The After War

by Brandon Zenner

It was people—humans—not far. Approaching. Simon slung the pack over his shoulder, grabbed his rifle, and tapped Winston on his back, motioning with his head for him to follow.

  They cleared the thicket surrounding the camp and crept up behind the side of a large maple. Simon pressed his body against it, one eye looking over the side, watching his camp, holding Winston by his scruff. He breathed, his chest expanding in and out against the hard side of the tree, his breath flowing like the wind, going in and out of the world, gently blowing with the branches back and forth.

  I am the wind. I am the rock. I am the tree, and my roots grow deep ….

  People walked into the clearing, around the fire. At first two people, and then three. Then four, and then six, and then more—over a dozen. Some had long hair and beards and others were shaved bald. There were both men and women in the group, and … yes, Simon could see a child. The majority of them were wearing something like a monk’s robe—simple cream-white colored clothes—and none of them appeared armed.

  They walked into the camp, examining the smoke trailing out of the extinguished fire, and looking all around into the wilderness. One of them toed the smoldering twigs, and a few of them spoke, but it was hard for Simon to hear what they were saying. One of them picked up the cup of tea that Simon had been drinking and held it to his nose. He looked at the man beside him, offering him the cup. The next man took a deep breath then placed it back on the log where they had found it. The child at the man’s side wore a miniature version of the monk’s robe with his head shaved bald, and bent down to inspect the contents of the cup.

  As they spoke, a few of them removed necklaces made of thick beads, mindfully passing the beads between their fingers. They all seemed to be looking at one man, and stood tall and straight and were silent as he spoke.

  After a moment, they changed course and walked in the direction of the water.

  When they disappeared from view and Simon could no longer hear any noises or disturbances, he turned to Winston. “Stay, Winston. You have to stay.” He opened his pack, put a handful of kibble on the ground, and with slow steps, he left the shelter of the tree to follow in their direction.

  They were at the pond’s edge. One was starting a fire, and a few others gathered water in pots to be boiled. Some wore small backpacks over their shoulders, and others carried only bedrolls tied at the ends with rope. The congregators who were not working on the fire and water were sitting on the ground with their legs crossed. An old man in a white robe faced the rest of the group, and after they gathered themselves on the ground, he made a gentle, guttural noise.

  “Ommmmm.”

  Then they all took a deep breath and exhaled in unison: “Ommmmm.” They repeated this several times, no one moving or fidgeting.

  Simon was fascinated, and when he looked to the leader, he saw his eyes were open—not fully, but open in a relaxed manner—and he was looking right at him. Simon clung to the rock he was hiding against.

  The group repeated, “Ommmmm.” The sound seemed to resonate in the ground, vibrate through his feet and into his chest. The old man smiled, a thin and humble smile, and nodded. He then looked away, straight ahead, and held his beaded necklace in his left hand, feeling one of the round beads between two fingers.

  This went on for some time before Simon stood. There was one man left tending to the fire as the others sat in meditation. That man looked at Simon, but showed no sign of emotion as he turned back to tending the flames. Simon stood apart from the group as they chanted and looked to the man in the front. His eyes and face were expressionless, lost in another world. Simon sat, crossed his legs, and chanted along with them.

  ***

  When the meditation was over, the group stretched and a few stood, moving at a slow pace. Some of the men and women nodded to Simon, several bowed, and one even hugged him. “Namaste, brother,” he whispered. They did not ask him any question, not even why he was there. They stood, talking softly to one another. The man at the head of the group was still sitting, yet he was no longer locked in meditation. He motioned for Simon to approach.

  The man smiled as Simon sat at his side, and Simon said, “Hello.”

  “Hello,” the man answered.

  “Where are you guys headed?”

  “Wherever our feet take us.”

  Simon took that in. “Are you in charge?”

  “No.” The man laughed a gentle laugh. “No one is in charge. Everyone does as they wish, and so far, we wake up every day and wish to continue walking.”

  Simon looked the group over. No one was starving or injured. “You guys look healthy.”

  “We are blessed.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No. We do not participate in violence.”

  “You’re Buddhists?”

  “No. We are nothing. We live surrounded by inward and outward peace. We meditate to keep our minds healthy and walk to keep our bodies in motion. And so our bodies and mind are in unison.”

  “What do you do for food?”

  “We eat.”

  Simon laughed. The old man laughed too and continued, “I understand that our principles can be met with confusion. We don’t carry much, because when we carry belongings it makes other people interested in us. If we have nothing to take, we are left alone. We hide the boy under our robes when we pass others, and we give our possessions willingly to anyone who may want to take them. We’ve had many of our brothers and sisters killed for no other reason than someone wanting the shirt off their backs. People have used violence against us for what we offer freely.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be.” The man smiled. “What is done is done and cannot be lamented over.”

  Simon nodded. “Looks like you have things figured out.”

  “No, we don’t, and we don’t want to. We just choose to live so that the earth can heal from its wounds, and we encourage all others we meet to do the same. Tell me, do you believe in karma?”

  “Well … to a degree, I guess.”

