“We’ll get you back on your feet, but you must decide where those feet will take you. By my calculations, you’ll survive on your own for a week, maybe two. What a shame that will be. What a waste, spending all of this time and resources fixing you up. When you rest tonight, I want you to think of your new family—us here, in Odyssey and beyond. We are not the awful people you might have thought we are. You and me,” the captain motioned between himself and Steven, “we are one and the same. Survivors. I do believe that I can show you the benefits of becoming part of our brotherhood. Family is important; am I wrong in saying so? Family is all you got in this world, and our family is large.”
Steven opened his mouth to speak, but the captain continued, “You rest now, lad. You rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow, see if we can’t get you back on your feet. I have a whole new world to show you.”
Captain Black stood and shook out his wrinkled hat.
“Till tomorrow, lad.” The captain turned and left, leaving Steven alone in the quiet room.
Steven knew that he should leave, that he must continue on his journey, the journey he was tasked with. He must reach Bethany and Uncle Al … only …
Shit …
Steven knew Bethany lived in Aurora, but where exactly was Uncle Al?
Where’s my map?
The last time Steven looked at his map, the black ink used to line his path was smeared and fading. The waterproof material on the paper had begun to disintegrate, and the paper was soft underneath. The map was just a jumble of lines and colors to him anyway. For a second—one fleeting second—a thought crossed his mind.
I need Brian.
He pushed the words out of his head.
Did he really try to kill me? My own cousin … my brother?
Steven couldn’t remember. The events of their fight were lost to him among a sea of sweltering red. But one thing was for sure—he had awoken with his head cracked open, and his cousin far from sight.
Why, Brian? … Why? …
Red was returning to Steven’s vision with each beat of his quickening heart. But exhaustion calmed him back down, and his eyes struggled to stay open. He felt numb all over, inside and out, in a good sort of way. A pleasant numbness. His body was relaxing, his muscles soft on the mattress. Steven closed his eyes and sleep overtook him.
Dreams did not come. Only a pure and utter void.
When he awoke some time later, the room was dark. Whatever pleasantness he felt earlier had evaporated. His head throbbed. Ached. His brain seemed to pulse against his skull, too large and ever-expanding to stay confined.
They’re all dead, Stevie. They’re all dead …
Sickness struck the depth of his stomach. Nausea. Everything hurt, all over his body.
Brian—he’s dead. Uncle Al, Bethany, everyone you’ve ever known—they’re all dead. If you go venturing off in the woods, you will join them. You will see them again in the pits of hell. You will rot with them.
Steven gritted his teeth against the pain.
An hour went by, and a man came in carrying a tray. He turned on the lights.
“Holy hell,” he said. “I’ll go get the doc.”
The man returned with the beady-eyed doctor. He looked Steven over and took a bottle of medicine out of his bag.
“Here,” he said, offering Steven two white pills and a glass of water.
Steven took the medicine and shut his eyes against the throbbing in his head. The doctor and the man left, and as time went by, the pain subsided. The scent of food on the table was beginning to smell appealing. Soon, Steven forgot he had ever been in pain to begin with as he took the cover off the plate and beheld a thick slab of meat, charred around the roast edges and leaking juices to pool underneath. A gentle whiff of steam rose in the air. Steven picked up the fork and knife and cut away a slice.
The earthy scent overtook him, and he grabbed the chunk of meat in his hand and sunk his teeth into the moist flesh, ripping it apart, unable to stop his carnivorous appetite. He gnawed at the meat, devouring whole pieces that were barely chewed, and sighing deeply as the warm juices coated his mouth and flowed down his throat.
***
Steven walked beside Captain Black. The captain was showing him the town of Odyssey—the parts of the town that he had not seen from the window high on the hill that one dreadful night.
“This here is the barracks.” The captain pointed to a wide brick structure. It had once been an old apartment building, or maybe a department store. “We’ll get you set up with a room if you decide to stay.”
Steven watched the men gathered before the building, standing around a fire built in a rusted barrel, many smoking cigarettes. They were dirty and ragged, yet most looked well-fed and strong. He watched a black man with long, skinny dreadlocks tied down to the small of his back walk by on spring-like toes. The gathering of men straightened their backs as he passed, and some nodded or saluted.
“Who’s that?” Steven asked. “That the leader or something?”
Captain Black turned to see the black man turn around the side of the barracks and disappear. “He’s a lieutenant,” he said. “You’ll meet him in due time. The general is the leader, Steven, the man that you met.”
Steven had met many people over the last several days. The captain brought them into his room—people with names and ranks that Steven could not remember. The captain would say things to them like, “Stout one, ain’t he? Look at the size of those arms.” And the men would nod and walk away.
On one particular morning, maybe two days prior, Steven awoke bleary-minded from the pain medicine and met the general in a fog. The conversation was lost to him, but he remembered the man’s voice, deep and soothing, using words Steven did not know the definitions for. The general smiled straight white teeth down at Steven as he lay on the bed, and he stood tall—as tall as Steven, yet leaner. The whole meeting was veiled by Steven’s foggy memory, lost with the passing days and the doctor’s strong pills.
