Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  Pockets of unstirred powder exploded in his mouth as he drank, and the liquid filled his stomach. Nausea hit him, but he scooped more powder, spilling it over the counter, and filled the glass again.

  There was a muffled sound behind him, and Karl turned to see Doctor Freeman standing at the doorway, wearing nothing but his underwear, his hair matted with sleep.

  “Karl,” he said, “what are you doing out of bed? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’m starving.”

  Karl drained the glass.

  Doctor Freeman walked up beside him and opened a cabinet. He pulled down a half sack of white flour and said, “Sit.”

  Karl sat at the round table as the doctor mixed a portion of the flour with water, making a thin porridge. He heated a pan over a butane camping stove that Greg must have found, and poured the batter. After a moment it started to sizzle, and he flipped the patty, and after another minute, he placed the steaming pancake before Karl.

  The dough was hot, singeing his tongue, but still Karl devoured every crumb.

  “There’s nothing out there,” Doctor Freeman said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Food. There’s no food. The town’s been wiped clean.”

  “Are there no rabbits or squirrels?”

  The doctor nodded toward the hallway. “Not that Greg can find.”

  “Plants then. Grass. Whatever.”

  “The boy wouldn’t know the difference between cabbage and poison ivy. I’ll go out tomorrow, see what I can find.”

  Karl swallowed and said, “Where’d you get the fridge, and the music I heard earlier?”

  “My home. The police took most everything down here, but my home is largely intact.”

  “Are there still soldiers around?”

  “Greg saw another group of our men, executed.”

  “How many?”

  “Maybe a dozen. Don’t know.” The doctor chuckled. “If they weren’t too ripe, we’d have a proper meal.”

  The thought of Doctor Freeman hunched over a rotten corpse, his lips and mouth bloody red, caused bile to rise up in his throat. The rush of food and water in his stomach, which had been empty for days, began to cause too much pressure.

  “I gotta lie down.”

  Doctor Freeman helped him back to his room and put him into bed.

  “I’ll be back in the morning, after Greg and I return from scouting.”

  Karl gripped at his stomach.

  “I think I’m going to be sick, Doc.”

  “Be right back.” The doctor turned and left. A minute later he returned with a loaded syringe, and inserted it into the injection port of the IV. A rush of pleasure invaded Karl’s bloodstream.

  He closed his eyes and embraced the warmth.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Mutiny

  Keeping track of time, down in that windowless bunker, was hard to do. There were no clocks, no indication of the sun’s position, and it might have been the morning when Karl awoke to see Doctor Freeman standing above him, tending to his bandages.

  “Stitches look good,” he said after seeing Karl awake.

  “I’m feeling better.”

  If anything, lying in bed for so long was now causing more discomfort than any of his injuries. Every muscle ached. What he needed was to get back on his feet. Move around. Wake his body up.

  “We were lucky today; managed to snare a rabbit.”

  Karl’s eyes went large.

  “You don’t say?”

  “Got it stewing in the kitchen with some dandelion greens, wild sage, oyster mushrooms, and a bottle of red wine. It’s funny, the liquor store in town was one of the few places not fully ransacked. It’ll be ready in an hour.”

  The doctor took a syringe from the counter and inserted it in the medicine port.

  “I don’t think I need that,” Karl said. “I feel good. I need to get back on my feet.”

  “It’s antibiotics. You still have a fever and your wounds are infected.”

  The familiar wave of pleasantness tingled at his mind as the medicine absorbed in his bloodstream.

  “Sleepiness is a side effect,” the doctor said. “I’ll be back with the food when it’s ready.”

  Doctor Freeman stood, and left Karl alone in the dark room.

  ***

  Steam wafted over his face, filling his lungs with the earthy aroma of simmered meat and wild foraged herbs. Karl placed the first spoonful in his mouth, and a deep range of flavors burst on his tongue and filled his throat with warmth.

  He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of food—real food—in his stomach.

  Doctor Freeman sat beside him holding a bowl, blowing steam off a spoonful.

  “My God,” Karl said. “This is the best meal I’ve ever eaten.” His mind was still numb from the medicine, veiled in a sleep-induced fog. He ate another spoonful, and said between bites, “Where’s Greg?”

  “In his room.” The doctor paused to take a bite, and then said, “Sleeping, I think. He wants to go back out on a hunt later. Thinks he saw larger tracks, maybe a deer.”

  “Deer?” Karl looked at him, amazed.

  The doctor shrugged. “He’s probably wrong.”

  Karl ate with abandon. “Just be careful,” he said, nearing the bottom of the bowl. “Don’t let him go out for long. The whole point of us being down here is to hide.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Doctor Freeman placed his empty bowl on the tray and then took Karl’s. Before leaving, he gave Karl another dose of medicine.

  “Doc, I think we got to change up whatever you’re giving me.”

  “I know it’s strong, but we don’t have a choice. I can scout the neighboring town, see if the pharmacy there has any other options.”

  Karl’s eyes began to involuntarily close.

  “Tell Greg …” He paused to yawn. “Tell him good job.”

  Doctor Freeman nodded, took the tray, and left the room.