  “It’s much more than just negative and positive reactions. It works on a global scale. Humans have inflicted so much damage and negativity to the earth that nature did what it had to do—it eliminated most of mankind with a disease.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, I do. Tell me.” The old man smiled. “What is your name?”

  “Simon.”

  “Well, Simon, for centuries the human race has been devastating the Earth. We’ve killed whole species of animals without giving it any thought, stripped away entire forests, polluted the air, and poisoned our streams. We engaged in nuclear warfare, burning and ravaging anything that stood in our way. The earth’s karmic scale has been tipped, and the result is what we have witnessed. A mass extinction.”

  “Is that what caused the virus? How?”

  “It came from the Earth.”

  “Right. I mean—is that the final verdict?”

  “There will never be a final verdict.”

  “Okay, I see what you’re saying.” Simon pondered these words as the old man counted the beads on his necklace. “Well,” Simon went on, “thank you for sharing your thoughts. I will think about what you said.”

  “That’s exactly right,” the old man said. “You must think—and think with a positive mindset. When you meditate, focus your thoughts, you remain a constructive element of this Earth and are destined to reposition the karmic scale. Even if you do not know it, that is what you are doing.”

  Simon nodded. There was a commotion behind him, and Simon turned to see the young boy running up to Winston, who had just emerged from the woods. The boy was giddy with laughter as he hugged Winston around his neck. Winston’s tail was a fury of wagging, and he licked at the boy’s face with abandon.

  “You see?” The old man nodded toward Winston and the boy. “What do you feel when you see a young boy and a dog playing together? Positivity is the key. Positive karma is essential. There are still many good peopl
e left in this world, but there are also many who are evil. More evil than good, it seems, but there is still some balance on the scale. It has not yet tipped fully in either direction—although it may appear to have done so.

  “When you see a young child hug a dog, your heart grows warm with love, and it is that love that we must embrace. Love is the feeling of all humans being the best possible humans that we can be. If that is hard to comprehend, then you must think of one person. Imagine that this one person is healthy, happy, and achieving greatness—even if that greatness is only to gather water from a stream or to hug a dog around the neck. That feeling of love you get in your heart is how all of us—all humans—should feel at all times.”

  Simon didn’t know what to say, so he nodded that he understood.

  The old man patted Simon’s knee, and Simon could tell that their talk was over. He stood and walked over to Winston, who was beyond happy with the little boy. Everyone in the group was taking turns scratching his head and having their face and hands licked. The old man was focused again in meditation, counting beads, and staring at nothing in particular. Winston came over and sniffed the old man’s hand, gave him a lick, then walked away. He then turned, bent, and bit at a tuft of grass that the old man was un-focused on.

  The old man blinked and then said, “Ha! And so it goes with the impermanence of all dharma. Leave it to a dog to teach the ways.” He laughed and stood. “I’ll take that as a cue that it is time to move on.”

  A few members of the group talked to Simon and made it clear that anyone could join them on their walk, although they did not know where it would take them. They had been heading east, like Simon, but in a little more of a southern direction. The path would be the same for several days, unless the group decided to veer, which weather or terrain might dictate. Simon took out his map and showed them where he was heading. A few in the group glanced at the page uninterested, then smiled and walked away.

  The old man asked Simon, “What do you expect to find when you get to your destination?”

  “My family,” he answered.

  The old man nodded, not showing the slightest range of emotion. “That will remain in my thoughts,” he said.

  They started walking, and Simon followed. They walked for hours, following the creek, in long stretches of tranquil silence. When they stopped for the night, Simon went off to gather some of the cattails that were growing all around. A few in the group studied him from afar, and then walked closer.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting dinner.” Simon showed them the cattails. “These are edible.”

  “Could you show me how to do that?” one of them asked.

  “Sure.”

  Simon showed a small group how to harvest and cook the cattails and pointed out the wild wheat that was growing everywhere, mixed in with the brush. The group gathered around Simon as he spoke, and their numbers grew until the entire congregation was sitting and listening to his every word.

  Simon started by boiling water in a pot and added the young, tender cattail shoots. Then he removed the flower stalks at the top of the cattail from the green-sheath leaves that protected them and added the stalks to the water. He let everything cook for a few minutes and then strained the water, leaving them aside to cool. The roots, which he cleaned in the stream, he now roasted over a flame. When they were cooked and had cooled, he cut back the charred skin to reveal the creamy white interior.

  “Here,” Simon said, handing out pieces to the crowd. “How does it taste?”

  The man closest to him chewed. “Kind of like a potato crossed with celery.” He took another bite. “It’s good.”

  Simon ate the last piece. “They’re just as good raw.”

  The young shoots had cooled, and Simon passed them out among the group, along with the flower stalks, which were eaten like small corncobs.

  “See,” Simon said. “Easy, right?”

  The audience nodded and thanked him. Some went off to gather cattails to practice on their own, leaving many behind in the soil to keep the balance of nature alive, just as Simon had instructed.

  Simon looked around for Winston and, not surprisingly, found his dog wrestling around with the young boy. Winston’s tail was flying.

