Chapter Seven
Burning Reeds
Smoke rose from the steep northern embankment and drifted in light swells until they dissipated into nothing more than a floating dance of cinders. The shore was awash with corpses, bobbing with the rhythmic pulling of the sea. Farther south, the sounds of war prevailed in contrast to the light lapping tide.
In a shallow depression, lost among the thicket of towering reeds blanketing the steep hill, a young soldier named Luis sat with his knees tucked tight to his chest. The view of the bay was magnificent from his perch. The warship he had departed from earlier was anchored still and silent like a solitary island. At the shoreline, the swell of landing vessels drifted driverless and heedlessly among the dead and dismembered. A memory came to Luis as he meditated upon the calm yet ghastly scene, one that brought a bit of warmth to his inner pit of cold despair. His mother, oh so many years ago, sitting before her easel … the hardwood floor speckled with the many layers of paint that composed her dozens of paintings, closely resembling a piece of artwork itself, akin to something Jackson Pollock might create. His mother turned to him, a child awoken in the night, and smiled. “What are you doing out of bed?” she asked, and brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, leaving a smear of crimson red on her forehead. That paint, that shade, was identical to the battered shoreline where the bodies piled and the landing ships drifted.
The popping of distant gunfire slowed. His perch had shielded him from the onslaught of bullets that had rained down from Hightown’s soldiers, causing the reeds to ripple like a raging sea. Luis had scaled the hill among his brotherhood, those of the Red Hands. He’d been a dockworker before Karl Metzger took charge and integrated the men into one solitary force. They belonged to those who would survive the days to come, to flourish, to eat and drink, and abolish those who stood in their way.
Karl had told them, had bellowed out over the loudspeakers while standing before the podium on the docks, that these people of Hightown and Alice had secured enough water, fuel, and food to feed ten times their own number. But would they share with their fellow man to see humanity spread? No. They would not allow any more into their fold. So men like themselves, those who had survived the epidemic and war, were now left in a depleted world without the aid of their fellow man. The Red Hands would not allow that to happen. Under Karl’s rule, they would take what they needed to ensure their own survival, and the continuation of humankind in the coming decades. The army was promised, as they were gathered together on the docks listening to the tall and grave man deliver his sermon, that following the battle, those left alive from Hightown and Alice’s population would be allowed to join in the brotherhood if they were no longer deemed a threat.
Under Karl’s leadership, humanity would endure, and the compensation would be great. Already, the stores of food had been opened, and more was delivered from his neighboring colonies, one named Odyssey in the south, and finally, after weeks of eating nothing more than a few bites of boiled rice crawling with maggots and bread so old the threat of ergot poisoning was a real and normal experience, they were issued warm rations. Sealed MREs—seasoned beef, spicy chili, crispy crackers. Fresh stew, thick with vegetables and unidentifiable chunks of meat, ladled from vast cauldrons. Strength returned. A clear mind followed. Karl’s words rang true, and the idea of following him into battle, to ensure that life would continue to be so sweet, never sounded more palatable. The people of Hightown and Alice, hoarding their resources so that only a select few could thrive in the years to come, had to be eliminated to ensure mankind’s continued survival. Keeping others away, scratching at the thick walls while starving to skin and bones, was not only cruel, it was inhumane on the scale of mass genocide.
The exhilaration of warfare was captivating as Luis first stormed the hill. Then the bullets rained down and explosions plumed in the air like fiery pillars from hell. It was an explosion that rocketed him on his side, a blanket of dirt shrouding his body, grinding between his teeth, suffocating his nostrils, blurring his vision. The army advanced, but Luis did not. He could not. He was stuck to the earth as if glued, bullets striking the ground around him, wavering the reeds, further cementing him down like a crouched stone, overwhelming his mind and perception with terrible things. He stared at the shade of red on the shoreline, time lost from his awareness.
Now silence prevailed. At first, once the battle moved from the hilltop and farther into town, a blanket of serenity enveloped him. But now, the silence of the dead was causing a clamor. He stood on shaky legs and turned upward, pulling on rocks. Large portions of the dry reeds burned, and the fire was fast spreading. He scrambled for the top, out of breath, his hands and fingers torn and bleeding. Bodies scattered the ridge and settled in piles.
“Hhh-eey …” a voice croaked. Luis recoiled and aimed his rifle at the noise. A body lay covered in ash and charred from feet to torso. The eyes strained to open and lolled about behind blackened lids. “Hh-h-elllp.”
Luis turned and ran, jumping over blown-about debris and avoiding flaming sections of homes that lined the top of the hill overlooking the bay. He continued toward the sporadic sound of gunfire. When he arrived near the front gates, he could hear the rancor of his brotherhood. Happy voices. Celebratory tones. A layer of anxiety peeled back from his heart. He passed the medics tending to men on the ground and moving the wounded in something of an orderly procession. Some soldiers sat solemn and smoked cigarettes with trembling fingers. Others uncapped bottles of liquor and took long swigs. A tall man whose uniform was torn and sullied came charging out the door of a small home, pulling behind him one of Hightown’s soldiers by his hair. The tall man’s eyes were lost in madness and narcotics, and he tossed the soldier as if he were a toy down onto the dust. Luis moved on, and went around a bend to come into a clearing. Hightown’s massive wall stretched in the opposite distance, and among the top were members of his brotherhood, hollering as if they’d scaled a mountain. Some were shooting precise shots at fleeing soldiers; others were lighting cigarettes and cigars.