  ***

  A day, two days, maybe a week went by. Karl squinted at the light above him, and tried to decipher his place in reality.

  He’d eaten quite a bit recently, and he should have his strength back. But if anything, he was getting worse. Time breezed by when he was awake, his head throbbing a dull ache, and all he wanted to do was sleep. The doctor told him the wound on his leg was infected, and with it came a strong fever. He was pumped with more and more medicine, and twice a day, his injuries were examined with that insanely bright lamp.

  Greg had been out on the hunt incessantly after he’d caught the first deer, despite Karl telling the Doctor to order him to stay in. There was no need to further expose himself if it wasn’t crucial; the deer carcass would supply them with enough meat to last for days, and by all accounts, they had to leave soon.

  But Greg wasn’t listening. Every time Karl ordered Doctor Freeman to go get him, the doctor would return with palms open. “He’s gone out.” His own relentless sleeping didn’t help. Twice, the doctor said Greg came to see him, but he himself couldn’t be awoken.

  But Karl knew what was going on. With him bedridden, Greg was attempting to step up, take over leadership. Or perhaps he was out scouting a path to flee; maybe he no longer believed in Karl’s ability to get them to the docks. Maybe Greg was gathering supplies, waiting until the time was right to leave them behind. It wouldn’t be surprising.

  Karl finished the last bite of the roasted venison loin, the meat a bit tough and with a tang of lemon. Apparently, the doctor and Greg had brought down a working hot plate and a small oven from the main house.

  Karl put his plate down and Doctor Freeman cleaned up.

  “Where-where’d you get the lemon …” His eyes began to close.

  “What?”

  “The meat. It tasted like lemon.”

  Doctor Freeman shook his head. “There’s no lemon. That’s fear you taste. Greg botched the kill. He shot the animal in the torso, and it lived for hours. He had to stalk it while it slowly bled out. All
the while the animal was stressed, the adrenaline using up glycogen, which then can’t be turned to lactic acid. After death, it’s lactic acid that keeps meat tender. The result is an acidic pH level, not lemon.”

  “We have to talk about Greg. He’s going to flee.”

  There was a pause. Then, “I think you’re right. He’s going out incessantly, and not listening to orders. I was going to mention it to you when your fever passed.”

  The medication was kicking in, and Karl said, “We’ll talk … talk later.”

  After a moment, he heard the clatter of his plate and silverware being picked up, and Doctor Freeman took his leave.

  ***

  It was dark when his eyes snapped open, and he turned quickly to his side and heaved in the bucket. Classical music came in from the open door as he continued to heave.

  The retching continued long after his stomach was empty, and for many minutes he remained leaning over the side of his bed, half-asleep, listening to the trumpets blaze as a trail of drool dripped from his lips.

  When … will this pass?

  It was thirst that got him to sit up, and his shaking hands felt for the familiar smooth side of a glass on the table, but in the darkness he could see that there was no glass.

  He swung his feet off the side of the bed and remained sitting there, eyes closed, for a long duration. A thought hit him: Brahms’s first symphony … then he realized the music he was hearing was exactly that. The fast progression of the strings and horns indicated the finale was close.

  He stood on wavering legs, then fell back to sitting. After a deep breath, he stood again, and let his feet and legs regain some stability before stepping forward. The rolling IV stand helped, and when he was out in the hallway he leaned his shoulder against the wall, and dragged himself forward.

  His wounds didn’t throb in pain like they had. It was his entire body that was fighting each step, and his mind more than anything else.

  Get ahold of yourself, old man … you’re tougher than this. You’re Karl Metzger, for Christ’s sake.

  Karl passed the doorway to the examination room, and light was visible from under the closed door. The music came echoing out as he continued around the bend in the hallway, and he arrived at the kitchen.

  His trembling hand filled a glass with water. The cool liquid soothed his raw throat, and offered a degree of comfort to his body and mind.

  The muffled music was reaching a ferocious peak, and all at once it ended. Karl put the glass down faster than anticipated, and it fell into the sink, making a clatter. He found that moving had become easier as he headed back to his room. With each step his muscles tightened and flexed, and despite the waves of dizziness, the movement felt good.

  As he neared the bend in the hallway, he heard the creaking hinges of a door open, and Doctor Freeman stepped out from his office.

  “Karl!” he shouted, wiping his hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Thirsty, Doc.”

  “No, no, no.” The doctor shook his head. “You’re liable to burst a stitch.”

  “I got to move. I can’t stay in that bed any longer.”

  “All right, all right. I understand. We’ll work on that, tomorrow.”

  Doctor Freeman took his elbow and led him to his room.

  “Doctor,” Karl said, being put into bed. “I want to walk more.”

  “Tomorrow, I promise. You have to be monitored, and it’s late now.”

  Doctor Freeman patted his pocket and removed a medicine vial. He placed it down, then continued patting his pockets.

  “Stay here,” he said, and left the room.

  Karl glanced at the vial of antibiotics. The small glass container was brown, with a green cap and sticker. The writing was small, and he was too far away to see clearly, but he squinted nonetheless.

  Benzo … Benzodiaz …

  He couldn’t read the whole word.

