Breathe in.
Exhale.
Focus down the site.
Inhale …
… fire.
Once, twice, a volley of bullets. The entire campsite seemed to jolt, and before he could make sense of what had been hit and what had not, he sprung over the side of the tree, running through the brush, rifle up.
One man grabbed a shotgun from his side and pointed it frantically all throughout the woods. But Karl knew that staring into the campfire would blind them.
He aimed and shot the man below his neck. The man flew backwards, and Karl jumped into the clearing, raving mad, a huffing depiction of cruelty. The closest man lay facedown in the dirt, his head against a rock of the circular campfire, a bloody patch on his back. The man he’d just shot lay on the ground, his hands grasping his throat, unable to breathe, drowning fast. The other was scrambling on his back, his eyes huge, looking at Karl.
“Oh Jes-Jesus Christ!” he shouted, and faltered with the bolt on his rifle.
Karl sprung on him, grabbing the man’s gun, and swung his fists down.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Map Maker
The wood crackled as the flames grew low, and the coals shimmered bright orange and red. The two lifeless scouts lay where they had been shot, as silent and unflinching as stumps of dead wood. They wore shoes made of strips of leather with flat soles and tied with a cord to keep them shut, so they would make little noise while traveling and hunting in the woods.
Karl chewed at a rough tear of jerky and took sips from a canteen, with his back against the side of a fallen tree. The heat from the fire had withered to small gusts of warm wind, and Karl closed his eyes as he chewed, focusing on the sensation of the calorie-rich meat on his tongue, filling his stomach. It felt as if his muscles were absorbing the much-needed protein and fat the moment he swallowed each bite.
He opened his eyes and spoke.
“I’m guessing you want me to let you go.”
The man didn’t answer.
Karl faced him, looking straight into his swollen eyes.
“Am I not correct? Or would you rather stay here, with me?”
“N-no,” the man said.
Karl ripped another tear of meat with his teeth and chewed, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. He was not a flight risk, with his wrists tied behind his back, his ankles bound, and a long length of rope looped tightly around his torso to the dead tree behind him.
“Well,” Karl said between chews, “I’m going to tell you about your situation. So far, I like the way our conversation has been going. You’ve been forthright about your intent out here in the woods, and I appreciate your honesty.” Karl looked to the pile of papers he’d found in the group’s belongings. Roughly drawn maps, trails, and waterways, starting from down in Alice, and ending where they were camped. “That is why you are still alive. And if you continue to be forthcoming with me, your death can be further postponed, perhaps indefinitely. To be candid myself, I will tell you this: if you would like to have an easy go of our question and answer sessions, tell me the truth right away. I have methods of dealing with misinformation and lies that you will not find pleasurable. Understood?”
The man was visibly trembling. “Y-yes,” he said.
“Okay then.” Karl finished the last bite of jerky, and rummaged through the scout’s gear for another strip. “Now, to begin—do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“What’s my name?”
“Karl. K-Karl Metzger.”
“On the night of the war, why were my men sick and hallucinating? What did you poison them with?”
“I don’t know.”
Karl stared at the man.
“Honest to God, I don’t know. I know they did something, but I’m not privy to that information. I’m a scout, I’m out here because I can travel in the woods, and I can draw maps.”
“Next question: how many of my men are dead? Are there prisoners?”
“I … some. I don’t know how many.”
Karl sighed. “You don’t seem to know much. Where were you in the battle?”
“I was locked up in the gymnasium until right before the war started. Then we marched out to Nick’s mansion. I didn’t even fire a shot, swear on my—”
“What happened to Dietrich, and the army coming in from the west?”
“I-I’m not privy—”
“All right, all right.” Karl tossed a twig in the dying flame and stood. “You’re out here, all alone, except for your two friends here, and yet, you don’t know anything about anything. But because you can draw maps, they sent you on a solo mission … I think not. I think there’s more in that head of yours than you’re willing to tell. Probably because you’re ordered to remain silent, and they know you won’t crack easy.”
