The After War

by Brandon Zenner

  Captain Black stopped short.

  “Now, Steven, son—”

  Steven had the captain off the ground in a flash, held by his throat, and he threw the old man hard against Mark and the soldier. All three toppled over.

  “Steven!” Brian shouted, getting to his feet.

  Steven reached back and shoved Brian over.

  “You lied to me!” Steven roared to the captain. “You all lied to me, you sons of bitches!”

  The unnamed soldier got back on his feet, attempting to flee toward the outside door. Steven sprinted forward, punching the man hard in the square of his back. Something cracked, and the man fell.

  Captain Black was still on the floor, and all the old man had a chance to say was, “Stev—” before Steven beat upon his head with both fists. The captain’s ruffled hat fell to the side.

  Mark Rothstein dragged his injured legs to stand. He had lost his firearm from the fall, and unsheathed his rosewood-handled machete, hobbling fast toward Steven, faster than his wounded legs should have allowed.

  “Steven!” Brian shouted.

  Steven stopped beating upon the captain’s lifeless body, and rose to face Mark Rothstein. As Mark swung down, Steven grabbed his wrist tight below the machete, and they grappled momentarily. Then Steven’s eyes went large and he let out a shriek. Mark’s free hand held the handle of a small dagger, the blade sunk deep between two of Steven’s ribs.

  Steven gripped both of Mark’s hands tight, and his wide-eyed stare turned to boiling anger. He squeezed with all of his might and the fingers of Mark Rothstein crunched and popped.

  Mark screamed and stumbled backward as Steven let go of his mangled hands.

  The sleek, rosewood handle of the machete was now in Steven’s grasp, and he chopped the blade down onto the crown of Mark Rothstein’s head in one fluid movement and let it go planted to the bridge of the lieutenant’s nose.

  Mark Rothstein fell, one eye still open wide.

  “Jesus, Steven!” Brian grabbed his cousin’s shoulders, helping him onto his back as blood sputtered over Steven’s lips.

  “Oh no, oh no, Steven, no.”

  Steven looked up at him, his body overtaken by uncontrollable spasms.

  “Th-th-this-this-this is it, B-Brian.”

  “I’ll get a doctor.” Brian tried to touch the knife handle protruding from his cousin’s chest, but Steven clutched it tight. “I ain’t gonna lose you again.”

  “N-no, Brian … no.” He held Brian’s hand, pulling his arm in close, holding it under his chin. “I-it’s okay,” Steven said, his eyes clear and staring upward. “It’s-it’s okay, Brian. It’s-it’s okay, okay.” His body was trembling and the blood around him was pooling fast. “It’s okay, Brian, it’s-it’s … okay.”

  The air in his lungs rasped and then he stopped talking. His body stopped shaking. His eyes hazed over.

  Brian held his cousin’s head in his arms, letting his tears fall freely.

  ***

  The house became quiet, the gunfire sporadic. The minutes that passed could have been hours. Then Nick heard his soldiers downstairs, the shouting and gunfire nearby. A few sharp explosions like grenades echoed up the stairway, and after another brief period of silence, a faint creaking came from the stair treads.

  Nick swallowed. His mouth was so dry. His teeth felt like sandpaper against his lips.

  He could not think—could not process his thoughts. He would escape this, somehow. This was not the end, not yet … it couldn’t be.

  His palm squeezed the cold handle of his .357 magnum, and he drew the dark and gleaming pistol. In a fluid motion, he grabbed Stephanie by her arm and yanked her away from the wall to stand before him.

  “Nick!” she shrieked, sobbing and shaking.

  Armed men came pouring into the room from the doorway, fanning out in either direction, their rifles pointed squarely at him.

  “I’ll shoot her!” Nick shouted, the pistol pressed at the base of her skull. “I’ll shoot her—let me go!”

  “N-Nick!” Stephanie tried to speak, but the words would not come out, jumbled up like chewing gum in her mouth.

  A bright red light flickered in Nick’s eyes. He looked down to see several laser targets dancing about his upper chest.

