There was no pleasure in killing Karl, only a sense of completion.
Once back with the colony, as the soldiers celebrated Karl’s demise, some crying, Simon and Bethany found Carolanne, Connor, and Winston—who was the happiest of all to see them—and after a tearful embrace, they located a lone tent and lay inside for hours, a full day, being brought food and water. They didn’t talk much, just held each other. Simon realized many things at that moment. He realized that the home he had been searching for was long gone. And not just a physical structure, but a place for mental security and familiarity. Sometime after he’d left his parents and lived in the wilderness of British Columbia, he’d undergone a change. His life up to that point had ended, and his new life was in the woods. What he’d longed for back when he’d traveled east, alone with Winston, was for the past to stay in the present; for his parents to be alive, for his brother to be home. None of which was possible.
They were taken to Albuquerque, where Simon was treated like a mystical god for killing Karl Metzger. When word came that settlements had been discovered far to the north, unrelated to the United Colonies, Bethany, Carolanne, and Connor listened to Simon’s proposition. In the end, in their constant despair and worsening depression, they agreed it would be in their best interest to live alone, away from war, away from what has and always will be society’s idea of surviving. All except for Carolanne, who said she would go crazy living in the woods. She needed work. She needed to be making a difference in the world. She needed to be part of the system.
In an effort to link with the northern colonies and establish treaties, Jeremy was happy to send soldiers to erect compounds near Simon’s cabin in British Columbia, and workers regularly stopped by to lend supplies, and sometimes stayed to receive wilderness training. Simon, Bethany, and Connor would remain a part of the United Colonies, but they would do so alone.
Simon opened his eyes and took in a long, sweet breath. A mug half full of coffee remained where Bethany left it on the table, and Simon finished it in one long sip. Before leaving, he let his fingers brush the cool side of the cast-iron fireplace.
He would be back shortly to help with the construction, but he wanted to check on Connor first. He spied the gardens as he went, examining the ripe tomatoes that needed to be picked and the thick green beans. They could do that later, after the soldiers left. They would do it just the three of them, enjoying the quiet evening and the warm vegetables, baked in the sun.
He paused by the waterside, his hand on the tree with the mess of roots at the base which fit his body so well when he meditated. The bark felt nice and scratchy on his palm. Connor was out in the water, swimming leisurely toward one of the traps. The boy was good. With more practice, he would one day become a better stalker than Simon could ever dream to be. The boy had, after all, been raised in this hellish world. Simon smiled, and then walked a few steps over to the mound of short grass and developing flowers. A rock lay on top, the name Winston carved in deep.
“Well, boy, I got you home,” he said, and patted the rock. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, dummy?”
Simon kicked off his boots, removed his shirt and pants, and proceeded down to the water in his underwear to spend his afternoon in peace.
Epilogue
After four months of solitude, he was let outside into daylight. The guards had a soft spot for the old man, battered, nearly dead—should be dead, but he wasn’t. At night, every night, he hummed a quiet tune. In time, the guards began asking him questions, and were delighted in his heartfelt responses.
The first burst of fresh air on his skin was like being reborn, and he told his guards as such. He fell to the ground in tears, an old man crying over something so simple and wonderful. A breeze. Sunlight.
His words held wisdom, enough for soldiers to visit the man behind bars. Six months into his imprisonment he was authorized to attend church services, fully shackled. A few weeks later, the shackles were removed, but the guards remained at his sides. He repeated “Amen” louder than all the others after the minister issued the words, and was lost for hours at a time in deep prayer.
Always he smiled, even in the blackest of cells. Eventually, he was given additional blankets, an extra pillow, better rations.
Then one day, a soldier from the colonies told him that the minister was sick, and would he like to fill in?
Priest Dietrich smiled and said, “Of course. God bless you, son.”
The soldier told him he’d return in an hour for service.
The Priest adjusted his eye patch and smiled, humming a gentle hymnal tune.
