Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  There were five of them, facedown, hands tied behind their backs, wearing an assortment of dark military fatigues of no particular origin. The grasses that enveloped their bodies swayed rhythmically in the breeze, the blades near their heads stained red.

  Greg stepped beside one and nudged the man over with the heel of his boot. When the red handprint on the man’s chest became visible, he released him back down.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Karl said.

  The doctor led them forward, down narrow streets with driveways every few hundred feet that disappeared behind walls of overgrowth, or twisted away over the ample terrain to unseen houses.

  “One more block,” Doctor Freeman said.

  The sun blazed a reflection against the street signs at the intersection, but the letters were just a jumble of bright nonsense.

  They turned, and Karl’s shoulder rubbed against the side of a car left crashed into the bumper of a minivan. A dark face stared at him through the window as he passed.

  Greg put his arm under Karl’s shoulder and pulled him away from leaning on the car. The doctor’s pace quickened, and he said, “This is it.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Holy Relics

  They turned on a pebble driveway. The weeds poking through had grown to shin height. After a long and slow leftward turn, the property opened up to a grass field, still wooded with tall oak and maple trees. A magnificent three-story home stood far off, muted by the overgrowth, with a red brick façade half-succumbed to creeping vines. An opulent veranda with arched doorways and intricate carvings around the windows extended from the side.

  “Is that a guard tower?” Greg asked, pointing to a tall and narrow spire attached to the left of the house, emerging a half story taller than the roof.

  “It’s a bell tower,” the doctor said without turning.

  “This place is a mansion. You lived here?”

  Karl laughed. “Among other estates, yes. This is Doctor Freeman’s home. The man was, after all, a highly respected surgeon. He was caught in his Texas property and sentenced there, where we had the pleasure of meeting. Do you not recall the news, back when he was making headlines?”

  Greg didn’t answer.

  “You’re young; perhaps it was before your time.”

  “I remember. Just not so much.”

  “The estate is a wonder to be seen, is it not? A brilliant display of Victorian craftsmanship.”

  “Italiante,” Doctor Freeman said, walking off from the driveway and toward the side of the house. “It’s not Victorian, it’s Italiante.”

  “And this is where we’re staying?” Greg asked.

  “No.” Karl shook his head. “In the back.”

  They turned around the property, and followed a brick-lined path into a wooded section.

  “Here,” the doctor said. “We’re here.”

  The woods opened up to a clearing with the gentle rustling of a nearby creek. An ancient-looking structure stood before them, not much larger than a shed. The sides were made of round river stone, with arched stained-glass windows, and a domed roof. A crucifix extended from the top. To the side of this strange building in the woods were two bright-yellow excavators. Yellow caution tape fluttered from nearby trees, the connections long broken.

  “By my own eyes,” Karl said. “I never thought I’d lay witness to this marvel.”

  “Marvel? It looks like some old church,” Greg said.

  “It is precisely that. But not just any old church—this is the doctor’s sanctuary. The place that earned him the monikers Demon Doctor and Hell’s Surgeon, among others.”

  They arrived at a thick, uniquely carved slab of wood used as the front door, covered in tacked-up papers, noting the date the building was set for demolition. As Doctor Freeman pushed the door open, the bright sealant tape ripped in two. A rush of dust kicked up from the ancient tiles and woodwork.

  Inside, narrow stained-glass windows cast varying dark, yet colorful hues against the walls and floor. The doctor stopped before a pew, petting the wood in ritualistic form, as if it were a delicate animal. “This building,” he said, walking toward the altar place, past the golden iconostasis with the portraits of saints in brightly colored robes, “was brought over from Greece, piece by piece. It is not a reproduction. During the construction of some high-rise, this tiny church was to move to a new location closer to Athens. But with enough money, enough palms greased, it wound up in a shipping container, bound for America.”

  Greg brought Karl to the front and sat him in the first of the four pews.

