The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  Brian shuffled to the door, holding the rolling IV stand, and turned the handle. The hallway outside looked exactly the same as the hallway in his and Steven’s bunker in Nelson. A strange feeling washed over him, as if he’d gone back in time, as if he would see Steven walk across the far end of the hallway at any moment. As if the last few weeks had all been a fever dream.

  But as he exited the hallway, Steven was not there.

  There were two women in the kitchen, one pouring a pouch of dried soup powder into a bowl of boiling water, and the other watching.

  Bethany.

  He wanted to stay off in the corner forever just watching the two of them. This was a victory. The first stage of his journey had been completed. It had nearly killed him, and it had killed Steven …

  He didn’t want to think about that right now.

  He wanted to watch the women. He wanted to soak in their presence. Brian knew Carolanne, had even met her once at Bethany’s wedding. She was Bethany’s neighbor and her best friend.

  They’re so skinny, he thought. They look like twigs.

  They both wore jeans and tank tops and were barefoot. Their hair was up in ponytails that hung down to the centers of their backs. Carolanne’s hair was a strawberry blond, much lighter than Bethany’s, and Bethany was an inch or two taller, but besides from that, they looked almost identical from behind. They might have been sisters.

  Carolanne turned, and a look of surprise washed over her face.

  “Brian!” She rushed over.

  Bethany turned off the stove and followed. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I’m okay, really.”

  “No,” Carolanne said, grabbing his elbow. “You’re not okay. Sit.”

  She led him to a recliner.

  “I feel all right.”

  “You still have a fever. You have to rest. You have to go back to bed.”

  “I promise I will. Just let me sit here for a few minutes.”

  Carolanne seemed to think it over, then went to get a throw blanket and draped it over his lap. She got an ear thermometer and told him to stay still while she took his temperature. As she leaned in close, the fragrance of her clean hair and skin gave Brian goose bumps.

  She smells like the beach, he thought. Somehow, she smells like the beach.

  Brian asked, “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m a nurse. Almost. I was still in school.”

  Brian’s eyes darted around the bunker. It had the same octopus layout as his in Nelson, with the central room round like a dome and corridors, like tentacles, extending out to the various bedrooms and storage.

  The main difference, Brian saw, was that there was no weight bench, and Steven’s dirty shirts and socks were not left on the couch. The women’s bunker was clean and organized. He never thought that their bunker in Nelson had been messy, but now, seeing this one, he knew that it was. All their DVDs were set in perfect rows on a shelf by the TV and not left in piles. Their kitchen counter was clear of books, and the sink was not full of dishes. Plus, there were cheerful paintings and pictures hanging on the walls and plastic flowers in vases on the kitchen counter, coffee table, and, well … everywhere.

  Carolanne said, “You still have a fever, but it’s gone down.”

  “Good,” Brian said. “That’s very good. I need to get better. There’s a lot to do before heading out.”

  The girls swallowed and went silent. Just like Brian and Steven not long ago, the girls had been alone for a long time, with no sunlight, no real air … no outside world. The thought of leaving was both terrifying and exhilarating.

  Bethany broke the silence. Tears were welling up in the corner of her eyes. “Oh, Brian.” She hugged him tight. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

  “I’m here, Beth, I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  Carolanne brought Brian another bowl of broth and promised they would make a solid meal for dinner. As Brian sipped at the steaming bowl, a silence filled the room that was thicker than the soup.

  It was time they talked about their experiences. It was time they talked about war and disease.

  Brian looked up at Bethany. “Your brother …” he said.

  Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Brian cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Beth. He was like a brother to me … my best friend.”

  She dabbed at her eyes, surprisingly solemn. Carolanne took her hand and held it tight.

  “How’d it happen?” she asked.

  A pang of sorrow and guilt struck Brian’s heart. He pursed his mouth. He wanted to tell her; he wanted to tell them the whole story from start to finish, the way it should be told. He wanted to confess his guilt and hope that they would understand and give him absolution and not be frightened or remorseful of him. He wanted them to wash away his sins.

  But he didn’t. It wouldn’t do them any good knowing that the last moment of Steven’s life was rife with insanity, delusion, anger, fear … murder.

  “He was shot,” Brian said. “It happened in a flash. I … he was shot … and I ran. I had to. I had to leave him. There was nothing to be done.”

  Bethany nodded and looked at the ground, tears falling from her eyes to darken the carpet in round droplets.

  “Who shot him?”

  “Some desperate sons of bitches. I don’t know who they were.”

  She continued nodding.

  She was prepared for this, Brian thought. She was prepared for me to be dead too. Probably thought she’d be underground forever.

  Brian cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Nelson’s nothing more than a ghost town.”

  “Nelson wasn’t much more than a ghost town when I knew it,” Carolanne said.

  Bethany smiled and so did Brian.

  “Seriously,” she went on, “how the hell did you guys live there?”

  Brian chuckled. “It’s picturesque, they say.”

  “Who says that? It’s hicksville, if you ask me.”

  Bethany laughed and wiped her eyes. Carolanne squeezed her hand.

