Someday Soon

by Brandon Zenner

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Marianna’s Fate

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

  Darkness set in, and with it, Simon sat in the brush and observed the walled town from afar. There was no movement, no lights in windows, nothing to suggest that the settlement was populated. But it was. Bethany was behind those walls. Karl too.

  At what he guessed to be close to two in the morning, a faint glow emanated from somewhere deep within the town. Simon removed his boots, jacket, and shirt. He fashioned a pair of shoes made from strips of leather, not unlike moccasins, which allowed him to move with stealth. He holstered his Colt .45, passed down from his father and his grandfather before, used during the war of his generation. Two spare clips were stuck in pouches, and his knife was sheathed on his side. Without using charcoal, since lighting a fire was foolish, he rubbed dirt and sand all over his body and hair. He wetted his back by dripping water from his canteen and spread more grit over every square inch of flesh.

  He took another breath, in and out, the clarity of the world coming into focus. He was the tree, the wind, the hunter, the warrior.

  It was time.

  He proceeded to the wall in slow and deliberate steps, despite feeling reasonably sure there were no lookouts. The moon cascaded a silver hue upon the ground, making the late hour seem magical.

  Once at the barricade, Simon followed the curve, not hearing a sound from within. He could climb it easily, but was afraid of making noise. Although he wanted to avoid the entrance, he found himself nearing it, walking with deliberate steps. He inched his face closer to the chain-link fence until he was looking within, could see the outline of a sandbag wall. No faces looked back. For many minutes he remained there, and then he touched the cold metal. It began to slide open. Not much—a few inches, about a foot. The opposite end was held together by a chain and lock, but not tight. Crouching, he moved across the space and sucked in his belly as he slid inside Marianna.

  ***

  “You can’t keep me down here, you son of a bitch!”

  But he could. And he was. Bethany refused to accept the reality of her situation. Alone, underground in a cement bunker, the cold walls dripping with perspiration. Her ankle was shackled, but her hands free. This devil killed her uncle. Her brother. He’d taken her away from the people she loved, the world she knew. Brian was probably dead too. Adding further to her torment, she hadn’t eaten or drank anything for … days?

  Dim light came through the open hatch door across the room as Karl brought box after box of supplies into the bunker. It took him hours, and with it, the humming of the generator began driving her crazy.

  Is this my fate?

  If the colonies believed that Karl was dead after they bombed Odyssey, and her with him, they would all go back to their respective lands. Simon would mourn. Carolanne … Jesus, she had more to lament than anyone.

  As night fell and sunlight no longer cascaded down the entry shoot, Karl had filled the bunker with enough boxes of emergency rations and water to last months. He explained to her that if the colonies did inspect Marianna, they would take whatever was left in the warehouse. What they had there, deep underground, would have to last. Before Karl turned and left, he told her, “Reports are in: the colonies have reached Odyssey. I expect that it will fall before dawn. Tomorrow, we will be one happy family down here, where the soldiers will never find us.” He pulled two bottles of brown liquor from a box and said, “Tonight, I sleep among the stars for the last time in a duration. I will leave the hatch door open for you to enjoy the fresh air.” And with that, he turned off all of the power except for one small, glowing red light near the hatch door, and the generator which continued to hum.

  For hours she sat in the dark, her mind spinning. She inspected the clasp around her ankle, the chain, and where it was bolted into the hard floor. How long could a person be kept chained up before losing their mind?

  Faces flashed before her eyes: Uncle Al, Steven, Brian, even Winston, but mostly Simon.

  She’d lost him.

  She’d lost everything.

  She would not allow Karl to win. She would not permit him the satisfaction of keeping her boxed up, become the Charlotte that he could never attain. She wouldn’t allow it.