  The doctor passed an arched opening in the middle of the iconostasis and walked down a narrow path behind, following the back wall. Karl pulled himself back to his feet. “Come on,” he told Greg, who was sitting heavy beside him.

  On the opposite side of the ornate façade of paintings, at the end of the passageway, Doctor Freeman delicately removed a strip of police tape that secured two pieces of stone in the wall. A marble holy water font sat beside him. He peeled back the tape, careful not to leave any glue on the stones. “Those arrogant monsters,” he said. “This whole place is a work of art. To think the police were going to destroy it.” He felt along the crevices of the stone.

  “And now,” Karl said, “we will witness the genius that kept the good doctor undiscovered by the authorities during his two-decade-long killing spree.”

  Greg didn’t say anything, but his sudden influx of breath could be heard as the doctor pressed against the wall, and interlocking rocks cracked open at the seams, displaying a doorway.

  Doctor Freeman disappeared inside the passageway and Karl stepped forward, to a steep, circling stone staircase with a thick rope attached to the side as a railing. He paused there until a glow emanated from the unseen base, and then he laboriously proceeded into the cellar.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Labyrinth

  The hallway was long and straight with doorways on either side, and then turned a sharp left at the end. Doctor Freeman was in the first room, and Karl stood looking in as the doctor flipped switches inside a circuit breaker.

  “How in God’s name is there power down here?”

  “Solar, back at the house. The wires are underground. This place is designed to be self-sufficient.”

  Greg appeared at the entrance to the winding stairs, wide-eyed at his surroundings. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “This really it?” he asked.

  Doctor Freeman closed the circuit breaker door and left the room.

  “Follow me,” he said, and proceeded down the hall.

  Karl peered in the doorways that were open as they walked, at the dark outlines of tables and furniture.

  The doctor paused. “Through here is the kitchen.” He opened the door and flipped a switch, brightening a room paneled in dark woods, with a round mahogany table in the center. The room was small, yet sophisticated, with aged framed paintings on the walls, and a marvelous granite countertop. A metal water hand pump rose from the counter to a bowl underneath.

  “My God,” Karl said. “So this is the famed kitchen, huh?” He stared at the blank space on the wall, where the forensic teams had removed the refrigerator and freestanding freezer. He remembered the photos in the newspaper, men wearing coveralls and face masks carting a stainless-steel, French-door refrigerator and bulky rectangular freezer out through the doorway of the church. Bright biohazard stickers had been stuck to the sides.

  Doctor Freeman went over to the water pump, pushing and pulling the handle. A deep gurgling noise gave way to a sputter of brown liquid, which began flowing more freely, and a little more clear.

  “The pipe needs to be drained, but we have well water.”

  Karl leaned against the doorframe; sweat was rolling down his face, dripping from his nose. A rush of air came from a vent on the ground, and he reached down to feel the cool breeze against his palm.

  The doctor turned to him and said, “You need to rest, now. I’ll give you the tour later.”
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  They continued walking around the bend in the hallway. Karl looked into an open room, where the light from the hallway illuminated a surgical table mounted to the floor. Neon yellow crime scene markers were placed here and there.

  “How-how’d you get away with this?” Greg asked. “I mean … I remember hearing about this place, thought it was torn down.”

  “If the disease didn’t come when it had,” Doctor Freeman said, “it would have been. The destruction of the church was held up in court, since the building is, after all, a Greek artifact, and smuggled here illegally. Down here, though, was set for destruction nonetheless.”

  “How did you build it?”

  “I didn’t. I hired three separate companies to each built a section of what they presumed to be a survival shelter. I even went so far as to have them install an incinerator at the end, for what I told them was human waste, garbage, with a vented flue poking out in the woods. They believed me … and in a sense, that was what it was for.”

  Karl was going to add to the story, fill in some of the blanks for Greg, but his throat was overwhelmingly dry, and it was becoming hard to keep his eyes open.

  The doctor opened a door, flipped a switch, and said, “Here we are.”