A gathering of enemy combatants stood against the base of the wall with their hands tied behind their backs. They were bloodied and beaten, their heads looking down in despair as they were made to kneel, and more were being roughly added to their numbers. Their pockets were searched, their identities discovered. The more desirable and high-ranking officials were pulled out of the assemblage and brought out of sight. The other less worthy were systematically led to the side of an adjacent home and made to stand in front of a firing squad.
General Karl Metzger was there, watching the execution, Liam Briggs at his side, shouting orders to the officers. “C company, report! Man the walls!” Another stood among them. Tall and lean, filthy, with a full head of gray hair.
Luis remained motionless, catching his breath, when Liam turned to him and they made eye contact across the short expanse.
“You there,” he shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“N-nothing, sir.”
“You look like the ass side of a dying dog.”
Karl produced cigars, sharing them among the officers as he watched the line of prisoners grow. “No more live ammunition,” he instructed. “Save the bullets. Find easier implements.”
“Yes, sir,” an officer replied.
Liam took a swig from a bottle, then turned back to Luis and walked his way. “Here,” he said. “Have a drink. Try to fucking smile—this is a victory, after all. Then get yer ass moving, man the line.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Luis took the bottle and drained back a gulp. The liquor stung hot in this throat. He coughed and felt his stomach twist. He doubled over, turning away from the officers, and stumbled. Behind him, he could hear first Liam and then the other officers laugh.
“Give him a minute,” Karl’s deep voice bellowed. “If he’s not right by evening, add him to the line.”
Chapter Eight
Movement in the North
The first of Hightown’s
fleeing soldiers entered Alice; a dozen at first, and then a steady column of trucks and transports rumbled into the trade grounds.
“They came from the water,” a soldier with a bloody cloth tied around his forehead told a guard. “A warship steered into the bay. You got a smoke?”
The guard gave the soldier a cigarette, and the man proceeded into town. The gymnasium in Alice Elementary School was lined with cots to hold the overflow of troops, and the officers met in a classroom turned office. Simon sat next to Jeremy at the round table, looking over the photocopied map of Hightown and ledgers with estimated numbers of troops and statistics.
“Any word from General Driscoll?” Jeremy asked the table.
“He was adamant about staying until the last minute,” a lieutenant in a clean-pressed uniform with short-cropped hair responded.
“Are you sure it was them?”
The officer rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, displaying a hulking ring from some branch of the military. “They have red handprints on their chests. Saw it myself.”
“Jesus … where the hell did they get a working ship? And how do they have so many numbers? These guys just keep coming. Who’s leading them?”
“We don’t know.” The officer sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “They must have known the layout of Hightown; they were strategic with their areas of attack. Our artillery was hit before they advanced. Our forward observation post, out on a jetty of land overlooking the ocean, never reported the ship and didn’t respond to radio communications. They must have been dealt with before the invasion.”
The table was silent, each member observing the papers before them. “We need to muster the men and attack at once,” the officer continued.
Lieutenant General Casey Edmunds placed the papers on the table. “We wait for General Driscoll,” he said.
“There’s been no word from the general. The longer we wait, the more prepared they’ll be for a counteroffensive.”
“As able as they were for the initial attack, I expect they’re anticipating us to strike. Hightown’s defenses were left intact; we would have a tough time breaking the line.”
The lieutenant picked up the papers and pointed to a line of numbers. “Between our armament left behind and the vehicles that have escaped, we maintain three-fourths of our armored division. The general might be captured, or worse. If we—”
“Which would make me acting general in his absence.” Casey paused, making eye contact with the lieutenant, then continued, “We don’t know the munitions carried in their vessel, but by all indication, they have an abundance of artillery. If we attack head-on, their missiles could wipe us out a half mile from the front line. We need to wait on word from General Driscoll, and from the other settlements.”
The officer nodded. Casey was Hightown’s senior officer, and his decision was the final say.
“And if there is no word,” Jeremy said, “a plan will be needed. We cannot let those monsters remain in Hightown. We have to reach out to the fuel convoy before the next shipment, and have them veer course to Alice. If the ship reaches Hightown, it could have catastrophic consequences. They could renegotiate the pact. They could steal our supply. They already have a huge surplus of fuel from Hightown’s storage tanks, enough to outlast our own. We have to attack before the shipment arrives.”
“This is true,” Casey said. “We can’t let the Red Hands learn of the other settlements, negotiate, and establish their own lifeline for fuel. If no word comes from the other settlements before the next convoy is expected, we will invade.”
“So,” the officer said, rubbing his ring with the thumb of his opposite hand. “We need to come up with a logical plan of attack.”
