“What happened out there?” he asked the first and then the second returning soldier.
Casey Edmunds touched Simon’s shoulder. “Give them a minute,” he said. “Let them get inside.”
“Bethany Driscoll was out there, and her cousin, Brian,” Simon said.
“So were a lot of good soldiers. Let them get behind the gates.”
Simon fought back the urge to grab the next returning man and berate him with questions. Instead he asked, “What dropped from the helicopter?”
Casey Edmunds answered without the slightest show of emotion. “Heads,” he said. “Severed heads. Maybe a hundred in total. Most were smashed beyond identification when dropped from that altitude, but they’re all presumed to be our men killed or executed in Hightown.”
“They dropped heads?”
“Are you shocked?” He looked at Simon. “These people, these monsters, they’re capable of doing things humanity wouldn’t dare dream of. It’s a tactic. They want us afraid. They want us to leave our posts when their army storms the gates. They want us to know they’ll have no problem adding our heads to the pile.”
Before the truck appeared outside the gate, when the officers from Hightown and Alice had convened inside Alice Elementary School, Casey Edmunds had presented a document outlining the armament and personnel lost in the battle with the Red Hands. On top of that, he detailed the munitions and fuel that was believed to be left behind intact, and now in the hands of the enemy. The first barrage of artillery from their war vessel had destroyed much of the airstrip outside the hangar where the helicopters were stored. But the hangar itself was not targeted, and was believed to be in the enemy’s possession. Simon noted that if they were willing to send one lone helicopter into enemy fire, they must have more at their disposal.
Even more terrifying was their sudden acquisition of a working navy. Not just the one warship, but the dozens of landing vessels. The shallow depth of the reservoir bordering Alice would make it impossible for the destroyer to stay afloat, but the smaller ships could navigate their waters.
Simon wanted to ask the simple question during the meeting, “Is this a war we can win?” but he didn’t. This was something they were trying to decipher, and Simon wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. It had become apparent that they knew nothing of the Red Hands’ numbers. By all accounts, Karl’s army had been wiped out during the battle in Alice, but now here they were, a thousand more infesting Hightown like a plague.
And if—or rather, when—they came marching to Alice’s gates, would they be able to defend themselves against such an onslaught? An invasion from the air, land, and sea? Alice’s line was still in repair. There were sections of the trenches manned by a thin line of men behind makeshift sandbags as the pits were redug and the towers reconstructed.
By all accounts, Simon didn’t believe they could endure another battle. Even with the might of Hightown’s armored wing, if they were to be attacked by landing vessels, helicopters, and a direct assault, the bulk of the defenses would be spread thin.
There was some hope, though.
A revelation was presented to Alice’s officials from Casey Edmunds, who showed a degree of humility that he had kept the information to himself for so long. He said, “There are … other colonies. Large colonies, equal in power to our own, and in alliance.”
“Where?” Jeremy asked. “And how do you know this?”
“We have always known.” His answers were matter-of-fact as he told of each settlement in turn, and pointed them out on a map. He continued by saying, “Tom Byrnes was aware, and it was his design that we kept the information private.”
“Private? For what good?”
“It was his belief that in Alice’s infancy, little would be accomplished if the people knew there were other lands to seek sanctuary. Alice was to become fully operational before word of the other colonies spread. Although we didn’t see eye-to-eye with this approach, General Driscoll respected his wishes. By all accounts, he went so far as to keep this information from his son, Nick.”
“These colonies, why weren’t they informed when Alice was under attack?”
“They were.”
Silence followed. Casey Edmonds cleared his throat and continued, “This is not easy for me to say, but I believe full transparency is needed at this crux.” He sighed. “We sent scouts to the closest colonies when Alice was attacked. Their response was universal: that they could not supply troops or help at that juncture.”
“If they wouldn’t help then, what’s to make you think they’ll help now?”
“Because—and you won’t like this reason—they don’t consider Alice of the same value as Hightown, despite our reassuring them that Alice was and is a major producer of crops and filtered water. It’s no surprise that the relationship between the colonies has been strained since their inceptions. Each colony has asked for help in the past, and not once did any of the others answer their call. Even ourselves. The distance has been cited as too great. The risk too large. There are always reasons, both to go to war and to refrain from it. But now, with the Red Hands showing they are more than a limited threat—that each and every colony is in danger of their ruthless pursuit—it’s possible the colonies will see the importance of a unified front.”
The officials in the room remained stunned as Casey Edmunds further described the colonies. If not for the possibility of help, Simon would have urged Jeremy to consider a full withdrawal from Alice. But now, as Simon inspected the faces of each returning soldier for Bethany and Brian and saw the injured and killed men brought in on stretchers, his anger toward the Red Hands grew.
“Simon,” Casey Edmonds called out and motioned for Simon to approach. “Over here.”
Simon joined him, where he was speaking to three soldiers.
“It was tactical, sir,” one of the soldiers said. “The whole thing was rehearsed and planned. The truck, it was there to lure you, Bethany, and General Winters.”
“Where are they?” Simon asked impatiently. “Where’s Beth?”