“You have to make up your mind soon, lad,” the captain explained, leading Steven back toward the infirmary. “We don’t let outsiders stay for any given time, but in your case, I’ve asked the general to grant a few days of amnesty. There’s something inside of you, Steven. I see greatness in your eyes. You’re a big lad, maybe the biggest man in all of Odyssey. You have a chance, if you stay with us, to prove to yourself that you are capable of achieving things that most men only dream about. There is exhilaration in warfare, something I do not think you’ve had the pleasure yet to experience. It’s addictive, the rush. It’s euphoric. There is no drug that can produce a sweeter high than the one you experience in battle. You achieve true power over all things—yourself and others.
“And you, Steven, were designed for this life. You were designed for warfare; it’s in your blood, your DNA. You should not fear it—you should embrace it. I’ll show you how. I will show you how to reach the true apex of your existence here on this godforsaken earth. You, Steven, will flourish among our ranks. We have spared your life despite the crimes of murdering four of our men so that you may redeem yourself by replacing their numbers among us. Now, I’m not sure where you were headed when we found you, but—”
“I was going to see my uncle,” Steven cut in.
“What’s that now?”
“My uncle. He’s supposed to be waiting for me on the East Coast, or that’s what he said. I’m not sure exactly where. There should be people there with him, kind of like this.”
Steven had found his map in a pile of his personal belongings. The paper was saturated in dried blood and crumbling away with water damage. It was incomprehensible.
“On the East Coast? There’s not much left of the East Coast, not in the cities at least. You sure he’s alive?”
“No …”
“Well, one thing is certain. We are alive. Now, why is your uncle making you go all this way to get to him? If he has a gathering of people, why not send a convoy to escort you?”
“I …�
��
“Doesn’t sound promising, if you ask me. Sounds like you’re fixing yourself for disappointment. Marching to your own death. Your uncle—what did you say his name is?”
“Al. Albert Driscoll.”
“It doesn’t sound like Albert Driscoll cares much if you get to him or not.”
Steven shook his head. “It ain’t like that. He’s in the army.”
“There is no longer a United States Army, lad. But … perhaps I am wrong. Where exactly did you say your uncle is waiting for you?”
“He’s … I don’t know.”
“You think you could point it out if we show you a map? We could send a scout to check out the land, then perhaps an envoy. We have camps close to the Northeast, much like this one here in Odyssey.”
“I reckon so. Maybe.”
They approached the infirmary.
The captain held the door open. “Another time. Tomorrow.”
Steven walked through. He thought of Bethany and wondered if she was waiting for him, or if she had perished along with the majority of the population.
Were Brian and me stupid for even trying? Did we actually think Beth and Uncle Al would be alive? Hell, there ain’t barely nobody left in all of the world … Why would they be spared?
The pain in Steven’s head was creeping back. He put his hand in his pocket, rolling around the two painkillers the doctor had given him. The sides felt smooth against his thumb as he popped one in his mouth and ground the bitter, chalky pill between his teeth. The sensation sent a shiver of euphoria down his spine as the medicine absorbed into his bloodstream.
Chapter 27
Whispers of Smoke
Expansive farms and cornfields followed outside of Livingston Park. The corn had long ago lost its battle for life, and the old dry stalks jutted out from the land, strangled with vining plants whose broad leaves reached out to the heavens.
Winston frolicked over the ground, sticking his nose deep in the soil, smelling the plants that had once prospered in the fields.
Simon was so close to home that he marched on into the evening, and the sun now hung low in the far horizon over the endless fields. For a moment, he missed the West, where the sky was large and unhindered by buildings and power lines, much like it was here.
A small garage caught his attention, far in the rear of a property, behind one of the ample cornfields. Thick woods bordered the back of the structure like a fence. In the distance, he could see the spectacular farmhouse once belonging to the property. He continued toward the garage, with Winston lagging behind, tired from the full day’s march.
Simon stopped to scratch Winston’s head. “I’m sorry, buddy, we’re almost done. We’ll take it slow tomorrow. I promise.”
Once Simon was in full view of the building, he could see that the small garage had once belonged to a larger structure. Connected to the sidewall were the charred remains of a building that had long ago been consumed by fire. The bricks and mortar had been blackened to dust, and portions of the enclosure were strewn about. Yet the garage remained intact, except for the rear corner where flames had crumbled away a minor portion at the base.
Simon knelt beside the hole in the wall and inspected a rock from the ground. He felt the grit of old fire in his palm and could still smell smoke when he held it to his nose. He peered into the blackness behind the hole, but he couldn’t see anything of the garage’s interior. The opening was rather small, and he doubted he would fit if he tried to squeeze his way inside.
The sliding garage door on the front was padlocked shut. Simon thought about trying his new shotgun on the lock or smashing it away with a rock, but there was no reason to go inside. The rear of the garage shielded him from sight of the road, and the woods were close behind, forming a semicircle around the clearing.
Simon built a fire as Winston went about smelling the remains of the burnt building. Simon whistled him over. “Come on, boy.”
