The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  “Get someone to clean up this mess.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sultan said, watching as the pool of blood spread from the young sergeant’s head, inching toward the toe of his boot as it soaked into the rich carpet.

  Chapter 54

  Shadows

  Simon Kalispell and Frank Morrow stood atop a tall wooded hill overlooking the entrance to Zone Red. They watched as the massive gates leading into Hightown opened for the column of supply vehicles, Hummers, and flatbed trucks all departing to the town of Sullivan and Livingston Park.

  The plans were a go.

  Simon had stripped down to a pair of shorts and was armed with only a knife and his father’s Colt .45 holstered to his side. Frank was dressed much the same, but wore a thin camouflage jacket.

  The campfire before them had dwindled down, and they were using the cool charcoals to darken their skin. When mixed with the mud and the grass they had smeared on their bodies, the men melded into the rocks and the trees and the earth below their feet.

  Conversation was minimal, as they each turned inward to personal thoughts.

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

  In the distance, the line of supply vehicles disappeared into the wilderness, and the gates to Zone Red were fastened shut.

  Simon sat with his back straight, his eyes closed. Images of his best friend Winston along with awful pangs of worry and doubt fluttered through his thoughts, but he chased them away to the best of his ability. His mind must be kept clear and open. Yet, it was the images of Bethany that were the hardest to suppress. The smell of her clean hair—botanical, like sweet thyme—still stung at his nostrils.

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

  Simon inhaled deeply. Exhaled, and opened his eyes.

  “You ready?” Frank asked.

  “Yes.” Simon stood. He had never been so ready in his life.

  Frank picked up the scoped, silenced assault rifle with the collapsible stock and grabbed the satchel they kept around the base of a tree, away from the fire, and swung them both over his shoulder.

  The men walked into the woods and disappeared like trails of smoke.

  ***

  The guard post was visible despite the darkness of the night.

  Simon and Frank were watching the guards in the trenches go about their scheduled routines. It had taken over an hour of crawling against the cold ground beside bushes or rocks and shadowy crevices to get within a few yards of the front line. Slowly, the two men crawled close enough that they could hear guards talking.

  Two men passed the trench in a loop every five minutes, without any disruption or irregularity. Simon and Frank waited and counted the laps until they were certain of the timing.

  Their bodies were pressed against the dirt, their camouflaged flesh looking akin to the earth and rocks. The voices of the two guards grew louder until they were directly in line with them. Simon was close enough to reach out and touch the face of the nearest man as they passed.

  It was at this moment that Simon’s thoughts became inexplicably sharp. All formations of Bethany and Winston were gone, and his head was so clear that his mind and body seemed capable of moving quicker than the world around him. It was as if he could see a split-second into the future.

  He was the wind, the rock, and the tree.

  Simon and Frank used their calm breaths to guide them like a metronome as they counted to one and a half minutes. Then they moved.

  In a single motion, they dropped into the trench, looked in either direction down the dark cavernous lanes, and with a fluid bounce, they leaped onto the opposite side. They crawled fast on their forearms and knees, and continued counting to four minutes. Then they stopped, flattening themselves down against the earth.

  They waited until the voices of the next patrol passed and then moved on, all the while keeping an eye on the watchtower to their side, but the spotlight remained dark.

  They crawled until the trenches were well behind them, and then they got to their feet. Running was risky, so they prowled from one tree to the next and from rock to rock, leapfrogging until they made it in complete silence to Ridgeline Road.

  The road was deserted.

  Simon took the lead as they headed now to chop the head off the serpent.

  Chapter 55

  Silver Thermos

  Mark Rothstein sent six men to the site of the open grave. They scouted the area first to be sure no soldiers from Hightown were staking them out. It was nearing evening as they approached the pit, so they used the headlights of their trucks to illuminate the field around the corpses. Inside, a faceless body wearing a uniform from Alice lay sprawled on top.

  “That one’s Simon Kalispell. Got to be,” one of the guards said to the ranking officer.

  The officer nodded. “Find out, then get on with it.”

  The men started dragging the scattered corpses from the firefight into the pit, taking inventory and then pushing them over the ledge.

  “Hey, look here,” the guard said, pulling out IDs from several of the bodies. “This one is Jeremy Winters, and this other is Frank Morrow. We got them sons a bitches all accounted for.” He compared the images on the IDs to the bodies, but their faces were bloated, and some were shot or bludgeoned beyond recognition.

  The officer came over. Something caught his attention. Frank Morrow’s pants cuff was pulled up to shin height, and something long and silver was attached to his ankle.

  “What’s that?” the ranking officer asked, as a soldier unstrapped the cylindrical device from Frank’s ankle. It was over an inch in diameter and about a foot in length.

  “I don’t know, sir. Looks like a thermos.”

  “That’s not a thermos, you idiot. Weren’t these men patted down?”

  The man shrugged. “Should have been. Maybe just scanned for a weapon. They was coming here to die, after all.”

  The officer shook his head and grabbed the gleaming metal tube out of the soldier’s hand. He unscrewed the top, and removed several large pieces of coiled paper. He knelt down, flattening the corners against the grass. In the light from the trucks he studied them as best as he could.