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Thank you for reading The After War Series. Sign up for Brandon Zenner’s email list on his website to be kept informed. You will also receive a free short story, “Helix Illuminated,” when you sign up. As always, the best way you can support an independent author is by leaving a review on Amazon. Each and every review is read and appreciated by the author, both good and bad. The Amazon link above will take you there. Please read on past the Acknowledgments for a preview of Brandon Zenner’s novel, Whiskey Devils. For those of you who want more, check out Brandon Zenner’s blog site here: https://brandonzennerblog.wordpress.com
From the Author
I was having a beer with a friend a few weeks ago, and a song came on the jukebox that I’m a big fan of, but my friend had never heard. The verse builds with a slow instrumental beginning, and crescendos into crashing lyrics. I told my friend that the song held some inspiration for me while writing Whiskey Devils, in a particular scene involving a biker gang going into a deadly shoot-out. The song remained vigilant in my thoughts while I structured the narratives, pacing, and settings. My friend had read Whiskey Devils, and was surprised and happy that I provided the insight. That song was “Gut Feeling” by Devo. If you’ve never heard it, well, you should.
That got me to thinking about how important music is in creating and shaping not only my own writing, but countless other novels, pieces of art, and just about everything that we as humans do. I’m an avid runner, which helps me clear my mind and create the scenes and narratives in my books, and the music pumping through my headphones has a big effect on my mindset while putting the miles underfoot. I thought I’d use this opportunity to share some of the music that has helped create my novels, and which continues to inspire me.
After reading The After War Series, it should come as no surprise that classical music is important in my life. There was a brief period when I wrote in silence, back when my office was temporarily in the basement of my old house. It was cool, dark, and quiet down there. But outside of that short period, classical is and always will be in the background as I write. I prefer sonatas, piano and violin pieces over full orchestra, and I keep the volume low, and headphones on. Right now, I’m listening to Mendelsohn. Other composers that are commonly playing include Camille Saint-Saën, Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, Chopin, Debussy, and of course Beethoven. There are more, but those are my main guys.
That isn’t to say that classical music is the only genre that impacts me, but it’s what I prefer to listen to while writing. Various other songs and artists have inspired my words. Here’s a strange one for you: “A Minha Menina,” by Os Mutantes, out of Brazil. I don’t understand the lyrics, but the playful harmony sums up Evan Powers and Nick Grady’s relationship in Whiskey Devils perfectly. And to be honest, I actually enjoy and prefer not knowing the words. At the end of the novel, I mention that “Box of Rain” by The Grateful Dead played a strong hand in creating the scenes, and that remains true for just about every Grateful Dead song.
Outside of Whiskey Devils, I recently went through a Pixies revival, and when I was first outlining Butcher Rising, I was mowing my lawn while listening to “Wave of Mutilation,” loud, on a hot summer day. Some of the key components of the story came to me in that moment, and I named the lake and the town of Marianna after a lyric in that song. I do also like using so
ft, feminine titles for towns and colonies to offset the violence which occurs behind their walls, such as Alice.
Aside from my Pixies revival, I’ve gone back to listening to the Doors after a long absence, and have found Jim Morrison’s haunting lyrics superb while debating scenes and structures in my mind. There are several nods to the Doors in this novel. Catch them if you can. Believe it or not, my five-year-old daughter was the first to pick up on one of the biggest clues. That was a proud moment in fathering for me.
While speaking of haunted lyrics, “Breathing” by Kate Bush had a big influence while finishing up the rough draft for The After War. I grew up listening to her eerie melodies, and whenever I hear it, I envision Brian and Steven in utter despair traversing the dismal post-apocalyptic terrain during their journey to Aurora, and Simon and Winston’s long trek from British Columbia to the East Coast of the US.
There are countless other songs that influenced me, but for now, that’s all there is to share.
I want to thank you for reading The After War Series. It’s been a long journey, both for you, the reader, and for me in writing and creating these books. When the idea first came to mind back when I was sixteen, I had no clue that it would blossom into a three-part series. Even when I wrote the first rough draft, over ten years ago, I didn’t know the scope of where it would take me. It’s so hard to say goodbye to my beloved characters. They are a part of me, and I am a part of them, no matter if they’re fictional. I put them through hell. I led some to death, others to redemption, and just about all to despair and depression. For that, I am sorry.
