Butcher Rising

by Brandon Zenner

  The men were fast down the stairway, using flashlights at the bottom where there was no flowing electricity. The air grew foul as they progressed across a hallway, with no enemy soldiers to be found. At a pair of thick metal double doors, a man in front tried out several keys until one fit, and the army stepped into a prison room. The cells here were large, and dozens of faces peered out from behind the bars. Filthy, blinking, shielding their eyes from the glaring flashlights.

  “Open them,” Karl said.

  “Is that really you?” the prisoners asked. “General?”

  Karl didn’t stop to greet his freed men, but continued with Bishop and two others to a door in the back. Once open, they went further down a barren hall, and had to unlock yet another door before entering. Beyond were six single cells for the more violent offenders, or those awaiting transfer to larger prisons. Here was where Hightown kept the few officers they had captured, locked behind thick steel doors.

  In turn they were opened, with one vacant, and the others containing the battered and half-dead senior officials of Karl’s Red Hands. At the last one, Karl himself inserted the key and unlocked the door. So far, everything that the captured scout had told him was correct.

  Bishop shone a flashlight as the door was pulled open, and a man sat straight-backed on a cot, facing the wall.

  “Dietrich,” Karl said.

  The Priest turned to face Karl and said, “By the grace of God … I never doubted you, Sir General.”

  He stood tall and stepped out to freedom, and joined Karl in the demise of Hightown.

  Epilogue

  Simon

  In the days following the battle in Alice, mass funerals were held for the departed. Flatbed vehicles and garbage trucks collected the dead from the front line, and men in full protective clothing lined the corpses in the zigzagged trenches in the lawn before Nick Byrnes’s mansion. The bodies of the Red Hands were tossed inside the damaged home, along with a variety of limbs and parts of unknown origin, and scraps of broken machinery of war. The townspeople gathered to watch backhoes fill in the trench line, burying the dead, and then the mansion was set on fire. The new general of Alice spoke to the crowd in a somber tone as the flames leaped into the air, and the home was reduced to blackened timber. The next morning, work trucks rolled over the destruction, flattening out what was left of the frame. Weeks later, wildflower seeds were scattered atop of the entire front lawn in commemoration.

  A large force of Hightown’s military stayed in Alice, helping to repair the front line, and sending out expeditionary forces to capture any Red Hands who had fled. The town of Masterson was discovered, where a large enemy force still remained. The expeditionary force fell back, and a full-on assault rumbled into the town, tanks and all. However, the enemy had disappeared before their arrival, and little was left behind to suggest the town was ever inhabited. Scouts were sent to follow their trail.

  Simon Kalispell helped spread the wildflower seeds along with a few dozen volunteers. Brian Rhodes was with him, although his knee had been twisted fierce in the fighting, and he had to stop and lean into his cane every few minutes, taking the pressure off his leg.

  “Why don’t you go back home?” Simon asked, reaching into the large bag of seeds. The tiny grains felt nice in his hand, a living thing not yet come to be.

  “Nah,” Brian said. “I’ve spent enough time at home, in bed or on the couch the last few weeks. I need some air. The ground here is bumpy is all. I’m a’right.”

  Simon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Off in the distance, his dog, Winston, had his nose pressed deep in the soil. Simon looked up to see him digging.

  “Winston!” Simon whistled loud, and his dog’s ears perked up. He whistled again, and Winston came trotting over, his tongue bouncing out of the side of his mouth. “Come on, boy. No digging.” He scratched at the dark spot of fur on Winston’s head, and then said to Brian, “I should have left him at home, with Bethany.”

  “He needs fresh air too. And Beth’s probably working on the front line.”

  Simon didn’t answer to that. Bethany had been working incessantly since her ordeal in the basement of Nick’s mansion. She barely slept at night and would wake up before dawn, quickly leaving the house to go help reconstruct the trenches and bunkers. It was her way of coping, Simon knew, not that he could blame her. She’d been abducted, sedated, and made to think that she’d be tortured and brutally killed at any moment. But still, she wasn’t allowing herself to process her ordeal.