  Simon walked up to them, bending over to scratch Winston’s belly.

  The boy asked, “Can he sleep with me tonight?”

  “Sure.” Simon smiled. “If he wants to.” He saw Winston lap at the boy’s face as they played. “I think he’ll like that.”

  They slept that night beside the water, and in the morning, they sat in meditation before eating breakfast. Many of the travelers knew how to forage for some of the wild grains and herbs that were all around, but Simon showed them more species that they had no knowledge of. He showed them how to make goldenrod tea and pointed out the wild plantain grass that grew everywhere along the ground.

  As they walked, the old man spoke to him.

  “There is a weight inside of you,” he said.

  Simon swallowed.

  “There is a sadness in you that is weighing down your soul and your mind. It collects with the global sadness of the world.”

  The words struck a chord. Simon felt a weight that he had not known was there, and the feeling nearly brought tears to his eyes.

  The boy that I killed … the cabin … my parents … my brother … that boy that I killed, oh Lord …

  “This is a violent world.” The man took slow and deliberate steps as he walked, and Simon stayed at his side. “Although we have decided to remain without violence, I know that nonviolence is not a practice everyone can follow. I pray that one day we can all live in harmony, but until that day comes, we must deal with the fighting and hatred that is now a part of our lives. We must remember that there can be two types of conflict—one that causes damage, and another that causes it to cease. Being a warrior is a noble quest, but very few can accept the true responsibility that it entails and use it correctly.”

  Simon wanted to speak, but words would not form. The old man continued, “Some of us are monks, and some of us are warriors. You, Simon, come off as a teacher, but I see fierceness inside you that you may not be aware of. You must be careful, because that fierceness can tip your own scale in either direction—the way of destruction, or the way of ceasing destruction. Something bright burns inside of you, and you must take good care of that flame to see it grow into a blazing fire of your own choosing.”

  With those words, the old man left Simon to his thoughts.

  They walked for another day. Simon felt at peace as he absorbed the harmony, mediation, and wisdom that the group shared. He was sad when he checked his map and compass and saw that the group was now veering away from his course.

  It was time to go.

  Simon said goodbye to them all in turn and stood leaning against a fallen tree as they took up their trek. The boy hugged Winston around his neck, then went off to hold someone’s hand in the group, looking back over his shoulder with sadness. Winston stood to follow, but Simon called him back. “No, buddy. You have to stay.” Winston sat, looking up at Simon and over to the boy, back and forth. “No, Winston.” Simon scratched at the dark spot on his dog’s head head, but Winston was not interested. He made whimpering sounds, watching the group walk away.

  The old man called to the young boy, and bent low to whisper in his ear. After a moment, the boy ran back to Simon. “Mister Simon,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I was told to give this to you. Can I give it to Winston?”

  “Sure you can.”

  The boy gave Winston another big hug, then slid a thick black-beaded necklace over his head.

  Simon said, “We thank you for that.”

  “Namaste.” The kid pressed his hands together in prayer before his chest and bowed.

  “Namaste,” Simon replied.

  He watched the group walk off until their white robes had vanished into the woods. When they had left, Simon stayed leaning
against the fallen tree, listening to the gentle rustling of the leaves and the faint chirping of birds, which were all around.

  Chapter 17

  Two Years Prior: The Bunker

  “Best three out of five?”

  “You’re on, if you’re keen on losing.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No bragging. Serve the damn ball, Steve.”

  Steven held the ping-pong ball between two fingers, squinting one eye in preparation to serve.

  Throughout his entire life, Steven had excelled at any sport he decided to play. If it were not for the pressure of having hundreds of people watching him out on the field, he would have prospered playing football. The same went with wrestling; he had been on his way to receiving a full scholarship.

  Table games, such as poker and billiards, were typically not Steven’s strong suit, with the exception of one: ping-pong.

  They finished their fifth game, and Steven won 3-2.

  “Can I brag now?” he asked, bouncing the little plastic ball on his paddle.

  “Yeah, go ahead. You’re a real fucking ballerina when it comes to table tennis.”

  “Ha! Best five out of seven, then?”

  “No, you win. I’m quits. It’s time to hit the bench.”

  “All right. I’m gonna eat. Let me know when you need a spotter.”

  Over the past month below ground, the need for a daily routine had become evident. After the first three weeks of doing nothing other than listening to the radio, drinking bourbon, and chain-smoking cigarettes, they had begun picking up their lives as best as they could. They showered and shaved daily. They ran on the treadmill in the mornings and lifted weights later in the afternoons.

  Steven put a can of chili on the stove and flipped through The Joy of Cooking, his new favorite book. He was getting the hang of this whole cooking thing. Among the spices, he added a dash of chili flakes and a scattering of garlic powder.

  When I get out of here, he often thought, when life gets back to normal and me and Brian are back home, I need to get some decent cookware.

  He was glancing over a recipe for a pan-roasted venison loin wrapped in bacon, when a banging noise echoed throughout the bunker corridors, nearly startling Steven to drop the cookbook.