  The men gathered, staring over his shoulder.

  “Get back. I can’t see worth a damn.”

  The writing was done in fine blue ink with detailed mechanical drawings. “Oh my,” the officer said. “Do you know what we’re looking at here?”

  Underneath the blueprints were pages detailing an operation titled “Blue Rapture.”

  The officer skimmed through each page, then coiled them back up and put them in the tube. He pressed them into the arms of the man kneeling beside him. “Take these straight to Karl Metzger. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.” The man got to his feet.

  “Better yet, I’ll go myself. You stay here. Peters, come with me. Johnson, you’re in command. Bury these men.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnson said.

  The ranking officer ran to one of the trucks and peeled away from the gravesite.

  “If this is what I think it is,” he patted the silver tube, “we’ll win this war without a single shot fired.”

  Chapter 56

  Blue Thunder

  Being a chef gave Brian Rhodes some privileges, such as being allowed outside past curfew to go back and forth between his apartment and the kitchen for meal prep. During dinner service, Brian left to check on Carolanne and see if there had been any further broadcasts. But there was nothing new. Not since earlier that afternoon when a message had come beeping through the headphones.

  PHASE I OPERATION BLUE THUNDER TO COMMENCE.

  WAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION REGARDING PHASE II.

  Following that afternoon broadcast, Carolanne went to work in the laundry room and had only just returned a few minutes before Brian.

  “How’d it go?” Brian asked.

  “Good,” she replied. “I think it went fine.”

  “I sure as
hell hope it did.” They talked for a little while longer, then he kissed her goodbye and walked outside into the cool evening air, heading back to the kitchen for cleanup. It was a short walk down the road to the volunteer fire department, and as Brian was reaching for the handle of the glass door, he heard a voice hiss out in a whisper.

  “Flowing?”

  Without thinking, Brian answered. “Water—water.” It was the code Uncle Al had made him memorize.

  “Brian Rhodes?” the voice said.

  Brian turned.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Quiet,” the voice whispered. Two human forms stepped out from around the side of the building. They looked like ritualistic gods—effigies of humans made out of mud and earth.

  “My name is Simon Kalispell,” Simon introduced himself. “This is Frank Morrow. General Driscoll sent us. We have new orders for you. We need somewhere safe to hide. Not your apartment.”

  Brian nodded. “I scouted a place earlier.”

  He led Simon and Frank to a side door, and up a staircase leading to the second floor. They were quiet, trying not to rouse the attention of the kitchen staff.

  “I know this place,” Simon said, stepping into the small, stuffy room. “Nick was going to use it as an office before he moved into his mansion with the rest of the Red Hands. It doesn’t look like he ever finished settling in.” Simon nodded to a pine desk in the corner. There wasn’t a single pen or piece of paper on it.

  “From what I gathered from the kitchen staff,” Brian said, “Nick hasn’t set foot in the firehouse in weeks. Takes all his meals at home, too. No one will come looking in Nick’s own office. No one has reason to come to the second floor at all, it’s all storage.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware,” Frank said, “the operation has begun.”

  Brian nodded. “We got the message today. Carolanne’s back at the apartment; I’m going to go get her now. From here on out, we gotta stay hidden.”

  “All right,” Simon said. “Hurry.”

  Brian left, walking swiftly to the apartment.

  Carolanne jumped at hearing the door open, and stood looking at him worriedly.

  “Jesus,” she said. “You scared the hell out of me. Why are you back?”

  “Gather everything; it’s time to go.”

  She swallowed. “Go where?”

  “Into hiding. Two men are here to help, back at the firehouse. Come on, I’ll explain on the way. Get the radio.”

  Brian watched the road for several minutes, making sure no one was around, and then he led Carolanne down the street, holding the suitcase tight against his chest.

  The road was deserted in the late hour, but by the time they arrived at the firehouse, Brian saw Carolanne was covered in sweat.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he whispered to her. “We’re safer here than back at the apartment.”

  They walked up the stairs, and to the door to the office.

  “Carolanne,” Brian said, entering, “meet Simon Kalispell and Frank Morrow.”

  Carolanne nodded. “Hello,” she whispered. They shut the door, keeping the lights off. Using a penlight, Brian set up the radio from his apartment.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you—about you both,” Simon said. “Bethany has become a good friend of mine. Any word on her? Hear anything about a dog?”

  Brian and Carolanne exchanged glances in the darkness.

  “We’re … not sure,” Brian said. “Don’t know anything about a dog, but we’ve heard rumor that Bethany was taken to Nick’s mansion. We also heard rumor that you’re dead. Both of you.”

  Simon looked grim and shook his head.

  “That son of a bitch. That son of a bitch—I’ll kill him. If he’s so much as laid a finger on her, I’ll chop off his hands.”

  Everyone looked at him. Frank had never heard Simon so worked up.

  “If that asshole did take her,” Brian said, “I’ll help you tear him to shreds.”

  “As far as you hearing that we’re both dead,” Frank said, motioning to himself and Simon. “That’s good news. That is exactly what we want them to think.”