  Underneath the name was a description. He leaned in closer.

  Multidose Vial … Slow IV Injection … Sedative …

  Sedative?

  The doctor returned with a clean hypodermic in a sterile wrapper. In swift movements he popped the cap off the syringe, plunged it in the bottle, and injected it in the port. Karl said nothing as his eyes closed. But as sleep overtook him, his thoughts grew dark.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Empty Chambers

  “We need to get moving,” Karl said. “It’s safe now, it has to be.”

  “Agreed.” Doctor Freeman pulled the syringe out of the port and recapped the needle. “You’ve healed up well. As soon as your fever breaks, we’ll head out.”

  Karl’s eyes closed and the door hinges creaked shut. The doctor’s footsteps grew faint down the hallway. Soon, music became audible—shrill violins and cellos.

  For a moment, Karl listened to his pulse beat heavy in his chest. He breathed in and out, steadying his heart rate, focusing his thoughts. Then he pushed back his covers and sat up straight, letting the blood in his body adjust to his sudden movements.

  It had been two days since he’d seen the medicine vial. Once he’d awakened from his chemical-induced fog, he pulled the needle out of his arm and inserted it in the mattress between his bicep and his torso. It took a while for the drugs to dissipate from his bloodstream enough for him to regain some strength, but once he was up, he walked around the room in a circle, letting his muscles flex. He reinserted the needle in the intervals between his medicine doses, and took it back out again when the doctor showed up with the hypodermic, hiding his arm under the covers.

  Now, he waited on his bed for many minutes, until he was reasonably sure the doctor would not be returning. He reached out and clicked on the examination light. All his injuries were healing up fast. Whatever concoction of medicine he’d been receiving, antibiotics might have been one of them. There was still some redness, and the skin was puffy through the stitches, but by all appearances, the wounds had clasped together. There was little to no pain, but the itchiness was becoming maddening.

  It felt good to be on his feet, great even. This was the second night in a row of being able to walk around, stretch, feel the strength return to his hands. It was time to leave. Find Greg in this underground maze, and get the hell out.

  But first, he’d have to deal with the doctor.

  And to be honest, he wasn’t sure what the best course of action would be. The man deserved a chance, an opportunity to explain himself, to see if there was some reason that he’d been dispensing sedatives and God knows what else, keeping Karl solitary and idle, locked away deep underground.

  After all their time together, the cities they’d sacked, plundered, consumed, Karl hoped this wasn’t going to be the end of their journey. But deep down he knew the man was an addict of the worst kind. This labyrinth bunker was proof positive of his nightmare cravings. Over a dozen rooms, each designed for a purpose. Torture in some, medical experiments in others. In the back, in the oven, what remained of the victims was burned to ash, then scooped up and dumped in the pond.

  What was the death toll under the doctor? Before the war, the news said something around twenty confirmed, another few dozen speculated. In Texas alone, there were at least twelve, killed in a bunker much like this one. Karl read all about it, locked up in the cell next to the man back in Haddonfield Penitentiary. The librarian had snuck him all sorts of current affairs magazines.

  And once the doors of the doctor’s cell were opened, when he came blinking out of the darkness, reborn into a world of death, decay, and insanity, he fell right back to old behaviors. The neighboring cells had become similar to this underground bunker, each designed for brutal execution, torture, and consumption.

  In many ways, the room Karl was in now was much like his cell in Haddonfield. Only this time his door was unlocked. A pile of clothing, washed in the sink, sat folded on a chair in the corner. Karl went to it now, and reached for his pistol belt that hung by the strap. The dark grips felt cool in hi
s palm, and the bulk of the weapon offered a familiar reassurance. He clicked the cylinder open.

  That monster …

  The bullets were gone.

  He rummaged through his belongings, feeling the pockets. Nothing. Even his knife was absent.

  For a moment, he paused, gathering his thoughts.

  The classical music—Brahms, by Karl’s reckoning—still trickled in from behind the closed door. Slowly, he dressed himself, trying not to make too much noise. Then he clicked off the light, and waited in the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Brahms

  Footsteps fell from down the hallway, growing louder. The door opened, emitting a sliver of light that quickly grew, and then the doctor walked into the room. He reached for the examination lamp, but then paused, his gaze fixed on the empty bed illuminated by the outside light.

  Karl stepped out from behind him and swung his arms around Doctor Freeman’s head, his hands clamped around the plastic IV cord that he’d doubled up and stretched taut. The doctor moved just as Karl sprung forward, and the makeshift garrote wrapped around his chin, but still Karl tugged, leaning back, using his height to pull Doctor Freeman against his chest. The cord slipped to his neck, and Karl heard the gasp of his old friend attempting to inhale against the plastic tubing.

  The doctor bucked and flailed his arms, and the men spun. Karl’s back hit the wall, and then they spiraled again. The doctor’s glasses fell off, and he reached back, grabbing at Karl’s face, head, and ears with a sinewy strength. Karl yanked to his side. Doctor Freeman let out sickening gurgling noise, and then the first, then the second plastic tubes snapped in half. The doctor fell forward, grasping at his throat, and quickly turned to face Karl.