After unrolling his wool blanket, just beside the charred gap, Simon gathered as much wood as he could manage before the night grew dark.
Home, he thought. In just a few days … I’ll be home.
He fed Winston, who fell asleep curled up on the blanket the moment he finished eating. Simon put a cup of water on the fire and made pine needle tea to accompany his dinner of jerky and a salad of baby clovers, arugula, and dandelion greens, which he’d harvested while gathering wood.
The water was steaming on the fire, and Simon removed the cup with his knife, setting it aside to cool. He patted the front of his pocket, and removed the pictures, leaning in close to the light of the flames. They were all there—his mother, his father, his brother. There was also a picture of him and Emma back when he was a little boy. She looked old even then.
He thought about his brother often, although maybe not often enough. They had grown apart over the years, and deep down, Simon knew that if Marty was still alive, he was far away.
Sadness struck Simon’s heart thinking that there was a good chance his brother had died in France, or some distant land. Images of their childhood together flooded his memory—he and his brother playing in the park as Emma watched, late-night comic book reads with them sharing a flashlight.
As teenagers they barely spoke. Marty went to business school and Simon went to the woods. When Marty left for college, they only saw each other during the holidays. The thought of his brother dead as an adult didn’t bother Simon as much as when he pictured the little boy he’d grown up with no longer being around.
Simon flipped through the pictures and landed on a photo of him and his dad. Simon was thirteen, maybe fourteen. He looked strange even to himself. He was wearing a button-up shirt and khaki pants, and his hair was parted. He smiled for the camera, although he remembered that at the time, he had not wanted his picture taken. The acne on his face was embarrassing. His father, though, looked the same as he always had. He was wearing a suit and tie, with one arm over Simon and the other holding a briefcase. They were outside the house, near the front door. His father was smiling, and his hair was not as gray as it would later become.
Simon smiled, laughed even, despite being on the verge of tears.
Winston’s head popped up, but Simon didn’t pay him any mind. He blew back the steam from his tea. Winston let out a low growl, looking off to the woods. He was tensed, his nose wiggling in the air, ears pinned back.
Simon looked up. “What is it, buddy?”
Winston stood, his eyes fixated on something in the darkness. Simon followed his gaze, but all he could see was the border of the forest and nothing beyond.
Winston’s growl grew in intensity, and the fur on his back stood on end. He was up on all fours, his muscles taut, his lips snarled, fangs glaring.
“What is it? What do you see?”
Simon crouched on his knees and shielded his eyes from the light of the fire.
He saw movement. Faint and dark, like whispers of smoke in the night.
Then he saw them in the woods; saw the twinkling of eyes.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
The growling of wolves emanated from the shadows.
Chapter 28
The Exit
The haze and pain that had spread over Brian’s mind and body from the fever diminished, vanished even, and he could now stand witness to his crime with a clear mind. He had killed his best friend, his cousin, his brother.
Brian was a murderer.
A monster.
He was death.
I left him there, out in the cold. I didn’t bury him. I didn’t throw a blanket over his body. Something dragged him off …. This could have been avoided. What if I had backed down from the fight? What if I had run and let him cool off? What if I hadn’t hit him so hard with the rock?
But Brian had not backed down from the fight, and now he had to accept his guilt, and endure the anguish and torment.
And he would have to endure these feelings alone, for the events surrounding Steven’s death must remain a
secret. The women needed Brian now more than ever. They needed someone to guide them to Uncle Al—to safety, to humanity—and it was Brian’s task to do so.
If only I had Steven to help shoulder the burden.
Brian rested upon his bed, attempting to rationalize the death of Steven Driscoll: if Steven had survived that day—killing Brian instead—it was unlikely that he would have made it much farther in the journey, let alone to the bunker. The demons in Steven’s mind had overtaken his senses, and his fear and anger had become uncontrollable. The man that died that day was not the same Steven Driscoll whom Brian had grown up with … he had become a monster. The poor man’s soul had been tormented until he himself became the evil that he despised.
Steven’s death had saved the lives of Bethany and Carolanne.
Brian made a vow to himself that his life was now dedicated to the survival of the two women, at any cost to his own well-being. He did not know what amount of strength lay dormant in his body, but he would use all of his power to get the girls to Uncle Al.
He would not let them down.
***
They ate canned ham, pancakes with rehydrated fruit, pasta with tomato sauce or tossed in olive oil and garlic powder, biscuits, fresh-baked bread, peanut butter and jelly, canned peaches—anything and everything. There was enough food in the pantry to last another year. Brian was so hungry that he craved every type of food at once—every taste and flavor combination in his mouth at the same time, and he could not seem to get full no matter how much he devoured.
After a few days, his body was taking shape again. His battered feet had begun to heal, with all the open wounds and popped blisters hardening to calluses, and he could walk without pain shooting up his legs. The women had a few light dumbbells in the living room, and in the days prior to leaving, Brian set them up with a workout routine. Curls, pushups, pull-ups, and squats. Basic stuff. There wasn’t enough time to make a big difference, but at least their muscles would be awakened.
The After War Page 20