  “This is all we got,” one of the shadows said, and placed a can of iced tea down on the coffee table.

  “That’s it?” Doctor Freeman asked, snatching the can.

  “We checked a few houses; they’re all wiped clean, and even with a flashlight it’s hard to see. We can go further down the side streets.”

  “No,” Karl said, fighting to keep his eyes open. “No more venturing. We’re not far from Alice and Hightown. Their scouts will be everywhere.”

  The can opened with a pop and a hiss, and a moment later the doctor held the rim to Karl’s lips. He took a sip and the sweet fluid burst in his mouth and coated his raw throat. He drank it greedily, pulling in over half the tea in two gulps. The doctor took the can away and drank a sip himself before handing it to the two soldiers.

  One of the soldiers asked about where they were going, what they were going to do, and how they were going to survive. Doctor Freeman explained what he and Karl had discussed on their first leg of the venture, and then again just moments before the soldiers returned. There were two places any of their fellow fleeing soldiers would go. One was north, to the docks, in the same direction they were heading. The second was Masterson, their closest conquered town. Karl’s guess had been most would head to the second, and Alice’s and Hightown’s fleet would be fast at their heels. So what was needed was a full-scale departure from Masterson, with every available man fleeing to the docks, where they would be safe in the boats.

  Doctor Freeman instructed that one of them had to immediately leave to Masterson, to deliver Karl’s orders to evacuate. More importantly, he had to dispel any rumors of Karl’s death. In the meantime, they needed a place where Karl could rest, heal, and hide from enemy patrols. They knew a safe location several miles away, much closer than both Masterson and the docks.

  The men did not sound happy at the proposition of one of them leaving in the dark to travel through the night, with enemy scouts all about. The last thing Karl heard before sleep overtook him was each man presenting his case for why he should not go, and offering why the other was a stronger candidate. The doctor was listening to them in silence, the glass tumbler making a slight clang as he placed it on the coffee table. Before he could make his verdict, Karl was fast asleep.

  ***

  Sunlight stabbed at his eyes like razors. A hand was on him, shaking him.

  “Wake up. Wake up,” a voice said in a hiss.

  He might have been in the bed of his youth, or a prison cell, or a cot, or out on some scavenging foray. Karl blinked, and after seeing the doctor above him, reality came rushing back.

  “What—what is it, what’s wrong?” He attempted to sit up, but the wound to his abdomen forced him back down. He looked across the room and saw Greg standing by the window, rifle in hand, peering out between two thin slats in the blind.

  “They’re here,” Doctor Freeman said. “Scouts from Alice—they’re right outside.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Boots

  Karl blinked, attempting to return some degree of moisture to his eyes. A fly droned over his face, tickling his nose. He swatted it away and rolled to his side to press himself up to sitting. The blood seemed to plummet from his head, and for a moment his vision faded.

  Easy, old man. Take it easy. Breathe.

  He grabbed his pistol and listened for engines or voices, but heard nothing. Once the dizziness passed, he pulled himself to standing.

  Stumbling forward, he nearly tripped over Aubrey on the ground, who was still clinging to life. His sweat-covered face was white, bordering blue, yet his chest moved under the blanket with shallow breaths.

  Karl moved toward the window with Doctor Freeman holding his elbow. Things in his body were crunching and popping, grinding together. Greg moved aside and Karl peeked out.

  The front yard gave way to the road ahead, the morning sunlight blindingly bright. Karl forced his eyes to stay open. He watched two men on the opposite side of the road walk from one house to the next. They wore matching olive drab uniforms and small backpacks, armed with machine guns on slings, and tactical pouches attached to their belts. One held a black metal pry bar over his shoulder, about three feet long.

  Seeing these soldiers—these victorious men—made Karl’s blood beat fast.

  It was mine—Alice was mine!

  His vision throbbed with his anger. Flash images of these men, all of Alice’s people, disemboweled, strung up from lampposts, danced around in his thoughts in delight.

  “What are they doing?” Greg asked.

  “Searching,” Karl said. “House to house.”

  “They’re following u
s?”

  “If they had any degree of scout in them they would have seen our tracks and kicked in the front door before daybreak.”

  The two soldiers were at the door of the house across from them, guns up. One tried the handle, then maneuvered his pry bar into the grove beside the doorframe. The other man was ready to storm inside.

  “There must be more in the area. They’re checking in pairs.”

  “What—what do we do?”

  Karl didn’t answer. He peered at the house across the way, at the dark void of the open door where the men had disappeared, and then he looked at what he could see of the road ahead. They were on a dead end, just a few houses from the circling roundabout. If the men continued their path, they would be at their front door after inspecting four additional homes. Twenty minutes, half an hour tops.

  “We got to move,” he said.

  “W-where?”

  Karl turned and looked at Greg. The man’s eyes were huge, bloodshot, and he clutched his rifle to his chest.

  “You know how to use that thing? You know how to fight?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to prove it.”

  Greg nodded.

  “You have a choice—you can man up now, or you can die. It’s as simple as that. Do as I say and you will live. Or stay here quivering like a child and let those mongrel peasants hang you from the nearest tree. When this is all over, and we’re back at the docks, a promotion might be in store for you. But that will be decided based on how you handle yourself at this juncture. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, what?”

  “I understand. Yes, sir. General. I understand.”

  “Good.” Karl turned back to the window, watching the two scouts appear from the doorway and proceed to the next house.

  Stepping back from the blinds, he looked at the filthy rags he was wearing: burnt, stiff with blood. Duct-taped bandages emerged from beneath the rips. His feet were black with filth. He looked to his boots beside the couch. The duct tape that had kept them closed was sliced open, and the raw, torn leather resembled something dead.