  Simon let the tiny seeds drift from between his fingers, scattering with the breeze. The radio attached to his belt made a muffled noise, and then a voice spoke. “Simon, come in. Over.”

  Simon unclasped the radio. “This is Simon. Over.”

  “You’re needed in North Ward five. Over.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Simon looked at Brian, and before he could say anything, Brian said, “Leave Winston with me. I’ll take him home.”

  “Thanks.” Simon scratched Winston’s head and reached down for his rifle, which was leaning beside a garden rake. As he walked off the lawn, he turned to see Winston lapping at Brian’s hand as his head was being ruffled, his tail in a frenzy.

  God, that old dog still has so much life in him.

  Simon took off in a jog off the lawn, and up the next street toward the northern section of town. North Ward five was a checkpoint close to the trade grounds, just slightly above it.

  He jogged near a half mile, and the air expanding his lungs felt good. As he neared the checkpoint, he saw two other Rangers waiting along with the guards. “Simon, sir!” one called out. It was strange being called sir, and Simon wasn’t sure if he liked it. After so many of the Rangers died in the battle, he was the logical next in command. Especially with many of the residents looking at him as if he were some sort of supernatural deity after the battle on Nick’s front lawn. There was so much death that day … Simon had killed an abundance … and he barely remembered doing it. The night was like a dream. He’d fought in the trenches like an animal, his body moving and hacking with the machete of its own accord. At night, when the nightmares came, it was like watching a terrible movie in his thoughts.

  “Jack,” Simon said, reaching the scouts. “What’s going on?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I think it’s best you see for yourself. I’ll explain on the way.”

  A jeep was waiting outside of the gates, and Simon sat in the passenger seat as Jack took the wheel, and turned onto the pavement.

  “There were three of them, sir. Just came wandering out of the brush. It’s-it’s a sight.”

  “What is?”

  “Our hunters were out near Partridge Lake, and they saw the first of them. The guy came stumbling out of the brush, his wrists tied before him.”

  “Who is he?”

  Jack swallowed visibly. “A scout from Hightown. It’s his eyes, sir. He doesn’t have any. Eyes, ears, tongue, nose … they’ve been cut away. He’s near dead, starved and dehydrated.”

  “What? Are there more?”

  “Three, including the one scout. But he’s the only one still alive. The hunters called in a medic and reinforcements—”

  “Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”

  “I don’t know, sir. This all just happened. I don’t think the hunters knew what they were coming upon, or what was happening.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “They found the second man dead in the woods about a half mile away. His face is cut up the same. The third man was nearby, sitting up against a tree. He was unconscious, but alive. When the medics came and started removing his binds, cutting away his clothing, there was a gash on his side, stitched up, and a bulge. Then all at once the guy fucking blew up.”

  “What?” Simon’s eyes shot large.

  “Two medics died.”

  “Holy shit. What about the other one?”

  “The same. Both the one alive and the one dead, they got b
ig bulges in their sides. The medics aren’t touching them until a bomb unit arrives. They’ve been called in, and should be there before us.”

  “Does the General know?”

  Yes, sir.”

  Jack turned onto a gravel road, the bumps and potholes in bad shape.

  “Any idea who the men are?”

  Not the one who blew up, or the other one who’s dead. It’s hard to tell … you know, with their faces how they are. But one of the hunters says he might recognize the one alive. A scout from Hightown, a mapmaker of some sort.”

  Jack turned again down another gravel road, the woods growing thicker on either side. Ahead were three other jeeps parked off the road. Jack parked next to them, and a soldier walked over.

  “Simon,” the soldier said. “You’ll need to stand back. The bomb squad is there now.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Unconscious, I think.” The man pointed into the woods, where a dozen armed men stood about. “Just up there. Stay behind those trees.”

  Simon stepped to the broad side of a maple, and the soldier passed him binoculars. Through the circular peripherals, a man sat with his back against a tree, his hands on his lap. Two men in full protective gear stood before him. The man’s face was red with blood, and black with grime. It was difficult to see the extent of his injuries from their distance, yet the dark voids where his eyes and nose should have been were unmistakable.

