“Shut her up!” the man commanded, and the boy put a filthy hand over Bethany’s mouth, squeezing her head into his chest. Her hands went up, clutching at the boy’s forearm.
Brian wondered if he could get off a shot at the boy’s head. It would be tough, but not impossible. He would certainly be killed while doing so, and Bethany still might be dragged away. Carolanne would also be taken, to be raped, tortured, and eventually killed. Maybe cooked for dinner.
The thought made Brian mad as hell.
The man told him, “Son, lower your gun and turn away. This don’t concern you. She’s coming with us. There’s more of us yonder. The longer we stand around, the sooner they’ll come looking. Lower your rifle. Go away.”
Brian remembered Odyssey. He remembered the people dragged by their necks and the others crucified and left to rot.
Clarity washed over his mind.
He looked to the boy. “Hey, you—boy!”
“Don’t talk to him,” the man commanded.
Brian ignored him. “Boy, I’m talking to you! You don’t have to do this. Put the knife down and get on. The only way this is going to end is with you dead. All of you. And if there are any more of you fuckers back behind them trees, they’re all gonna die too.”
The boy’s eyes were large, but he did not speak. Brian had been eating regularly and working out. His clothing was new and military issue, and his face had been shaved before leaving the bunker. He looked like a soldier. The boy’s expression spoke fear.
“Listen,” Brian said, “just turn away. I have food and water. You look hungry. I’ll feed you. I promise.”
“You’re a good ol’ boy, ain’t ya?” the old man said. “Listen. We ain’t letting her go, so go on and fuck off.”
The anger inside Brian boiled over. “I’m not talking to you! There are twenty more in our group, in the bushes on either side of this clearing.”
The man said, “Bullshit.” But his twitching eyes betrayed him.
“I’ll kill you both if you don’t let her go! I’ll kill you first, boy, and let your friend down there on the ground bleed out while he watches you die!”
“Who, him?” The man laughed—actually laughed—and turned to his friend on the ground who was writhing in pain. “Who gives a shit about Larry?”
He aimed his rifle at the man’s chest.
“Mike! M-Mi—”
Mike shot Larry in the chest. His body jumped on the ground and twitched, and blood began gurgling from his mouth.
Brian saw Bethany’s hand come out of her pocket. She was holding the snub-nose pistol. In a flash, Brian’s mind outlined his next move.
The man was turning back to Brian after shooting his companion, and Brian took aim and fired, hitting him square in his right shoulder. He twisted and fell face-first in the dirt.
Bethany lifted the pistol to the boy’s elbow, just below where he held the knife. She pulled the trigger, but had miscalculated the distance, most likely afraid of shooting her own ear. The bullet grazed the boy’s forearm, not shattering his elbow as she had intended. Still, the boy shrieked, dropped the knife, and loosened his grip over Bethany’s mouth. The shot had echoed loud.
Bethany fell to the ground, holding her ears tight in her palms.
Brian sprinted forward.
The boy composed himself in a rush and scooped up the knife from the ground, not sure what else to do. As he straightened up, Brian was on him.
Brian took hold of the boy’s wrist in one hand and grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt with the other, latching on to something like an ammunition belt that was strung across his chest. He drove the kid backward until his back hit the side of the nearby oak tree.
The boy was terrified, but he pushed back, attempting to shove the blade of the knife in Brian’s direction. But the boy was weak, malnourished, and young.
Brian grasped on to his wrist and firmed the grip on the ammunition belt with his other hand. He pulled the boy away from the tree, and then slammed him back against it. He did it again. Hard. Their eyes were locked. Brian could smell that the kid had soiled himself.
The blade loosened, and Brian grabbed on to the boy’s relaxed grip. With a final shove against the tree, Brian plunged the blade of the knife into the boy’s throat, and pushed it down to the handle. The point of the blade hit the hard side of the tree. Brian pressed forward one more time, and the blade stuck into the wood.