  When she’d first been brought down there, she saw it, but didn’t say a word. Most likely, Karl had seen it too, but thought nothing of it. A metal washer, about an inch in diameter, a perfect metal circle, in the corner nearby. She picked it up and felt the slick metal sides, then began rubbing it on the cement floor, grinding and grinding, beside the bolts attached to the chain. After ten minutes, she felt the warmth of blood where the metal rubbed into her skin. She stopped and inspected the floor. The cement had barely a scratch, yet the metal was grinding down. It was hopeless.

  She paused for a moment, whispering to herself, “I ain’t gonna cry, damn it.” Then she began grinding the washer against the ground again, keeping it at more of an angle. She stopped to feel the edge, test the sharpness against her thumb, and then went on grinding. Her knuckles hit the floor and scraped, but still she went at it. It didn’t take long until the edge was sharp enough to cut.

  She wanted desperately to slash the blade against Karl’s throat, watch him drown in his own blood, but knew the chance of getting one clean sweep was impossible. In the end, if she even managed to hit him, he’d be mildly injured, and he would never make the mistake of leaving a metal object near her again. Perhaps he’d kill her. But she wouldn’t let that happen; she wouldn’t let him decide her fate. It wasn’t his choice to make …

  … I am not your Charlotte …

  With that, she tested the sharpness against the soft patch of skin on her wrist. The pain was electric, but she fought back the tears as the wound began to bleed. I ain’t gonna cry … you don’t win, Karl Metzger.

  ***

  Marianna was small compared to Alice and Hightown, yet large enough that it would have been difficult to enter with stealth had there been soldiers guarding the walls. Simon moved in the shadows, always looking ahead, envisioning himself several paces beyond.

  There were noises now. Faint, but detectable. They came from the direction of the pale light. The homes and buildings were shacks, mostly plywood, with some crudely fashioned out of cement and bricks. He kept his back to walls as he slid from shack to shack, firearm in hand. Not far in the distance, he heard the static and chaotic noise of a radio broadcasting voices.

  Karl Metzger.

  His heart drummed against the wall of the building; his vision throbbed crimson.

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

  There was another noise, a mechanical hum, a few yards to his side.

  He remained behind the far walls of the homes until he came to the source of the noise. A generator was running outside one of the buildings, blurting out black exhaust, with a power cord trailing inside. He followed the cord to an open hatch door in the corner of the room. A bunker. First, he listened. It was possible there were more of Karl’s men down there. He attempted to look down, but couldn’t see a thing, and debated for a moment over whether to inspect the bunker or go and face Karl Metzger … then impulse overtook him, and he begun descending the ladder.

  The darkness was like swimming in ink. Crawling, he tried to let his eyes adjust, but couldn’t see anything other than stacks of boxes. A little red light shone like a beacon, and he inched further inside, seeing the rectangular outline of what looked like a light switch on the wall. He stood and placed his fingers on the switch, ready to spring on anyone who might be sleeping down there.

  He counted.

  One …

  … two …

  … three.

  A fluorescent light flickered and came to life.

  Beth …

  She look
ed back at him, terrified. Covered in dirt, he appeared to be more of a monster than a man.

  “Si—” she said, huddled in the corner. Simon rushed over with a finger over his lips.

  “Bethany,” he whispered. There was blood around her. Her eyes were distant and wet. He grabbed her tight, and saw something small and metal in her fingers. Blood was trailing out of her wrists, not fast, but trailing nonetheless.

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  “Am I …” she mumbled. “Is this …”

  “Shh,” he said and went over to the boxes, looking from label to label, until he saw one with a large red cross painted on the side. He tore it open and placed packages of supplies on the ground until he found large bandages and a suture kit.

  He ran back to her; her eyelids were languid, but her consciousness was still there. “Is that really you?” she asked, her lip trembling. He opened a bottle of water and held it to her lips. She drank it in like a dehydrated sponge.

  “I’m here. You have to be quiet.” His fingers were slippery with blood as he tore into the packaging. As long as he could stop the bleeding, she’d survive. “This is going to hurt,” he said.