Before the soldier could answer, Simon looked up to see the final assemblage of soldiers appear from the thicket beside the road and come running toward the entrance.
“Beth …” Simon left Casey Edmunds and the soldiers and met her a few steps inside the perimeter.
“Jesus, Bethany, are you okay?” Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips set in a scowl.
“They took him, Simon—those sons a bitches took him!”
“Who, Brian? Where?”
“I don’t know. Hummers came speeding to the truck and grabbed him. Jesus, it was their plan all along to either kill us in the explosion or take us back as prisoners. But Brian didn’t have to be there, he wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“Are we following them? We need to follow them!”
“They’re being taken back to Hightown, no doubt about it,” she said. “My cousin … my uncle … God damn them …”
Simon reached out and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She let her guard down and embraced him back. “Did you see your uncle?” he asked. “Was he taken back to Hightown too?”
She wiped her eyes on his shoulder. “He was in a truck. I didn’t see him. Brian went in my place.” She shook her head. “They blew it up. The whole truck.”
“Then we need to attack—”
A voice cut in, “What we need is more information.” Simon turned to see Casey Edmunds beside him, listening to Bethany’s report.
There was a pause, and then Simon turned back to comforting Bethany. “I’m going to go get Brian. I’ll do everything that I can.”
His vision was a pulse of red. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. They were just beginning to heal. Bethany was broken enough … this was just so unfair. A part of him wanted to scream. A part of him wanted to cry. The vision of Karl Metzger danced around in his mind, and he pictured tearing the man limb from limb. The thought gave him a sense of pleasure.
“I’ll g
et into Hightown,” Simon yelled over his shoulder. “I know I can. I’ll get past the line.”
“And then what are you going to do?” Casey Edmunds replied. “Alone, nothing. Maybe you’ll get in—I believe that you can. But wherever they’ve taken him, you’ll need help. You need a plan. You need soldiers; the same soldiers that are relying on you here. You go running off on some crusade, and the Rangers will lose the best scout in Alice. I’m not telling you to let your friend go, I’m asking you to accept our help. Please. Come back, we’ll go to Jeremy and figure out how to clean up this terrible mess.”
Simon paused. He looked down at Bethany, her face looking at his.
“I hate to agree with him,” she said. “But he’s right. We can’t run in alone.”
They split their embrace and walked through the busy trade grounds, urgently toward Alice Elementary School.
Chapter Thirteen
Solitary
The moment the world turned dark, Brian was certain death would soon follow. Unable to see, with a cloth bag wrapped tight over his face and the feeling of hot suffocation around the bend, he swung and kicked viciously at whoever was before him, striking soft objects, stomachs and thighs, and harder cheekbones and helmets. Hands grabbed his arms, his legs, his torso. A forearm wrapped around his throat, and as he shouted out, “Beth—” his windpipe closed and the word came out in a hiss.
Bodies pressed against him, tossing him hard on his side; a terrible sharp kick to his stomach and the air in his lungs deflated. Gasping to suck in air, he was lifted and thrown on the cold floor of a vehicle, and then came the sensation of movement and the sound of an engine. His ankles and wrists were bound, and the more he twisted his hands to free the binds, the more the ties cut into his skin.
“Beth? Beth!” He managed to call out.
A force struck him hard on his side, and then another, as strong hands held him down.
“Keep yer fuckin’ mouth shut!” a voice shouted.
The fabric of the hood sucked into Brian’s mouth as he took large inhales, fighting against the spasming pain on his side. He remained quiet for the duration of the trip, expecting a blade to find its way into his flesh at any moment, or for a bullet to tear through his hooded forehead. Would he hear the gunshot?
As he regulated his breathing, with each inhale sending stabs of pain from the battered side of his rib cage, it occurred to Brian that he should be paying attention to where the vehicle might be going; he should take note of when he felt sudden turns, or the heat of the sun through the windows, to determine which direction he was being taken.
Since he wasn’t yet dead, the Red Hands had other plans in store for him … but what? If anything, they’d thrown away their greatest bargaining chip—Uncle Al. So what did they want with him? No doubt, they’d made the connection that Bethany was related to Uncle Al, but if so, why ask for her and not keep the general alive?
Did they capture Bethany too? Was she in another vehicle, speeding alongside their own?
Uncle Al, his eyes bruised shut, drowning in the sea of heads …
The soldiers emerging from the gore like deathly apparitions …
The bullets striking the dirt around him in a torrent …
… Uncle Al, his face battered unrecognizable, his thinning white hair a frenzied nest …
… the heads that rolled, plunk-plunk, to the dusty road …
The thin air filtered through the cloth bag—not air at all, but a diluted steam—lacked the proper amount of oxygen to keep his mind functioning. Panic and anxiety followed. At each bump in the road he felt for Bethany, yearning for their bodies to bump into each other, to know she was still alive, but hoping to God that he wouldn’t feel her, that she was safe back in Alice.