“No. We were sent to draw the terrain, mark the towns that have been destroyed, and the ones that haven’t. Find small streams not shown on ordinary maps—”
“Let’s be done talking for the night. I’m tired, and I think you’ll have a change of heart by the morning. Tonight, I’m going to go easy on you. We have to move out early, and I don’t want to drag along a pulverized piece of meat.”
The man opened his mouth to talk, but Karl stepped quickly behind him and began untying his ropes. Once the man was free, Karl gripped the back of his neck and pulled him to his feet. The man faltered and limped as Karl pushed him fast to a tree, and slammed his chest up against the hard side. The man made a noise like, “Hmmph,” as his bruised and bleeding body rubbed against the bark. Karl made a noose with the rope, placed the open end around the man’s neck, then wrapped the free end around the tree, so that his face was pressed up hard against the wood. He then went behind him, grabbing his bound wrists, and pulling them upward so that his shoulders were stretched in the wrong direction. Karl threw another rope over a tall branch, and looped the rope around the man’s wrists. The noose had about a quarter inch of slack, and any pulling would result in strangulation.
“Oh, God,” the man said. “Cut me down, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid. We’ll speak again in the morning.”
Karl returned to the fire with a yawn, and unfurled his sleeping bag.
“Please,” the man said, but Karl didn’t answer.
***
Karl yawned again with the coming of morning, and sat up to stretch his back.
“Hey there,” he called to the man. “You still alive?”
The man’s words trembled in reply. “Y-y-yes.”
“Good. After I have a nibble I’ll be sure to loosen your bindings. You hungry?”
“Please, sir … I know things about—”
“After breakfast, please. You’ve been patient enough. You were quieter last night than I had anticipated. My hat is off to you.”
“T-thank you, sir.”
After Karl ate from a bag of tasteless granola and nuts, he unsheathed his knife and cut the rope above the man’s wrists. His arms fell, and the man shrieked.
“Oh, Christ,” he said.
Karl cut the rope at the man’s neck, and the man fell to the ground, pale and quivering.
“It will take a while for your arms to feel back to normal. Your muscles are stretched and torn. Give it some time.”
The man lay curled like a baby, and Karl brought him a canteen and a strip of dried meat.
“Here,” he said. “Drink. You have to drink.”
The man grabbed the canteen with shaking hands and drank, then took the jerky.
“Now,” Karl said. “Let’s begin.”
Karl made him stand and retied his wrists before his body, and said, “The more I can trust you, the more comfortable your ordeal.”
They sat before the fire and talked into the late morning. The man answered each question in turn, and Karl believed everything that came out of his mouth. He was a scout, trained by Simon Kalispell—who was still alive, and a celebrated war
hero. As a part of his training, he had traveled to Hightown on many occasions. The poison that was used on the men was some sort of mushroom, brought in by Brian Rhodes. Both of these men were distinguished for their parts in the war, and were responsible for taking down Nick Byrnes. The soldiers in Nick’s mansion had developed rashes due to bales of poison ivy that had been thrown in with their laundry, which was also brought in by Brian Rhodes.
Karl nodded as the man spoke, and they went on to other subjects, going over the names of prisoners. Karl had the man draw out maps and sketches, and was delighted in the detail.
“I can’t believe it,” Karl said, holding a sketch of Hightown’s inner workings. “You know something—I think the two of us will get along just fine.”
“Please,” the man said. “I’ve told you everything I know. Please, let me go. You-you promised.”
“Ha!” Karl shook his head. “No, no. I never promised. All I said is that you can prolong your life, which you have so far begun to do. But we are far from over. Come now, the afternoon grows near, and we have many miles to cover.”
“Where are you taking me?”