  “I’ll shoot—”

  A crack filled the air, and Nick’s leg gave out under him. He’d been shot above the kneecap, and the pain was electric. Stephanie toppled over, and as the men circled in, a beast entered the room—the man from outside who had clawed his way through the trenches, slashing and chopping at his men.

  Nick groped for his revolver, found it, leveled it at his own temple, and cocked the hammer back.

  His finger had just touched upon the trigger when a foot kicked the gun hard, and the shot went wild, just grazing his scalp. Yet he still held on to the handle, and as Nick looked up through foggy eyes, the wild man swung a machete down upon his hand, slicing through his finger and striking the blade into the wooden handle of his revolver, where it stuck. The wild man tossed the machete away, pistol, flesh, and all.

  Nick howled, trying to pinpoint if—and how many—fingers might be missing. But before he could think, the wild man was on top of him, his fists crashing down, pounding into his face with unbridled fury. After about a dozen strikes, Nick’s arms went slack and consciousness began to fade. The pain seemed to lessen and numbness, almost pleasant, overtook his body. Words registered in his ears, and Nick realized the man above him had been shouting the entire time.

  “Where is she? Where is she?”

  Nick coughed up broken teeth. “W-who?”

  “Bethany! Where’s Bethany Driscoll?”

  The man held Nick by the collar, lifting his back off the ground, their faces inches apart, and Nick looked through his swollen eyes at a man in the throes of pure madness.

  Bethany … Driscoll? Nick thought. Driscoll! That bitch in the cellar is a Driscoll?

  The entire time, a huge bargaining chip had been merely feet away. Nick had not given her a second thought since Karl took him down to the cellar. He never wanted to go back down there again, not after seeing what the doctor did to Will Holbrook.

  “B-Bethany …” Nick muttered, and the wild man’s fists began pounding at him again.

  “B-b-basement,” Nick muttered through the blows. “Basement! Basement! Basement!”

  The man stopped, his fist cocked in the air, his muscles taut like iron beneath his grime-soaked skin. “She’s in the basement?”

  “Y-yes … probably dead. I-I didn’t know who she was.”

  Nick expected the man’s fist to strike him again and again, to relentlessly batter his already fractured face until long after he was dead.

  But the man released him, and Nick lay slack on the floor.

  His vision was hazy as he saw the wild man run past the others, out of the room. A soldier was grabbing Stephanie by her arm. She was kicking and punching with her eyes closed, hollering and screaming.

  Steph … What … have I done …

  As consciousness faded and the men circling him held his limp arms, rummaging through his pockets, he saw Stephanie blindly leap back, breaking free from the soldier’s grip. The soldier sprung forward to catch her, but only grasped onto the corner of her purple robe. The material ripped in his hand, and she stumbled, falling through the broken window facing the Ridgeline River.

  “Holy hell!” he heard the soldier say as he ran toward the windowsill.

  Nick shut his eyes tight, picturing Stephanie falling through the air, her ripped purple robe fluttering backward until she struck the earth. He opened his eyes, glaring at the man standing inches away from the window’s ledge, looking down. The soldier still held the strip of silk robe in his fist, the purple material blowing back in the wind.

  Nick Byrnes shut his eyes again, and embraced the pure darkness as the world faded away.

  Chapter 64

  The End of Chaos

  Simon ran past the soldiers in the s
tairwell, and nearly collided into Brian as Brian stumbled into the hallway from a burning room, clutching his thigh above his kneecap.

  “Simon,” Brian said in a pant. “Simon, what happened? Where are you going?”

  Simon looked at Brian. The man was injured, his face swollen and blood trailing onto his shirt. The room he had just emerged from was ablaze, and the smoke was flowing into the hallway. Soldiers had entered the rear door with a hose and were attempting to quell the flames.

  “It’s Bethany. She’s in the basement.”

  Simon began running down the hallway again, and Brian hobbled to keep up.

  “It’s my knee,” he called to Simon. “Twisted it fierce.”

  Simon stopped running and turned back, putting his arm under Brian’s shoulder.

  “I’m all right,” Brian said. “I’m fine. I’ll manage.”

  “I got you.”