Goodbye, Brian Rhodes.
Goodbye, Simon Kalispell.
Goodbye, my good buddy, Winston. You’re such a good boy …
All the best,
Brandon Zenner
Acknowledgments
In no particular order, the following people deserve my full appreciation for their help and support in creating this novel: John Zur, Hal Zenner, Margarette Shields, Stephanie Parent, Deborah Dove, and Jason and Marina Anderson over at Polgarus Studio. Of course, my wife and daughter, Mallory and Sadie-Mae, have supported my career from the start, and put up with my long days and early mornings spent tucked away in my office. This book would not have been possible without the help and support of everyone listed. As indicated at the beginning of the novel, this book is dedicated to my parents, Hal and Natalie Zenner, who have been huge supporters of not only my work, but of the arts in general. I had previously not wanted to dedicate such a violent book to them, but with this tale ending a three-book series which has taken me over half of my life to complete, I felt it was time to give them proper acknowledgment.
Preview: Whiskey Devils
“A large marijuana growing operation, Russian mobsters, undercover drug agents, and a biker gang, wraps up with a series of unexpected and shocking plot reversals that brings the book to a violent, surprising, and powerful end.” (BookLife Prize in Fiction, by Publishers Weekly)
Chapter 1
Spring, 2003
Weaving through the crowd, I passed my exhausted coworkers, their faces gaunt and ghostly pale in the fluorescent lighting. All of them were salivating before the punch-out clock like a pack of ravenous hounds eager to tear into the flesh of that Friday night. They leaned from one leg to the other, purses in hand, sunglasses dangling from open collars. The din of conversation lessened as I neared the clock, and all eyes were cast upon me.
They were thinking, Is he really going to do it? Is Powers leaving early?
The receptionist’s sharp stare burned with scorn from behind her blonde bangs, but I ignored her gaze and approached the clock. My time card was in my hand, “Evan Powers” scribbled on top. The paper glided effortlessly through the punch-out machine, making a slight mechanical noise as it stamped out the time, 4:47. The clicking noise echoed in the now-silent room, and I hightailed it to the door, daring my eager coworkers to follow.
Warm air cloaked me in all its glory as I flung the door open. My flesh tingled—honest to God, tingled—like the sun was drawing out some poison from the office’s artificial cold air.
As I crossed the parking lot toward my car, I resisted turning to look through the wall-length window of the manager’s office. Kim would be staring up from a stack of papers on her desk, watching me in disbelief as she checked the time on her watch. No one left before the clock struck five. No one.
Yeah, I did it. I left early. But fuck it—I quit. So there was that.
The well-traveled engine of my Buick rumbled to life, sputtering out clouds of gray exhaust. I backed out, put the car in drive, and sped the hell out of there.
A cigar was waiting for me in the glove box, and I clamped it between my teeth as I loosened the collar of my button-up shirt.
I laughed out loud, feeling a bit like a madman who laughs alone at the world, thinking, I’m free, you fuckers—I’m free! A cloud of cigar smoke was sucked out the window, replaced by the clean springtime breeze.
Traffic was already forming on the highway, but I had managed to beat the mass of cars that would stretch on for miles only minutes after five o’clock. The landscape gradually changed to an immense array of blossoming trees and flat wilderness as I distanced myself from town, driving deeper into the heart of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. My housemate Nick and I rented a nice piece of property: three acres of trees and land, with many more acres of wilderness in every direction. Our nearest neighbor was old Mr. Patrick, or Grandpa, and we didn’t cross paths with the man too often. We invited him over whenever we had parties, but Grandpa rarely showed up and never stayed for long. He was cool with us, but when our parties got going, and a handful of ragged hippies turned into twenty, thirty, forty, sixty—whatever—he would take off. Not before schooling us all in a game of horseshoes, of course, and drinking about a six-pack of beer. The man could put them away.