The boy’s hands fluttered to the knife handle as blood foamed and spattered from his lips. He looked shocked. Death was impossible, inconceivable—yet fast approaching and certain.
Brian stepped back.
The events that followed seemed to happen in a dream.
Brian let go of the ammunition belt slung across the boy’s chest and felt something fall, making a ping sound. He heard a grunt from behind him and turned to see that the old man had raised himself up on one knee, his right arm dangling and immobile. He was holding a pistol in his working hand.
Brian glanced back to whatever had fallen from the boy’s ammunition belt and saw a hand grenade bounce and roll under his feet. Although he did not realize it, the pin had already fallen from his palm when he released the boy, and the handle had sprung free.
His heart was beating so fast that the flashes of red in his vision were like a strobe.
Brian grabbed the hand grenade, cocked his arm back, and threw it off toward the tree line. As he did so, he heard the popping of gunfire.
The grenade made it just past the oak tree, then exploded in midair. The whole side of the tree erupted with splintering wood, blowing the boy’s body in the air like a rag doll and hitting Brian in the chest with a barrage that felt akin to being struck by a car. Brian’s feet left the ground, and he crashed violently on his back.
The explosion looked impossibly white in Brian’s eyes before turning to darkness. And then his mind shut off.
Chapter 31
1421 Ridgeline Road
The Buick was a good car, despite its age.
It had strength and speed and drove like it was made out of solid metal, not some composite plastic. The V6 engine whispered like a well-maintained machine as Simon sped over the cracked asphalt.
He saw the White Sparrow Diner with its neon lights now dark and cold. He passed the old armory, a wide brick building built to manufacture ammunition during World War II but converted to a roller-skating rink sometime before he was born. Simon had been there, in that rink, for countless birthday parties and had eaten at the White Sparrow Diner with his parents for many meals.
As Simon drove on, he swung the radio dial back and forth, listening for any whispers of human civilization, but all he heard was static. An endless flow of static, like water in a moving river. It never stopped.
Simon clicked the radio off as the road brought him to Bronson Bridge. The bridge was significant to Simon because the water that flowed beneath it was the Ridgeline River. He was close. Miles. Not weeks or days, or even hours—miles.
Simon crossed the bridge.
Ridgeline Road was now under his tires and it would take him straight to the driveway of his house, just a few towns over.
The ride became scenic as Simon entered Alice Springs Park. The western portion of the town of Alice was wooded with a bountiful reservoir that supplied the drinking water to the neighboring towns. It was a large park, a beautiful park, and Simon adored it. He had spent much of his childhood there, and as he grew older and took an interest in survival and the outdoors, the park served as his escape and recluse from the everyday world. He knew the trails like the lines on his palms.
Entering the park, as the road swept under a canopy of trees and the landscape on either side of the highway became thick overgrowth, Simon let out a sigh.
“We’re in Alice, Winston … we made it to Alice.”
The road curved left and right, then went straight for several miles over slight mounds in the hilly woods. It was the most beautiful road in the entire county—at least, a
t that moment it was.
On the far side of Alice Springs Park was the town of Alice itself, a small community with one school, one church, and one grocery store. It was once a popular town for the middle class—small, quaint, and surrounded by nature. Past Alice, in the town of Fairview, the mansions along Ridgeline Road would appear, with Simon’s home among them.
At the present moment, Simon was content with enjoying the trees and scenery. Sunlight broke through the canopy of branches in flickering intervals, illuminating the road in shafts of brightness. Simon rolled Winston’s window down, letting his dog smell the familiar air and trees.
The road itself was in good condition, without many potholes or much debris. A few random cars sat on the side of the road like ancient relics, and occasionally Simon had to slow to bypass larger branches.
The road made a sharp turn, and Simon was confronted with a fallen tree blocking most of the two lanes. The leafy top was just shy of the far left shoulder.
Simon drove on, careful not to scrape the side mirror.