  “One thing more, sir,” the soldier said. “His chest is all cut up. Looks like someone tried to write something on him with a knife.”

  Simon looked away from the scene.

  “Here.” The man passed Simon a slip of paper. “Whatever it means, it’s beyond me.”

  Simon studied the words. Ante Bellum.

  All at once, his radio, along with everyone else’s radio, issued a high-pitched alarm. Simon grabbed it from his belt. “All forces return to Alice. Hightown is reporting an attack. I repeat, all forces return to Alice.” The alarm sound repeated.

  Simon turned to the car and ran to the passenger door. Jack started the ignition and turned in the road.

  “Take us straight to the General,” Simon said.

  The window was rolled down, and the warm breeze played over his skin.

  Please, Simon thought, just let this be a false alarm …

  He thought of Brian, injured from fighting. Of Bethany, whose nightmares rivaled his own, and of Carolanne, Brian’s wife, who had sewed and patched up hundreds of wounds following the war. He thought of Winston, who now was so old that it took him a pause to sit and stand. He thought about Nick and Tom Byrnes, and the hundreds of people he called friends who were brutally slaughtered during the battle for Alice. All for nothing. He himself had killed dozens, and he would never be at peace with that.

  We can’t take any more … no more fighting, please, for all that is holy …

  But deep down, Simon knew that something terrible was on the horizon.

  http://www.BrandonZenner.com

  http://www.amazon.com/author/brandonzenner

  Thank you for reading Butcher Rising. A sequel is coming … sign up for Brandon Zenner’s email list on his website to be kept informed. You will also receive a free short story, “Helix Illuminated,” when you sign up. As always, the best way you can support an independent author is by leaving a review on Amazon. Each and every review is read and appreciated by the author, both good and bad. The Amazon link above will take you there. Please read on past the Acknowledgments for a preview of Brandon Zenner’s novel, Whiskey Devils. For those of you who want more, check out Brandon Zenner’s blog site here: https://brandonzennerblog.wordpress.com

  From the Author

  I mention in the “From the Author” section of The After War that this series of books all began when I was sixteen years old. I was walking through a nearby park when the images of a battle formed in my mind, where it fermented and grew into what is still being created to this day, over twenty years later. The first scene, from way back then, was the battle in the woods of Alice Springs Park. Over the years, the story grew and matured, and as I wrote the first draft of The After War, I realized that one novel was not enough. The story couldn’t end where it left off, and Simon, Brian, Karl, and Winston were not finished yet. The challenge was deciding where to pick up after I ended The After War. I typed out fifty pages or so, but didn’t like where it was going. What I needed was a story all in its own, and not just a strict continuation of events. To say I felt dejected would be an understatement. I abandoned the fifty pages, and went about feeling sorry for myself, much to my wife’s dismay (and annoyance). Then one night, as I was attempting to fall asleep, the first line popped into my head, “In the low of a valley lay a pond …” All at once it hit me; this book is not only a continuation of Karl Metzger’s plight after Alice, the book is in itself Karl Metzger’s story. He deserves a novel of his own. After all, he is my favorite bad guy that I have created (sorry to the Russian gangsters in Whiskey Devils, and that sharp-dressed lawyer of sorts in The Experiment of Dreams). I got out of bed and scribbled down a few lines, then tried to go back to sleep. More of the plot came to me that night, and I had a clear image of the town of Marianna, and the slightly Western tone I wanted for the first part of the novel. In the morning, I typed the first chapter, and had a rough draft completed a few months later. I let the manuscript sit for over a year, then returned to it with fresh eyes. It’s a great feeling to see your own work after enough time has gone by to forget some of its nuances.