  On the floor of the office, Brian unloaded his assault rifle, smuggled in the bottom of a crate of mushrooms, and a few pistols. Simon laid out his two newly acquired shotguns, one pump-action and the other a double-action.

  “Won’t the other chefs know you’re missing? Don’t you have to go down there?”

  Brian shook his head. “No one’s keeping track of who’s doing what in the kitchen, especially not for the night shift. The guards don’t think of the chefs as much of a threat. Usually they’re drunk or passed out when they’re supposed to be watching the staff.”

  They sat in a circle for what seemed like hours. When the chefs downstairs left for the night, Brian slipped out and returned with a sack of food—bread and nuts.

  They ate with relish, especially Simon and Frank, who had draped blankets over their shoulders.

  A light blinked on the radio as it picked up a transmission. Brian leaned over, holding the headphones to his ear, writing as the ticks played out:

  INITIATE PHASE II BLUE THUNDER

  Brian read the command out loud to the room.

  “That’s all that it says?” Simon asked.

  “That’s it.”

  They were silent.

  Simon spoke in a whisper, “It begins ….”

  Chapter 57

  Toxicodendron Radicans

  Earlier that day, when Carolanne heard the orders for Phase I to commence, she had left for her work detail at the large laundry facility near the firehouse, and begun the operation.

  She would be the first to strike at the Red Hands without firing a single shot.

  Many of Alice’s older or disabled residents were given the job of washing and folding laundry, and they were surprised to see a young girl when she first arrived.

  Carolanne had entered the laundry room wearing her backpack, which normally contained a light jacket, and greeted the fellow workers she had only recently begun working with. There was old Bobby, who was missing a leg, and Sylvia, the elderly lady who was losing her eyesight.

  It was Sylvia who was washing the piles of dark brown uniforms, those of Nick Byrnes’s Dragoons, who were ordered to wash their uniforms frequently and appear crisp and tidy. The same order had been issued to the Red Hands, yet they were less willing to oblige.

  “Sylvia,” Carolanne had said, nodding to the pile of dark uniforms, “why don’t I give you a hand?”

  Sylvia gave Carolanne a look. Everyone did their own task at the laundry, but Carolanne had been the helpful type ever since she’d arrived.

  Sylvia smiled. “Sure. There’s plenty over there, if you want to get a jump on them.”

  Carolanne smiled back. “I’ll give you a hand here first. I don’t mind.”

  “Suits me, I guess.”

  Carolanne wheeled the carts full of wet laundry—uniforms, socks, T-shirts, and underwear—to the dryers on the other side.

  Bobby gave her a brief smile as he folded laundry from a giant heap before him, his brown eyes glazed with cataracts.

  It’s now or never, Carolanne, she told herself.

  Her hands fluttered and she felt dizzy as she unzipped her backpack, looking between Bobby and Sylvia. She pulled out a towel folded around something the size of a small pillow and tossed it in with the wet laundry.

  Wrapped in the towel was a bale of plant leaves tied in a mesh laundry bag, which Brian had snuck in with a crate of sage and wild herbs from Hightown. As the dryer started up, the bag containing a large quantity of toxicodendron radicans—commonly known as poison ivy—spun around and around with all of the clothing.

  Carolanne repeated this process with each load as the day wore on, using a fresh bag of poison ivy after the third cycle.

  At the end of the shift, after folding a large quantity of the laundry herself while wearing plastic gloves—after telling Bobby and Sylvia her hands had gotten irritated fr
om the detergent—she picked up her backpack with the used poison ivy and left for home. Along the way, she dropped the bag in a pre-dug hole by the side of a house surrounded by trees and kicked dirt over it. Her knees were shaking and she looked over her shoulders, expecting to see figures emerge from the shadows at any given moment.

  Hours had passed since then, and she sat now on the carpeted floor of the firehouse room telling Frank and Simon her story.

  “Do you think it’s going to work?” Simon asked.

  Carolanne shrugged. “I don’t know, but look at this.”

  She pulled up her sleeve and shone a penlight on her forearm where a spotty red rash had developed. “I guess I wasn’t as careful as I thought.”

  Chapter 58

  King of the East

  Karl Metzger and his officers had gotten little sleep, if any, the previous night. A sergeant had arrived late at night and out of breath. The man clutched a long, thin silver document tube in his hands. Karl removed the papers and unraveled them on the billiard table in the basement.

  “Tell me again where you found these?” Karl’s eyes did not look up from the blueprints.

  “Attached to the corpse of Frank Morrow,” the man responded.

  “So, Frank Morrow, Jeremy Winters, and Simon Kalispell—they’re all dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re sure of it?”

  “Yes, sir. They were wearing their uniforms and had IDs in their pockets.”

  “But was it them? You saw their faces?”

  “I … their faces were beat up pretty bad, I—”

  “Sergeant.” Karl’s baritone voice loomed in the room. “Was it them or not?”

  “Y-yes, sir, it was them all right.”

  Karl studied the papers one by one.

  “That will be all, Sergeant,” he said. “Please call Sultan and Mr. Rothstein down here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later, Karl was showing his officers the papers.

  “If what we got here is true,” Sultan said, scanning the mechanical drawings, “there’s no way we’re gonna lose this war.”