  “I’m-I’m so sorry, Simon. I just couldn’t …”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

  His fingers trembled with adrenaline as he punctured the sharp point of a needle into her skin. She flinched but did not cry out.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re alive, that’s all I care about. How many people are here?”

  “Just him. Karl.” Tears fell to the floor. “I’m so ashamed.”

  “Stop that.”

  He managed to get a few stitches in, despite being poorly done, and wrapped the gauze around her wrists, going around and around …

  … then it hit.

  Like a burst of bright light, all the held-back rage came sweeping in, his eyes flashing large, and he turned, fast.

  “Simon,” she said, holding the chain around her ankle. “Get me out of here.”

  Chapter Fifty

  A Million Shards of Broken Glass

  The airwaves were full of voices being mauled, shot, destroyed, as Karl sipped at his bottle and smoked his cigar, listening to it all fall to utter ruin.

  The night was magnificent, the sky full of a thousand sparkling flecks and reflecting over the gentle sways of the pond. Despite the serenity, his mind wandered to the never-ending list of chores still necessary to ensure his survival. First thing in the morning, he had to get rid of Liam’s corpse. That would be easy enough. He could drag it waterside and tie a few rocks to the man’s feet before bringing him out to deeper waters. He should probably get rid of the Hummer too, with the front seat drenched in his lieutenant’s blood. It was also possible that the colonies would be able to track it from belonging to Hightown’s armory. Maybe he should leave now, drive the Hummer ten miles into the desert and set it ablaze?

  No. Not tonight. Not now. This was his last night of fresh air. Karl bit his cigar and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of crickets fill his perception—

  There was a noise behind him—footfalls.

  He stood fast and turned as three pops fired off in unison. “Jesus!” Karl shouted and half stood, grabbing at the pistol in his holster, which was draped over the back of his chair. A sharp pain stung at his thigh.

  ***

  Simon ran right at Karl, sprinting, an effigy of pure nightmares. Bethany was behind him holding his rifle, but she was injured, and Simon wished she would have listened to him and stayed behind. Simon held his pistol before him, aimed, and—there was a crunching noise behind him, and Simon didn’t have to glance behind him to know that Bethany had taken a knee and was ready to shoot. Without hesitation, Simon pulled the trigger.

  “Jesus,” Karl let out, the gap between them narrowing. The man had moved quickly upon hearing the slight noise of Bethany kneeling, disturbing a small tuft of sagebrush, and was lifting his own pistol. Simon fired off the remaining rounds in his clip and tossed the pistol aside. Loud pops continued from behind him as Bethany continued to fire. Karl fell on his back, hard. He never managed to get off a shot.

  “Oh, fuck—” was all Karl got out before Simon jumped on top of him, his legs straddling the man’s body. Karl’s back was in the water, a lapping tide crossing his face, choking off his words. A dark pool emerged from Karl’s chest, and Simon could feel the warmth of the man’s blood soak into the fabric near his thigh. A bullet had pierced the criminal, the monster, the butcher, close to his heart.

  Still, Karl’s long arms grasped at Simon’s throat, tried to find an eye socket. Simon wailed his fists down, striking over and over, waiting for Karl’s strong fingers to relent.

  Bethany was calling out from behind them, “Move, Simon!” He guessed she couldn’t make a shot with them so close together. Then he felt her reach his side, bump into him, grab something from his belt. His knife. The side of a blade caught a glimmer of moonlight before Bethany plunged it down, sending the pain of a million deaths to explode inside Karl’s chest.

  Karl’s eyes shot large, and his breath escaped his body in a long, fluid-filled exhalation.

  Karl reached for the handle, but Bethany and Simon held it firmly in place. They stared at each other. “M-mister Kalispell,” Karl said, blood trailing from his mouth. And then, to Simon’s horror, a laugh bubbled past the man’s lips as he said, “S-s-o you will b-be my assassin. You’ve m-managed to k-kill me. Yet, in me lives the basis of human ideology, and you cannot kill ideology. Through that, I will live forever. You cannot kill me. You n-never could, and you never will. No one can k-kill Karl Met—”

  Simon pulled the blade free, and Karl’s eyes again shot large as thick red surged from the wound. Simon grabbed Karl’s shoulder, and Bethany gripped the other. “I’ve heard enough of your fucking poison,” Bethany said.