I drove past Grandpa’s mailbox and our driveway soon appeared. Nick’s work truck came into view as I pulled in, and way out in the back of the yard I spotted him standing beside our massive garden. Nick had been living in the rental house for fifteen years. Our good friend, Darin Long, had been a housemate with us for the past five years, but due to his mother discovering that she has cancer, he had moved back home to Montana. Now it was only the two of us, all alone in that low ranch in the middle of the woods.
Hippie Nick, he was sometimes called, or more recently, The Old Man. It was a term of endearment. The guy had lived through the cultural revolution of the ’60s and ’70s, which meant that for most of our friends, myself included, Nick Grady was the closest thing to a legitimate hippie that we would ever encounter. The guy followed the Dead, marched at civil rights protests, and did all that fun stuff that made him practically a sage in the eyes of my stoner friends.
I got out of the car and passed Nick’s work van on the way to the house. The G and R in Grady Construction and Repair on the van's side were barely legible, faded with time.
Our front door was unlocked, and I went straight to the kitchen. We had a strict nonsmoking rule indoors, for everything other than herb, so I had to be quick with my still-burning cigar. I grabbed two beers from the fridge and went out the kitchen door to the backyard. Nick was under the apple tree next to the garden, swaying with a beer in hand. The Dead blared from his portable CD player, the extension cord trailing all the way back to the house, lost like a snake in the grass.
Water droplets rained down from the sprinkler over the budding tomato plants, zucchinis, peppers, and everything else we’d planted only a few weeks ago. The corn stalks were already about two feet tall.
Nick moved to the music, barefoot, with his wrapped hemp necklaces and beadwork bouncing on his gray-haired chest. The only article of clothing the guy ever wore at home was a pair of cutoff jean shorts. When he saw me approaching he nodded.
“Hey there,” I said.
Nick smiled a crooked smile, a rubber band stuck between his lips as he pulled his long hair out of his face. A co
oler was out there next to the few battered Adirondack chairs, and I could tell by the look in Nick’s eyes that he was already a few beers in. I handed him the beer I had brought from the kitchen anyway. Sierra Nevada, always Sierra Nevada. It was the only beer the guy would drink if given a choice. However, if he didn’t have a choice, he’d drink most anything. Especially bourbon. We went through the stuff like it was water.
The song ended and he yelled out, “Yo, Powers! What’s up, man?” He was evidently in a great mood.
“Nothing, Nick.” I tried to be nonchalant, but my lips cracked into a smile. “I did it.”
His eyes lit up. “You quit?”
I nodded.
“Ha!” He bounced over on quick feet and hugged me with his strong, skinny arms. “I’m so happy for you, brother. I know that job was dragging you down.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Want to call some people up, get the bonfire going?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind having a few beers.”
His face was radiant, and I knew he was swallowing back the question he’d been asking me for years now. The words were trying to burst free from his mouth, but I was going to wait a little while longer before letting him know that I would work for him full time. And I wasn't talking about his handyman service; as good as he was at repairing cabinets, replacing shingles, and even doing some landscaping for a handful of local Pineys. I was talking about his other job. His real job.
“You doing some shooting?” I nodded toward the small arsenal on the coffee table: his old Western-style six-shooters. They were a hobby of sorts, first for him, and then for me. After all, we did live in the middle of the woods. Not to mention that the house one over from old Mr. Grandpa’s was the fire chief’s, and the man was a regular at our parties—as clean-cut as he was—and he kept an eye on the police radio for call-ins about noise. I consider myself clean-cut as well, in comparison to most of the transients who pass through our doors. My hair is short, I wear nice pants and shirts, and I keep myself in decent shape. Ever since I met Nick, I’ve been trying to get the guy to go running with me, or use the weight bench in the basement. But he always declines. “Look at me,” he says. “I’m skinny enough. There won’t be nothing left of me.” It's true. The guy's a rail: skinny and strong. A lifetime's worth of hard labor made it impossible for him to ever be a pound overweight.
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