  As the mood lightened, Brian found that the women had a million questions about his journey and the outside world. He answered their questions as best as he could, not wanting to sugarcoat anything. They would be leaving soon, and they needed to know what to expect.

  “You see many people out there?”

  “Some.”

  “What are they like?”

  “It’s best to avoid ’em. I’m sure there’s still plenty of good people out there, but I ain’t seen any.”

  Brian took a deep breath; it was his turn to ask a question. “And George?”

  Bethany looked at the floor. She didn’t look up, just shook her head.

  Brian couldn’t remember the name of Carolanne’s husband, but he remembered her having one. Maybe they split up before she left for the bunker? He didn’t think so.

  Bethany answered the question for him. “Same with Robert,” she said.

  Brian nodded. The girls looked solemn, but they’d had sufficient time over the past two years to mourn and comfort each other, and had come to terms with the deaths of their husbands as best as they could.

  “They were both sick before coming down here,” Bethany said. “They were sneezing and coughing, but it didn’t look like anything other than a common cold.”

  “The disease got them?”

  “The disease got George.” Bethany took a deep breath. “I’ll start from the beginning. When the fighting first began, and the walls were shaking with all of the bombings, Robert got nervous. Not just because of the bombings, but because he still had family up there. We begged him not to go. We begged and begged him, but he said his Aunt Valerie had raised him like a son and he just couldn’t leave her up there to die, just couldn’t do it.

  “After a long break in the bombings, he went to the ladder. Even George was giving him hell, but Robert couldn’t be swayed. He said he’d be fine. He promised he’d be back in f
ive minutes, with or without her. He was smiling even, reassuring Carolanne. So he took the shotgun and left. We waited by the hatch door, staring up at it. Five minutes passed, and then ten. After a half hour, George said he’d go out looking. We begged him not to leave, but he went anyway.

  “Ten minutes later, George returned, white as a sheet … and he was alone. The bombings had resumed, and he didn’t see a trace of Robert anywhere. George said the whole town was on fire and looters were rampant in the streets, sick and dying, and killing each other faster than the disease could get to them. Two days later, George got sick. We cared for him the best we could, but …” Bethany was shaking her head.

  “I seen what the disease does to people,” Brian said. “I know how bad it is. I’m sorry that you girls had to go through all that.”

  The girls nodded, staring at their feet. Brian took their silence as a sign that the conversation was now complete. That was fine. Brian had just arrived—this was a time to be happy, not dwell upon the dead.

  Chapter 25

  Livingston Park

  Simon was looking at two barns and one stable: each structure large, each structure, old.

  The buildings had stopped being used for their intended purposes many years ago and had been converted to offices and storage for the park rangers and staff. Simon did not know this, because what he saw before him was a more recent conversion: a military outpost.

  The three structures formed a horseshoe configuration, with the two barns facing each other, the stable in the rear, and a field in the center that had been paved over. Dozens of dark green military vehicles sat in rows, new and unused, as if sitting at a car dealership. Many were fitted with tarps tied about them.

  Grasses and weeds emerged through cracks in the pavement, some vining up between the vehicles’ treads and tires, and a thick layer of pollen covered everything. Whatever army or platoon had been stationed in Livingston Park was long dead, and this assemblage of machinery had been forgotten.

  Simon walked between two rows of tanks, feeling the cold metal with his fingers, leaving trails across the dust.

  He recognized the Abrams tanks and counted twelve Hummers, six of which had machine guns mounted on top. Four attack helicopters sat on separate detachable flatbed trailers with their rotors tied back for transport. There were vehicles with rectangular rocket launchers on top, a few tow trucks, medical transports, and about a dozen vehicles that Simon didn’t recognize.

  He walked to the front of the barn he had approached from the woods and wiped away the grime from a smoggy window, cupping his hands over his eyes to see the cavernous interior. Pillars of light filtered down from windows high above. Row upon row of boxes and supplies towered tall.

  “Holy crap, Winston. You seeing this?”

  Winston was off by the tanks, sniffing the tires and treads. He turned upon hearing his name.

  “It’s okay, boy. Go on.”

  There was a tall sliding door at the front of the barn, and Simon grabbed ahold of the handle and pulled, leaning his body weight into the task. The door creaked and inched open, gritty dust falling from the track high above. He entered and walked to the center of the barn, trying to decipher one box from the next.

  They were mostly wooden, but some were metal. Others were plastic. Random numbers and letters marked each box in military jargon. Simon walked to the closest container and unsnapped the hinges. Inside sat a glistening pile of arranged projectiles, each the length of a football. Simon gently picked one up, rolling it in his palm. It felt cold and weighed about the same as a grapefruit. When he put it down, his fingers felt greasy and smelled like oil. He wiped his hand on his pants and walked to the next stack of boxes. Inside were even larger ordnance—tank shells, or missiles.

  He went from box to box, opening over a dozen. They all held large-caliber ammunition.

  Simon went back outside and walked across the lot to the barn on the opposite side. Winston was sniffing around from vehicle to vehicle, but he ran over to Simon for a quick scratch on the head before going back about his discovering.