  They dragged him fast into the deeper waters, feeling his body convulse. Simon had heard that the sensation of breathing in water was akin to inhaling shards of broken glass. Through the dark water, the shadowy form of Karl Metzger grew still, and he rested along the murky bottom, where his body would remain to mix with the bones of those slain in the water before.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Concentric Circles

  Simon opened the door to a warm breeze and walked across the yard to the stump with his axe stuck in the top. If they wanted to remain comfortable through the winter, they’d need much more wood. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to chop it all himself. He was positioning a smaller log on top of the larger one when he heard the rumble of an engine. The sun’s position in the sky indicated that it was about the correct time in the afternoon for a visit. He brought the axe down and collected the splintered pieces before walking to meet the workers.

  Two jeeps parked, and the soldiers got out. They greeted Simon, saying, “Sir,” and walked around to the other side of the cabin where work was being done to add additional rooms before the winter.

  Simon went inside and said, “The workers are here.”

  Bethany was eating a bowl of granola at the table. She looked up. “I heard them,” she said with a smile. “I’ll give them a hand in a minute.”

  “Where’s Connor?” he asked, and walked over to kissed the top of her head.

  “Checking the fish traps.”

  Simon nodded and took a seat on the couch.

  “You okay?” Bethany stood from the table and put her empty bowl in the sink.

  “Yeah, just tired. I’ll be out to help in a few.”

  “Take as much time as you need.”

  “Carolanne didn’t come this time.”

  Bethany nodded and took a seat beside him on the couch. “I figured. She’d of come inside by now if she had.”

  “She’s going to work herself to death.”

  “It’s just the way she copes.”

  Simon was about to tell Bethany that she coped the same way, but decided it was best to remain quiet. They’d
both implored Carolanne to join them at the cabin, retire from the busy life of the colonies, but in the end, she couldn’t be swayed. She would, for now, do everything in her power to help others in the hospital. If she could save one life, then perhaps her own life would again have purpose. And by all accounts, she’d saved dozens of lives.

  Simon closed his eyes and let his mind ease. Bethany stroked his hair lightly, then said, “Rest for as long as you need. I’ll go help the workers.”

  “Sounds good.” The cushion rebounded as she stood, and he heard her footfalls lead to the door. It was hard at times, closing his eyes. That was when the memories returned. But he’d managed to overcome much of his anguish. It didn’t happen all at once. Days passed with minimal conversation between himself and Bethany following the escape from Marianna, with her in the back seat of a truck once belonging to Karl, speeding fast out of that wicked place. They found Liam slumped in the passenger seat, cold and stiff, and Simon pushed him to lie on the dusty ground.

  The entire experience was too much to discuss, too much to rationalize. The relief of Karl being dead was diminished by all the atrocities they’d endured because of that vile man. In the end, Karl did not die in an elaborate shoot-out. It wasn’t like the movies Simon had seen growing up, or the scenes he’d read in books. The good guy and bad guy didn’t exchange a dozen blows. There was no long, drawn-out fight. Karl died quickly. They watched the light fade from his eyes before allowing his form to disappear into the dark murk of the pond. Simon didn’t speak to him, didn’t voice the thousands of insults he had wanted to hurl at the man. At that moment by the edge of the water, Simon had become the warrior, the beast, the thing of dread that he needed to tap into in order to plunge the blade into Karl’s chest without a moment of hesitation.

  After telling Jeremy the tale of Karl’s last stand, it was decided to leave Karl’s bloated corpse in the water rather than have the soldiers sift through the bottom. Perhaps some good would come of it as the fish fed on his body.