He passed the fallen tree and was confronted again by another tree blocking the road a few car-lengths before him. This one had fallen in the opposite direction so that the leafy top reached the right shoulder.
Wait …
A thought struck him like a bullet shot.
At the same time, he saw what he feared in the distance.
Another trap.
“Oh, shit.”
Past the fallen tree, obscured from sight through the branches jutting into the air, Simon saw a line of concrete dividers stretching from one side of the road to the other. He thought he could see two, maybe three, domed helmets peering over the top.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”
Winston’s ears were alert as he huffed the outside air.
Simon scanned the horizon on either side of the concrete divider for any signs of inorganic shapes—anything man-made—and sure enough, there were two gazebo-like structures, one on either side, tucked in the thicket of trees. They were concealed with camouflaged blinds, and although Simon could not see them, he was sure there were armed men behind the fortified walls.
He put the car in reverse.
But then a voice boomed through the air from a loudspeaker.
“PUT THE CAR IN PARK AND YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL.”
Simon glanced at his rearview mirror at the tree he just bypassed. If he tried to peel out, he would surely be shot before he could maneuver past the narrow passageway.
Maybe I can run?
“DO AS WE SAY AND YOU WON’T BE HARMED. PUT THE CAR IN PARK AND YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED.”
Then figures emerged from the trees as though the plants had come alive. They were well-camouflaged and armed with assault rifles. He thought he might cry.
“Winston … oh, Winston … I fucked up. Again. I’m so sorry. I fucked up.”
In his side mirror, he watched a man wearing army fatigues approach the driver side door, aiming an M16 with precision.
“Put the car in park and put your hands on the steering wheel,” the voice commanded. Simon did as he was told. His hands were shaking and he glanced over at the shotgun on the seat next to Winston. The chamber was loaded.
He could see at least four men—one at each corner of the car—kneeling with rifles pointed. They looked like things of the earth—ghostly apparitions contrived out of warfare and the wilderness. Winston was growling. The fur on his back stood on end.
“No, Winston. No.”
Winston was not listening; he let out another growl.
“No,” Simon said in a hiss. “Winston, down. Down.”
Winston looked at Simon, his eyes large at the tone of his voice, and he curled up on the floor beneath the passenger seat.
A loud rapping at Simon’s window startled him. Simon half-turned to see the muzzle of a rifle pressed against the glass, inches from his face.
“Lower the window. Slowly, please.”
Simon obeyed.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m …” Simon swallowed back a lump in his throat. He wanted to turn to face the man, but he did not dare move his head. “I’m-I’m going … home.”
“Home? Where’s home? There’s no one living around here other than the delegates of Zone Blue. No sir, you’re going to have to turn this car around and head back the way you came.”
Zone Blue?
“Sir, turn your car around.”
Simon’s hands became steady on the wheel. He was trying to think of another way to bypass Alice.
“I-I live just up the road in Fairview. It’s not far.”
“Sir, no one is allowed to pass or enter Zone Blue without permission. Where in Fairview?”
“Fourteen twenty-one Ridgeline Road.”
The soldier did the math.
“That area is unoccupied, but it’s still in the protected perimeter. I cannot permit you entry.”
Cannot permit me? Cannot permit me! I’ve almost been killed trying to get here, and I’ve … I’ve had to kill …
“Sir, this is the last time I’m going to ask. Turn this car—”
Simon turned his head, looking straight into the guard’s face. He was wearing an olive-drab cloth over his nose and mouth, but Simon could see his eyes.
“Sir! Turn around this instant!”
“Please, I’m begging you … I’ve come a long way. I’ve almost been killed.”
“Who hasn’t? Turn around and move on. Now. You have ten seconds to get off our land.”
“Oh, Christ, please, you have to allow me to pass. I’ve waited years …”
“I told you, that area of Ridgeline Road is unoccupied. There’s no one living there. And no one can pass without the direct consent of General Byrnes.”