  I still go to the same park where I got the initial idea for this series, and dwell on new concepts. Only now, instead of my mash-up of teenage friends who used to accompany me, I take my four-year-old daughter, and let her come up with stories of her own. And believe me when I tell you, she’s full of them. I haven’t yet shown her some of my old haunts inside that park, such as the inspiration behind Simon’s meditation perch, but we’ll get there soon enough. The world is hers, and she’ll in time find a perch of her own.

  All the best,

  Brandon Zenner

  Acknowledgments

  In no particular order, the following people deserve my thanks and appreciation. You each contributed in your own way, and helped shape this novel into what it has become. Hal Zenner, John Zur, Stephanie Parent, and Deborah Dove. Lastly, my wife, Mallory, for her unwavering support, and my daughter, Sadie-Mae, for always inspiring me.

  Preview: Whiskey Devils

  “A large marijuana growing operation, Russian mobsters, undercover drug agents, and a biker gang, wraps up with a series of unexpected and shocking plot reversals that brings the book to a violent, surprising, and powerful end.” (BookLife Prize in Fiction, by Publishers Weekly)

  Chapter 1

  Spring, 2003

  Weaving through the crowd, I passed my exhausted coworkers, their faces gaunt and ghostly pale in the fluorescent lighting. All of them were salivating before the punch-out clock like a pack of ravenous hounds eager to tear into the flesh of that Friday night. They leaned from one leg to the other, purses in hand, sunglasses dangling from open collars. The din of conversation lessened as I neared the clock, and all eyes were cast upon me.

  They were thinking, Is he really going to do it? Is Powers leaving early?

  The receptionist’s sharp stare burned with scorn from behind her blonde bangs, but I ignored her gaze and approached the clock. My time card was in my hand, “Evan Powers” scribbled on top. The paper glided effortlessly through the punch-out machine, making a slight mechanical noise as it stamped out the time, 4:47. The clicking noise echoed in the now-silent room, and I hightailed it to the door, daring my eager coworkers to follow.

  Warm air cloaked me in all its glory as I flung the door open. My flesh tingled—honest to God, tingled—like the sun was drawing out some poison from the office’s artificial cold air.

  As I crossed the parking lot toward my car, I resisted turning to look through the wall-length window of the manager’s o
ffice. Kim would be staring up from a stack of papers on her desk, watching me in disbelief as she checked the time on her watch. No one left before the clock struck five. No one.

  Yeah, I did it. I left early. But fuck it—I quit. So there was that.

  The well-traveled engine of my Buick rumbled to life, sputtering out clouds of gray exhaust. I backed out, put the car in drive, and sped the hell out of there.

  A cigar was waiting for me in the glove box, and I clamped it between my teeth as I loosened the collar of my button-up shirt.

  I laughed out loud, feeling a bit like a madman who laughs alone at the world, thinking, I’m free, you fuckers—I’m free! A cloud of cigar smoke was sucked out the window, replaced by the clean springtime breeze.

  Traffic was already forming on the highway, but I had managed to beat the mass of cars that would stretch on for miles only minutes after five o’clock. The landscape gradually changed to an immense array of blossoming trees and flat wilderness as I distanced myself from town, driving deeper into the heart of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. My housemate Nick and I rented a nice piece of property: three acres of trees and land, with many more acres of wilderness in every direction. Our nearest neighbor was old Mr. Patrick, or Grandpa, and we didn’t cross paths with the man too often. We invited him over whenever we had parties, but Grandpa rarely showed up and never stayed for long. He was cool with us, but when our parties got going, and a handful of ragged hippies turned into twenty, thirty, forty, sixty—whatever—he would take off. Not before schooling us all in a game of horseshoes, of course, and drinking about a six-pack of beer. The man could put them away.

  I drove past Grandpa’s mailbox and our driveway soon appeared. Nick’s work truck came into view as I pulled in, and way out in the back of the yard I spotted him standing beside our massive garden. Nick had been living in the rental house for fifteen years. Our good friend, Darin Long, had been a housemate with us for the past five years, but due to his mother discovering that she has cancer, he had moved back home to Montana. Now it was only the two of us, all alone in that low ranch in the middle of the woods.