  Simon and Brian emerged back into the main house, where the dead and dying were all around. The occasional popping of gunfire could still be heard as the soldiers of Alice dealt with the last few pockets of resistance, yet most of the men were now tending to the injured, putting out the fires, and securing the prisoners.

  Simon and Brian continued across the once-majestic entry room, with the double staircase cascading to the second floor, when a sound made Simon stop as if hitting a wall.

  Barking …

  He looked up at the railing at the top of the stairs. Several soldiers surrounded a dog, their rifles up. The dog was glaring fangs and snapping his jaws.

  A soldier was saying, “Hey, easy now. Easy boy.”

  “Winston!” Simon yelled. “Winston! He’s not dangerous, put your guns down!” He almost dropped Brian as he ran to the staircase. Upon hearing his name, Winston’s ears pointed up and his jaw snapped shut. He darted around the soldiers, and sprinted down the staircase into Simon’s waiting arms.

  In a flash, a series of images flickered through Simon’s mind: Winston curled up on their bed in the cabin in British Columbia. Winston sitting in the sun as Simon meditated in the crook of the tree by the stream. He saw his dog’s head out the van window with his big tongue panting as the terrain sped by. He saw him flee from the Mexicans in the town when they were ambushed and the van was taken away. He saw himself and Winston rolling around on the ground in his old house, in his old room, in another lifetime, when Winston’s fur was only fuzz and they were both so young.

  “Oh my buddy, my boy …” Simon buried his face in Winston’s fur, letting Winston lick at his fingers and hands.

  “He tried to bit me,” a soldier called down.

  Simon looked up at the soldier, but didn’t answer. The air was thick with the cries of the dying and the wails of the maimed.

  “You’re scared, boy; I know. Come on,” he said to his dog, and held Winston by his scruff. He turned back to Brian.

  “I’m fine,” Brian protested, but he took Simon’s help anyway.

  In the kitchen they found the stairway to the basement.

  Simon shouted to a soldier at the bottom, “There’s a girl down here, a girl. Have you seen her?”

  The soldier shrugged.

  Brian and Simon hurried to a hallway in the back just as a soldier stumbled out of a room, doubled over and trying not to vomit. He looked up at them.

  “Don’t go in there.” He wiped his mouth on a sleeve. They ignored him and stepped inside. Pat O’Hern lay on a gurney in the center of the cement-walled room, dead and dismembered. Another body flayed of skin and ritualistically taken apart, some bones boiled white, lay upon a table in the far corner like a shrine.

  Oh, my God …

  The depth of the Red Hands’ madness was beyond evident.

  What if we had lost? Simon thought.

  Winston made a low whimper. Simon whistled at him. “Come on boy, stay with me.”

  They went from room to room, brushing past soldiers, and then to the service quarters in the rear.

  And that is where they found her.

  She was alive, yet unconscious. IV tubes were connected to her arms, and a doctor was checking her vitals as they entered.

  Simon rushed to the side of her bed, and Brian limped to a chair and collapsed.

  “Beth—Bethany?”

  Her eyes fluttered, the whites showing.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Simon asked the doctor. “Is she okay?”

  “You guys shouldn’t be in here; give her some space.” He leaned forward to usher Simon away, but Brian reached out and touched the doctor’s shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t,” Brian said.

  The doctor sighed. “She’s fine. She’s been drugged, but aside from that, she’ll be all right. She needs food and water, but they had her connected to an IV, so she’s not too badly dehydrated. They were keeping her alive.”

  “What drugs did they give her?”

  “Sedatives. Sleeping pills. I’m guessing you guys know her?” He motioned to Simon, who was holding her hand.

  “Give him a minute,” Brian said. “Jesus, I thought she was dead.”

  “Our men captured and questioned the guards stationed down here,” the doctor explained. “They were waiting on orders from Karl Metzger before beginning their interrogations. She was sedated all the while, but they kept her very much alive. She’s lucky.” He motioned in the direction of the laundry room. “That room there … I’ve never seen a more deplorable act.”