Simon’s eyes went wide.
Byrnes?
“Wait—what did you say? Byrnes? Tom Byrnes?” The framed picture in his dad’s office flashed in his mind: his dad and good friend Tom Byrnes, fishing. The same Tom Byrnes who had warned his father to leave the East Coast. The same Tom Byrnes with alleged CIA affiliation and a military background.
“Is it Tom Byrnes?”
“Sir, you can’t enter without—”
“Let me talk to him, please. I know him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“But I know him—I swear.” Simon could hear the squelching sound coming from a radio in the background.
“Call him over the radio. Call him, please. Tell him Simon Kalispell is here. Tell him Simon Kalispell, Anthony Kalispell’s son.”
“Sir—”
“I promise I know him. Just call him on the radio. It will only take a minute of your time. I’ll stay right here with my hands on the steering wheel. I won’t move an inch. If he says no, I’ll leave. I promise. I’ll turn around and leave.”
The guard was silent for a moment. Simon thought he was about to be forced to put the car in reverse, but then the soldier said, “Keep your hands on the steering wheel. Don’t move.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simon watched the soldier in the side mirror step back and unclasp a walkie-talkie from his belt.
***
Sergeant Jeremy Winters met Simon at the entrance to Alice Springs. Simon was not permitted to enter the center of town, but was given permission to walk under escort to his home.
Simon parked where he was told and exited the Buick.
A guard offered him a cigarette, but Simon shook his head. After a moment, he looked back at the car and then all around him.
Winston?
“Winston? Hey, where are you, buddy?”
The guard cocked his head. “Who?”
“My dog.” Simon poked his head in the car and looked under the seats. “Winston?”
“What dog? I didn’t see any dog when I approached you. Wouldn’t he have barked?”
“He was on the floor of the car. He was …” A flash went through Simon’s
mind, back to the gas station.
Why didn’t you bark, Winston? Why didn’t you bark?
Simon saw the men in the woods in British Columbia; felt the way his heart beat against the tree branch as they aimed their rifles at Winston in the woods.
Not possible …
“My dog, Winston … he was right there.”
The guard took a pull of his cigarette.
I can’t have been imagining … no, no, it’s not possible. I’m not crazy. I’m not—
His skin broke out in a cold sweat.
The guard cracked a smile. “There’s no dog in your car.”
Simon felt faint.
“He’s over there.” The guard nodded off to a gathering of soldiers, not far. The man chuckled. “He snuck out when you opened the door. Good-looking dog.”
Simon fought the urge to punch the guard in the face, but seeing Winston with his tail going crazy as all the soldiers circled around him, scratching his head, made Simon feel overcome with happiness.
“Just fucking with you,” the guard said.
“I might just take you up on that cigarette.”
“What kind of dog is he?”
“A stupid one.”
“Ha!”
Winston trotted to them, and the guard scratched Winston’s back. “No, you’re not dumb, are you, fella? You’re not dumb.”
Sergeant Jeremy Winters stood taller than the other soldiers and was not wearing a helmet or cloth around his face. He was dressed in simple, dark green fatigues, clean and pressed and tucked in around the waist, with an M16 slung over his shoulder. He was built like an athlete, like a quarterback or a rugby player—slim, strong, and tall.
“Mr. Kalispell, I’m Sergeant Jeremy Winters.” The man walked over, scratching the graying stubble on his chin.
Simon shook the sergeant’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant. Please call me Simon.”
“Likewise. Call me Jeremy.” The calloused palm of Jeremy’s hand squeezed firm. He smiled as they shook, and Simon noticed a scar running from below his left eye down the center of his cheek. It was not discolored or awful to look at. Rather, it seemed fitting on the man, as if he had been born with it. A badge or indication of rank.
A guard next to Sergeant Winters said, “Mr. Kalispell, you’ll have to leave your firearms at the gate before entering Alice.”
The After War Page 23