The vehicle came to a sudden halt, engine running, and just as a gust of cool air sucked in from an opened door, hands grabbed him and pulled him from the trunk. He fell to the ground on his injured side, and could smell the cloud of kicked-up dirt as the vehicle sped off. Again, hands grabbed his shoulders, yanking him to stand, pulling and pushing him onward. Many voices spoke at once, all around him. He said, “What do you want with me?” but none answered.
His toes hit stairs, and he was pulled up, past the creaking of an opened door, and down hallways. Boots squeaking on polished floors. The air temperature dropping. Doors clanging open and shut. Then he was shoved hard and fell to his knees on a hard cement floor. The binds cut and the bag ripped from his face. Cool air welcomed his senses, filtered fast down his nostrils.
The door behind him shut with a loud clang, and he rubbed at his wrists, staring at the only two pieces of furniture in that dismal cell: a cot and a toilet.
***
The cold made the pain worse, not better. The refreshing air that was so relieving at first crept under his sweat-soaked shirt, into his skin, aching his bones. He laid on the cot, his knees tucked into his chest. His side hurt something fierce, but as the hours passed, it was the cold that worried him more than any of his injuries.
He stood and walked in circles, warming his joints. The cell had a musky, almost electrical smell, like old, corroded metal. The walls, floor, and ceiling were concrete, and radiated such a chill that it was noticeably warmer in the center of the room than near the sides.
A strip of dim light came through a solitary slot in the door; otherwise the enclosure was pitch-black. Brian sat on the cot and leaned back, the wall damp against his head. Did they capture Bethany? What were they doing to her? Oh Christ, they killed Uncle Al … these men were demons. Wretched, horrible monsters. Brian dropped to his knees before the toilet as a wave of sickness gurgled in his stomach. The moldy water in the stainless toilet-sink combination reeked, and Brian couldn’t keep his face above it without feeling even sicker. He fought back the nausea and gathered himself off the floor.
He sat on the cot. Lay down. Shivered. Got up and walked in circles. Rubbed his palms together to gather warmth. Massaged his temples as images of severed and battered heads, skulls cracked open, crossed his listless eyes. Blood, all the blood. His uncle in the middle of it all.
Hours might have passed. The only way to tell the time was by his growing thirst and hunger, despite the ever-present nausea. He looked at the toilet bowl and knew he would rather die of dehydration than stoop to that level.
Steven emerged in his thoughts again. The torment of losing him came crushing back. In movies, he’d seen people locked in solitary going crazy, hallucinating amid their torment. But Steven’s form did not join him in that room, only the ghostly images in his mind. Perhaps it would be better to face affliction in company with a hallucinatory form rather than face it alone … Brian wasn’t so sure.
A noise from outside. Footfalls. Creaking. A voice. Brian sat up in bed … had he dozed off? He rushed to the slat in the door, peered out, but couldn’t see anything other than the opposite wall. His chest beat heavy against the cold metal, and as the sound grew closer, he moved back to the bed. A key scratched at the lock, and a voice said, “You still alive in there?”
More dim light flooded the interior; enough to make Brian shield his eyes. A man stood before him, keys dangling in his fingers. “Ah, so you are,” he said. In his other hand was a tray. “Haven’t been ordered to git rid of yer ass yet, so eat up.” He dropped the plastic tray to the ground. The food splattered, and a plastic water bottle bounced and rolled to the corner.
Brian didn’t move.
“I’ll be back to git the tray later.”
“Where-where’s Bethany?” The sound of his voice was thin.
“Who?”
“Beth.”
The shadowy man shrugged and left, closing the door behind him with a thud. A moment passed, and Brian went for the water, taking the whole bottle down in fast slugs. A liquid trail trickled down his chin as he caught his breath. His stomach twisted at the sudden fill.
The slop on the floor, whatever it was, covered the ground and splattered over the wall. There was some left o
n the tray, but Brian didn’t inspect it any further. He tossed the plastic bottle and sat on the cot.
“Christ,” he said out loud, and his head fell into his palms. What do they want with me? Torture, maybe. Execution. Names? Places? He didn’t know much. Not more than Uncle Al would know, that was for sure. And Beth … he couldn’t think about it. Not after seeing her in the basement, all that time ago. Drugged and strapped to the bed, dissected bodies in the room opposite the hall, flayed and ritualistically taken apart.
Brian held back tears. Tears for the dead. Tears for the living. Tears for his family, friends, the sheer injustice of it all. The whys of the world. Why were the Red Hands doing this to them? Why did the world have to end, just so the living would go on in fear and terror? There were so many questions. More questions than answers.
In that cold cell, deep beneath the surface of the earth, Brian tried to accept his fate. He tried to accept that death was inevitable. He hoped it would be fast and painless. Would he see Steven again? Did he even believe in an afterlife?
Alone in the dark, his thoughts turned dismal.
Chapter Fourteen
Future Uncertain
There was no consoling Carolanne. Not that Simon could offer much in the way of comfort. They found her in the infirmary and took her to an empty examination room.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” His words were raw against his throat, and when he tried to speak again, nothing came out. Carolanne faltered, and he stepped forward to help her, but Bethany was quicker, and they held each other tight.
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