“Agreed,” Jeremy said. “We need to be precise. Simon,” he said, turning to his side. “What are your thoughts on scouting their line? Do you think we could sneak some scouts past the wall, into Hightown?”
The weight of a dozen eyes burned on Simon. He swallowed. “I, um …” He cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, possible.” He breathed in and out, attempting to clear his thoughts. “They’ll be on high alert,” he said, “which goes without saying. I have confidence in our scouts’ abilities, but we lost a lot of qualified Rangers in the battle.”
“So, what are you saying?” Casey cut in.
The man’s direct nature brought back a degree of uncertainty, but Simon focused on what he knew of the men he was responsible for. “We could scout the line, check for any of their forwarding patrols, but as far as getting in … that’s uncertain.”
I’m sending more men to their graves, Simon thought. By my own hands or by my orders, more will die because of me. My friends. My Rangers. Trying to save lives, save the people of Alice and Hightown, spells death for those I order to defend us …
The battle on Nick’s lawn had changed Simon in ways he was still trying to understand. Before the fighting, Simon had taken a personal oath to never kill a human. Not again. Not after the boy … the gas station from another lifetime. The events were becoming a distant memory, yet certain frames still burned bright in his thoughts. He saw himself kneeling beside the manhole to the gas tank below ground … The boy appeared before him, rifle in hand. Rifle so large the boy’s small hands had trouble holding it steady, his fingers barely reaching the trigger. Then the gun fired, either by accident or not, and the shot went wild. Simon grabbed his rifle and fired as the boy chambered another round. A freeze-frame image of the child suspended in air, a puff of red and shirt fabric before him, brought terrible pangs of guilt. After all of the deaths he was responsible for, the dozens he’d slaughtered with his own hands in the trenches before Nick’s home, it was the boy that brought him the most remorse.
But now Simon was responsible for the lives of others. His decisions had consequences for the men ordered to obey his command. They’re soldiers, he reminded himself. Tried to rationalize. They fight. They kill and die … they know this.
“I might be able to get behind their line,” he said. “But it won’t be easy.”
Ever since the night of the battle, when his mindset switched from a focused intent into something almost animalistic, he was having difficulty remaining in the attentive state needed to scout for long durations. Images of the gore he was responsible for popped into his thoughts like appalling bubbles.
He continued, “We need to learn their patterns and numbers—”
The door opened and a young female soldier with her hair tied back in a tight bun said a collective, “Sir. There’s movement to the north.”
There was a pause, and then all the officers stood at once. The soldier walked through the throng of officials, straight to Jeremy, and spoke to him softly. Jeremy’s gaze remained unflinching as she gave her report, and then he said, “Jesus Christ. Simon, come with me.”
Jeremy walked fast out of the office, nudging around the officers, with Simon and several officials in tow. From behind, Jeremy’s movements suggested that he found a pack of cigarettes in his front pocket, pulled one out with his teeth, and snapped his lighter open. A waft of smoke followed as he said, “I don’t even know how to explain this.” A guard ahead opened the doors leading outside, and a shaft of blinding sunlight stung their eyes.
Chapter Nine
The Truck
Brian and Bethany were in the trade grounds, awaiting word on the truck spotted due north of the gates.
“It’s from Hightown, right?” Bethany asked. “I mean, it has to be.”
“I would think so,” Brian answered.
Bethany paced on the blacktop, rubbing her hands together. “Why did they stop?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think it’s Uncle Al? It’s got to be, right?”
“Beth, I have no clue.”
She looked at him, unsatisfied with his answer.
“Look,” Brian said. “I don’t know … but I don’t think it’s Uncle Al. It’s been hours since the bulk of Hightown’s men poured o
ut of the city. If it were Uncle Al, the truck wouldn’t have stopped outside the gates.”
“You don’t know that, Brian,” she said with a scowl.
“That’s what I’ve been saying; I don’t know. We have to wait. That’s all we can do.”
“That’s not good enough.” Bethany turned fast toward the gate.
“Beth!” Brian shouted, limping after her. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t answer. When she got to the sliding chain-link fence, she said to the guard standing before it, “Open up,” and swung her rifle into her hands.
“Ma’am?” the guard said.
“Open the gates. I’m going out there.”
The guard shook his head. “No, ma’am, you’re not.”
Brian caught up to her. “Beth, c’mon. They sent a detachment; we’ll get word soon.”
“Brian, if you’re not going to help, you can kindly fuck off.”
Brian scratched the back of his neck and exchanged a glance with the soldier. A few more guards wandered over.
“If you don’t—” was all Bethany got out before two soldiers came running out of the woods from beside the road.
“Open up!” one shouted.
All faces turned toward him. The gates were opened, and the first soldier ran right past the guards. “Where’s General Winters?” he asked.
“On his way from the school,” the guard replied.
The second soldier doubled over, out of breath, and said, “Bethany Driscoll, Simon Kalispell, and General Winters—they’re all needed, ASAP.”
Brian felt a moment of reluctance at hearing Bethany called for by her last name. After the many months of keeping her identity a secret and struggling to remember to call her by her made-up surname, Rose, her identity had come out after the battle in Alice.
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