  The room was a perfect square, bare except for a twin bed and a side table and lamp. Karl sat on the mattress and slowly laid himself out, using a rolled-up spare jacket taken from one of the soldiers they’d killed as a pillow. His eyes closed, and the pounding in his forehead was subdued by being off his feet.

  “We need medicine, more antibiotics, food, and maybe some blankets.”

  Karl didn’t respond.

  “You rest. Greg and I will make a foray into town later, see what we can muster.”

  Karl grunted as the lights were turned off and the door was closed.

  ***

  His eyes opened at the sound of movement, the feeling of fingers on his shoulder, arms, and chest. He looked up at a man wearing doctor scrubs, complete with a cloth hat and face guard. A portable light with a flexible neck had been brought into the room, shining down on his torso.

  “Doc …” He opened and closed his mouth, trying to lubricate his raw throat. “Thirsty.”

  “Here.” Doctor Freeman picked up a glass of water from the side table, and helped Karl sit up enough to sip from the rim. His arm and chest muscles strained at holding his weight up. “We were able to round up a supply of IV bags and medicine. Thank God the local population died off before they could use up the stores of medical equipment. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  Karl drained the cloudy water and lay back down, feeling a drip trail down his cheek. Doctor Freeman returned to undress him and cut away his old bandages. He squirted liquid onto gauze to clean the wounds, and sprayed other liquids directly onto the lacerations. The stinging was bad, but mild in contrast to the terrible march he’d endured and the stitches performed by moonlight. There was a pillow under his head and he could smell the starch of new blankets still folded at the foot of his bed. Even the heat emanating from the small spotlight felt like a warm embrace.

  He remained with eyes closed as new bandages were applied and a needle was inserted into the crook of his arm. After a moment, a cool rushing sensation spread down his arm as the IV solution flowed into his vein.

  “Doctor … back in Alice, whatever happened to that girl in the basement, Bethany?”

  “Nothing happened to her that I’m aware. I was told to wait for your arrival to begin interrogations, and that’s what I did.”

  Karl nodded, and didn’t add anything further to the conversation. He was surprised that the image of her on the bed, her hair fanned out, her cheeks flushed, had stayed in his mind. Even along their journey here, with his consciousness fading, the thought of her danced inside his head. Perhaps it was coming so perilously close to death that was inspiring new life inside him, but he thought that if given the opportunity again, he would be able to perform on her sexually without her being unconscious, and him on medication. She would still be at odds with him, of course, and would have to be subdued, beaten. The thought stoked a fantasy where he imagined himself on top of her high atop a perch, overlooking Alice as it burned in a torrent of flames … or perhaps with her at his side, riding a horse into combat, a worthy lieutenant of the Red Hands …

  The doctor pulled a blanket up to his chin.

  “We found enough medicine to help you along. But food is going to be an issue.”

  At the mention of food, Karl became aware of just how hungry he was, and the fantasies with Bethany were erased from his thoughts. The pain of being poked and prodded combined with the relief of lying on an actual bed had dulled his sense of hunger.

  His eyes cracked open, watching Doctor Freeman stuff the soiled bandages and clothing into a plastic garbage bag, and then remove his latex gloves with a snap.

  “We have a few chews of dried meat left over from those soldiers. That’s it. I’ll get you some before it’s all gone. Greg’s going to go hunting, gather what he can. I don’t like him out there, but we don’t have a choice. The best thing we can do is lay low; stay underground as Alice and Hightown scour the area. They’ll fall back after a few days, or a week or two. In the meantime, you recover, and we will leave here strong.” The doctor rummaged through a tray he’d set down on the nightstand, picking up two small vials of fluid and a syringe. “I’m going to give you antibiotics, and a little something to help you sleep.” He pierced the needle into the injection port on the vial, and then inserted the needle into the receiving port on the IV line.