  After clearing the filth from a window, Simon peered inside. The room was roughly the same size as the previous barn, but there were no towering stacks of boxes. Some cots were strewn about and what looked like garbage mixed with the soldiers’ personal effects.

  The door slid open like the last, and Simon sneezed as the gritty dust fell over his face from the overhead tracks.

  Picnic benches lined the far wall, and metal cups and mess kits were scattered about. Up against the wall was a line of military carbines, with bandoliers left in orderly piles.

  Simon picked up an M16. It wasn’t new, but it wasn’t old either. He looked at his own M1A strapped over his shoulder. The M16 felt so light in his hands, and there was more than enough ammunition in the bandoliers to fill his backpack. The M16 was a superior rifle and fired on automatic. But …

  He put the rifle down and swung the M1A up in his hands. The smooth wooden stock and the cold metal barrel felt comfortable in his grip. He had shot the M1A hundreds of times and knew exactly how it fired and where to aim. He knew how to take it apart and what to do if it jammed. It was like an appendage of his body.

  This was not the time to learn how to use a new weapon.

  What if it jams when I’m under fire?

  He went along the line of guns to a collection of pump-action shotguns, all jet-black. He picked a .12 gauge Mossberg, and pumped the forestock and checked the ejection port and magazine. The action was smooth. He would take it apart and oil all the parts later, but this gun would fire without hesitation. Among the stacks of ammunition, he found boxes of .12 gauge shells and took enough to fill the empty space in his backpack.

  Back outside, he crossed to the stables. He whistled low for Winston. “Hey,” he shouted. “Where’d you go?”

  Winston was curled in the grass. He stood and stretched his back, bowing low, then ran over to meet Simon. “Don’t disappear on me, buddy.”

  The glass window of the stable was thick with grime, and he wiped a section before peering inside.

  “Oh … fuck,” he said.

  It was now evident what had befallen the soldiers of this lost battalion. Inside each individual stable, and lining the open walls, were dozens of cots. Twenty, forty, a hundred? Simon couldn’t see to the back of the room. Upon each cot lay a corpse, covered from head to toe with a blanket. Bags of IV solution and medicine still hung from metal racks—the bags drained and wrinkled—with the plastic tubing still connected to dry veins. Twisted feet stuck out past the bedsheets like dehydrated tree roots. This had been a hospital once, but was now a morgue. The air in the stable was thick with stagnant dust illuminated in shafts of light, as if time did not exist inside that morbid structure.

  Simon stepped back.

  He turned to Winston. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

  The urge to be far away was apparent.

  After a few yards, he stopped and removed the map from his pocket. He traced the green splotch that comprised Livingston Park until he came roughly to where he was standing. He took a marker from his backpack, pulled the cap off in his teeth, and marked a black dot.

  Chapter 26

  Water on Glass

  The next time Steven Driscoll opened his eyes, he was lying on a gurney in a hospital bedroom, looking out the window at the trees swaying in the wind.

  A short, balding doctor came in wordlessly, rifling through a kit of medical supplies.

  “Open your eyes,” he said, shinning a penlight into Steven’s pupils. The beady-eyed man checked the bandage covering Steven’s forehead and inserted a syringe into the injection port of the IV tube running to the crook of his arm.

  “What’s that?” Steven asked.

  The doctor packed his things and left. Steven was alone in the room with only his thoughts.

  However, his mind was quiet. Calm, even, for the first time since … he wasn’t sure. He was back in the town of Odyssey. Rain h
ad begun to fall outside the window, and the thick droplets plunked against the glass, exploding like burst grapes.

  Steven sighed and closed his eyes.

  Later that day or perhaps the next, he heard footsteps approach from down the hall.

  Captain Black entered the room. “Well,” he said, shaking the rain from his hat, “by the looks of things, they’ve put you back together proper.”

  Steven stared out the window.

  “Hell of a lot of blood you lost. Hell of a lot of blood. Would have made the doctor’s job a lot easier if you’d told him your blood type.”

  The rain was now battering the window, and the trees were contorting in gusts of wind.

  “Hell, son, say something. We’re only trying to fix your broken ass.”

  “I don’t know,” Steven muttered.

  “What’s that now?”

  “I don’t know my blood type. Reckon I was never told.”

  “That’s fine, lad.” The captain dragged a chair across the floor to sit beside the bed.

  “Still got a headache? Well, the doctor said you’re healing fast. I even got some food on its way for you. How’s that sound? Put some meat back on those bones.”

  At the mere mention of food, Steven’s stomach growled. “When?” His eyes looked to the captain, huge, pleading.

  “We’ll feed you proper, lad, don’t you worry. I promise. I bet you’re hungry. By the size of you, one meal may not suffice.”

  The captain crossed his legs high and placed his cavalry hat upon his knee.

  “Son, I’m going to tell you a few things, and I do recommend that you listen. I know you’re not one for talking, so just listen. You need to rest. You need to heal, and I will give you ample time to do so. As you recuperate, I want you to dwell on your future. What will you do with your strength when it returns? The world is a dangerous place, as you are well aware. Your own family has turned its back on you and left you for dead. You are alone. A destitute soul in a decrepit world.