Karl tsked him quiet and said, “It’s time we go over the rules of the journey. First, you do not ask any questions, only answer mine. Understood?” Karl played with a length of rope, pulling it taut. The scouts had packed huge lengths of cord. With a few pitons, they had enough to scale a mountain.
The man looked down. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Karl patted the man on his head.
The noose rope from the night before was tightened around the man’s neck, and the supplies were gathered.
“Okay then. We’re heading north. You’ll have to stay a few steps in front of me. You so much as stumble in any direction that I don’t instruct, and I’ll make it so you never sleep a peaceful night again. I’ll add things like splinters under your nails, sharp things against your throat. So, onward.” Karl pointed. “Due north.”
He took a step, and then stopped. “One more thing. There was a girl, Bethany Rose. Do you know her?”
“Bethany Rose?” said the man. “It that the girl they found in the basement?”
The skin on Karl’s arms turned to goose bumps. “Yes.”
“I don’t know much about her, other than she seems to be in a relationship with Simon Kalispell. There’s rumor that she’s related to Albert Driscoll, but honest to God, I don’t know anything more. It’s hearsay.”
Karl’s eyes went large. “She’s a Driscoll?”
“I have no idea.”
Karl believed him. “Proceed,” he told the man, and they began their journey to the docks. A smile permeated his lips. Driscoll … Kalispell …
Chapter Thirty-nine
The General Arrives
The man’s leather shoes did little to help him outside of the woods. The streets were a jumble of clutter, with shards of broken glass, rusted and disintegrating soda cans, and various sharp objects of unknown origin that sparked along their path by the full sun.
They stopped to take a break in the shade of a derelict home, and Karl offered the man a canteen. The man shook his head. Karl studied the scout, his bruised face looking solemnly down at his lap, his hands closed in the crook of his folded legs.
“Take a drink,” Karl said again.
“I’m fine.”
Karl reached out and nudged his shoulder with the canteen. “Take it.”
The man looked up.
“Open your hands,” Karl said.
He still didn’t move.
“Open them.”
In the silence, the urgency of an impending fight brought a burst of adrenaline to Karl’s heart. He savored the sensation, watched the man’s face, his eyes, his skin, his arms and legs, for the slightest tick of an oncoming attack.
But the man just sighed, looked to his hands, and opened his palms. A sliver of sharp metal rested on his palm, the other end twisted and dark.
Karl took a sip from the canteen, then said, “You aim to kill me with that thing?”
The scout didn’t answer.
“Just a few weeks ago, I was blown to hell in an explosion that killed several other men. When I awoke, the room where I was lying was ablaze, the whole house on fire. I managed to flee, trailing so much blood my veins were beginning to pump air. For miles I walked, with my wounds covered in duct tape, and managed to get myself in a predicament with one of my closest officers. He had me drugged and trapped in an underground shelter, all the while feeding me roasted slabs of meat that belonged to one of my soldiers, who was kept sedated and restrained on an autopsy table while sections of his leg were removed. The poor bastard. But I’ll tell you what; it wasn’t half-bad. Greg was his name. Greg wasn’t bad.
“The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve been through hell and back, and I’ll be damned if my life is ended by that little toy you got there.”
The piece of shrapnel fell to the grass.
Karl offered the canteen again, and the man took it. After a long pull of water he passed it back, and wiped his mouth on his forearm.
“I don’t blame you for trying to kill me,” Karl said, “Or at least, thinking about trying. Unfortunately, I’ll have to make it so you don’t pick up any more toys along the way.”
Karl stood, and leaned down to grab the man’s forearms. The man pulled away.
“I-I’m sorry, Karl—I’m sorry!”
Karl wrestled with the man’s thrashing arms and grabbed ahold of his wrist.
“What are you doing? Stop, please! I’ve told you … I’ve told you so much. I swear—”
Karl tightened his grip on the man’s wrist with one hand and grabbed his pointer finger with the other, feeling the thin little bone between the knuckle.
“Brace yourself,” Karl said. “We got nine more to go.”