  “I don’t think I need any help with that,” Karl said, his eyes already closed. “Give me a full report of our resources after Greg returns from the hunt, along with a list of our firearms and ammunition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Doctor Freeman picked up the tray, flipped the light switch, and backed out of the room.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Hunger

  Karl had just enough time to twist over the side of the bed and aim for the pail before the heaving began. After many minutes, he spit at the trail of saliva, and a wave of dizziness forced him back on the soaked mattress and pillows.

  Again, he closed his eyes.

  When they reopened, music was drifting in from the hallway through the cracked-open door. Each note produced dancing colors in his ears: swirls of violins, piano, flutes, and deep, guttural drums. Karl’s mind was lost somewhere, and although he attempted to rein reality back, the pleasantness of his chemically and biologically altered state of mind made his thoughts slip away.

  Then came the darkness. Darkness so black it enveloped the absence of time. Out of the black came hallucinations: dirty faces, broken limbs, blistered skin, crushed bones, and torn sinew. Bodies in dramatic states of decomposition, twisted in wreckage, gnawed at by packs of rats, wild dogs, wolves, and dark swarming masses of insects. All the insects, thousands and thousands of buzzing wings, tiny black legs, their entire composition like one living consciousness, hell-bent on consuming flesh, rotten or fresh.

  Karl saw them in his room, the endless crawling horde a giant shadow by his feet.

  A spike of fear shot his eyes open. The images his fevered imagination produced still played out over his vision as he focused on a ceiling tile above, his breaths coming as rapidly as his drumming heart.

  “Doc …” His meager words fell dead in the air.

  He placed a trembling palm over his eyes, felt heat emanating from his forehead, and reached for a glass of water sitting on his bedside table. He blindly hit the cup, and sent it to the ground in a shatter.

  Footsteps from down the hall. Louder, and then the door squeaked open.

  He felt the doctor’s presence.

  “Doc …” he said. “I-I’m dying.”

  The portable examination light clicked on, the brightness overwhelming. Clatter from the medicine bag, and the cap of a vial popping off. A pinch on his arm, and then a rushing warm embrace.
His insides calmed and radiated a pleasant, glowing sensation.

  Doctor Freeman helped him sip a glass of water mixed with protein powder, and explained in jumbled words that Karl needed food to regain his strength. The doctor detailed the meager supplies found by Greg in the nearest town. Hightown’s soldiers were still nearby: scouting, scrounging, and killing deserters.

  Greg appeared at the doorway, talking to both Karl and the doctor, but his words were lost in Karl’s fevered brain.

  Karl closed his eyes, the taste of artificial vanilla lingering on his tongue from the drink, and he fell back down to the depths of sleep. But this time, there were no rancid faces to disturb his dreams.

  ***

  He awoke again in pure darkness. No light came from the hallway, and no music came from the distant room. The fevered swelling of his thoughts had subsided, and with effort, he swung his legs off the side of the bed, and waited a moment for a wave of dizziness to pass. He placed one foot on the cement floor and then the other. The cold from the ground felt good against the underside of his feet.

  Holding the rolling IV stand, he pulled himself to stand upright, and once steady, he clicked on the room light and cracked open the door.

  Thirst and hunger motivated him forward. A hunger like he’d never experienced before. An all-consuming need for fuel.

  He made it down the hallway with the rolling IV stand creaking. At an open doorway, he leaned in and squinted. It was the room he’d seen on his way in, something of a doctor’s office, but with a stainless-steel surgical table mounted to the ground instead of a padded examination bed. A host of surgical tools and medicine bottles were set on the counter. Doctor Freeman had been fast to restock his inventory.

  Karl stepped away and walked around the bend in the hall, where he found the kitchen. With the light clicked on, he saw a small refrigerator that wasn’t there before. He opened the door and vapors billowed out, filling his lungs with pleasant, cool air. The interior was empty. He turned to the cabinets, opening one after the other, and found the bottle of protein powder. The powder had a slight sharp smell to it, and Karl could only guess the drink was expired. Still, he scooped a portion and dumped it into a glass of water.