  “I want to talk to the guards.” Simon turned to the doctor.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why not? I helped lead this attack, I—”

  “The guards were taken outside and hanged.”

  Brian shook his head. “And so nothing changes.”

  “Listen,” Simon said, “you need to get some protection on her and take her to the safest place possible—right away.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “There are wounded soldiers everywhere who need urgent medical attention. She’s perfectly healthy, considering.”

  “This girl … she’s General Driscoll’s niece. We need to get word to him that she’s been found alive and safe.”

  Simon stared at the doctor, and after a brief pause the doctor said, “I see.”

  He turned and shouted to a soldier by the door. “Send word to the general that we’re on our way, and that we have a certain young lady named Bethany in our care. Get a stretcher and have a transport ready.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier turned to leave, but Brian called to him.

  “Hey, I need to send word to the firehouse—can you send someone? Have them find a medic named Carolanne. She needs to know that we’re alive, all of us; Bethany, Simon, and my name is Brian. She’ll be minding the injured.”

  The soldier paused, looking at the doctor.

  “Do as he says,” the doctor commanded. “Send someone.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier left.

  The doctor studied Simon, the expression on his face earnest.

  “My God, boy,” he said, “you need a medic yourself.” He looked at Brian, who was gripping his kneecap tight. “Both of you. At least clean yourselves up. You don’t want your faces to be the first thing this girl sees. The two of you look in a mirror?”

  “I’m fine,” Simon said, and turned back to Bethany. Her eyes were closed. He stroked her hand, and found a tube of medicated ointment that the doctor had on the bed. He spread the oily solution to the raw skin around her wrists, where the ropes had kept her secure.

  “Oh, Bethany, what did they do to you?”

  The doctor turned his attention to Brian, unrolling his pants leg.

  “I’m fine,” Brian said. “Help her.”

  “Like hell you are. The girl is better off than the two of you,” he said. “And look, she’s coming around.”

  Simon leaned in close as her eyes fluttered and opened, taking a moment to focus on first the ceiling and then Simon’s face. Her expression lightened from confusion to happiness as she saw
through the gore and recognized the man hovering before her. Then tears came.

  “S-Simon,” her voice croaked.

  “Shh, easy. Take it easy.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, and she cried into his shoulder.

  “Get me out of here.”

  “I will. We are. They’re bringing a stretcher. We’re leaving. The war is over.”

  “I can walk. Just help me up.”

  “You’ve been drugged and tied down in bed. Wait for the stretcher.”

  They split apart, and Bethany studied Simon’s face again, her trembling fingers touching the side of his cheek.

  “What happened to you?”

  Simon smiled. “I’m fine.” He looked over at Brian, whose face was set in agony as the doctor touched and examined his damaged knee. Then he looked down at his feet, where Winston lay curled in a ball.

  “I’m home,” Simon said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve done it,” he whispered. “I’m finally home.”

  Epilogue

  His eyes twitched and then cracked open. Whatever dark crevice of his mind first became conscious was trying to rationalize his sudden reentry into the world, as he stared into an unknown void.

  I’m home, under the covers, and I’m a child, his mind substantiated, then jumped, I’m staring at the cement ceiling in my cell in Huntsville—or maybe Atlanta … No, I’m staring at the ceiling of the train car, and any minute now the door will slide open and the conductor will find me lying here using my stained, orange jumpsuit as a blanket.

  But …

  … wait

  I’m staring at the sky …

  It was the smoke billowing out from the house that woke him from the depths of unconsciousness, causing him to cough himself awake. With each convulsion of his body, he remembered where he was and how much pain he was in.

  Karl Metzger attempted to move, but the rushes of agony forced him to stop.

  He lifted his right hand, flexing his fingers one at a time, and then he moved to his toes and began twitching each and every muscle in turn, seeing what was there and what was not.

  A fire was raging in the house, and the flames were bellowing out through the doorway. The heat was so intense that he felt the hairs on his body singe. Drifting cinders floated through the air, some searing his skin where they landed. The room was sunken, with flames burning through the ground, and he saw the outline of a decapitated head mixed in with a pile of bricks and cement.