***
The only noise other than the man’s feet dragging against the pavement was the gentle melodic chirrup from a small flock of blackbirds, which covered several trees in the properties to their side.
“It’s just ahead,” Karl said.
The man continued, slumped over, his eyes cast to the ground. Karl tugged at the noose. “No longer talking to me?”
The man jolted at the constriction against his throat, then said, “You gonna kill me?”
“What makes you think that? Just don’t do something stupid again, like plan on stabbing me.”
“If you’re gonna do it, just do it.” The man’s voice was low, a mumble. “Do it now.”
“Ha! Oh, sir, I plan on keeping you around. You’re valuable.”
“I’ve told you everything …”
“Not enough. Never enough. There’s more in that head of yours, I’m quite certain of it.”
“I’ll never … never be able to draw you another map.” He looked at his hands.
“We have people who can do that for you.”
They walked under an overpass that stretched across the highway, and as they came out the other side, the first and then the second ceremonial cannon came into view. There was movement behind the chain-link fence, and after another two steps, a voice called out, “Stop right there!”
The man paused, but Karl continued toward the fence, yanking at the rope for the man to follow.
More people appeared at the gate: soldiers in camouflage pointing machine guns.
“I said stop!” one of them called. “We’ll fire!”
“Do you not recognize your superior officer?” Karl said. “Open the gate.”
The men behind the chain-link paused, then one said, “Who are you? Identify yourself.”
Karl walked to the security booth beside the sliding entrance.
“General Karl Metzger. And this here … what’s your name, boy?”
The man opened his mouth, but Karl continued speaking, “Open up, and send word to Captain Liam and Commander Ivanov that I’ve arrived.”
The soldier nearest him lowered his rifle and leaned in, squinting. “That
really you?”
“Am I really me?” Karl laughed. “I certainly am.”
“We heard you’re dead. We heard the war is over. We lost.”
“War never ends, soldier. It changes battlefields, but it never ends.”
“How do I know it’s you?”
“Call up Captain Briggs. Once he recognizes me, you can spend some time in the stockade with my friend here.” Karl yanked the rope, making the man lurch forward.
The soldier walked away, talking into a microphone. A minute later he returned, and began unlocking the chains around the entrance. As he slid the gate open he said, “You’ll have to leave your firearms at the entrance until we confirm your identity.”
Karl walked past him. “I’ll do no such thing.” He tossed the end of the rope at the man’s feet. “Lock him up proper.”
As Karl proceeded into the base, a flock of guards studied him as if he was a mythical deity, returned from the dead. The soldiers’ uniforms were frayed and patched up, and looked baggy around their gaunt frames. Their eyes were sunken, blinking in their shadowy sockets.
“You,” Karl said, pointing to a young soldier with short, springy hair.
The soldier’s eyes went large and he pointed to his chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Where’s Captain Briggs?”
“I, um … the warship, I presume.”
“Escort me there. And call in for a warm meal to be prepared. The last hot meal I had was …” He shook his head. “Never mind. Just call in for a meal to be made.”
“Sir. Yes, sir … there ain’t much in the ways of hot food, but I’ll call it in.” The soldier took his radio off his belt, and then paused. “That really you, Karl?”
“It’s really me, lad. I swear it. Those bastards couldn’t kill me if they tried. And believe me, they tried plenty hard.”
Chapter Forty
Broth
Karl sipped at a shallow bowl of clear liquid with a few meager cuts of carrot swimming around. He looked out a porthole to the glistening waves of the bay water, which extended far to a thin barrier island on the horizon and then the limitless ocean beyond. The cabin where he sat was a rectangular box, with an oval table in the center and a few dark leather couches to the side. Part of the officers’ quarters, he presumed, but he knew nothing about warships. The walls were a drab off-white hue, with thick metal support beams running over the ceiling. Despite the several porthole windows letting in sunlight, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being underground again, cut off from the world.
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