Butcher Rising
The After War Series
Book II
Brandon Zenner
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or persons, living, dead, or fictitious are purely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Copyright © 2018 by Brandon Zenner All Rights Reserved
Dedicated to you, the readers, who push me to continue writing.
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Table of Contents
Prologue - Marianna
Chapter One - Rock Forrest
Chapter Two - Edge of Town
Chapter Three - Ravaged Youth
Chapter Four - Faith
Chapter Five - Flood Waters
Chapter Six - Company of Murderers
Chapter Seven - Uprising
Chapter Eight - Smoked Oysters
Chapter Nine - Meeting of Three
Chapter Ten - Harvest
Chapter Eleven - Hellfire
Chapter Twelve - Butchers
Chapter Thirteen - Captain Black
Chapter Fourteen - BB Guns
Chapter Fifteen - Target Practice
Chapter Sixteen - Search Party
Chapter Seventeen - Convoy
Chapter Eighteen - Sergeant Marcus
Chapter Nineteen - Harbor
Chapter Twenty - Turncoat
Chapter Twenty-one - Jacob
Chapter Twenty-two - Partners
Chapter Twenty-three - Alice Betrayed
Chapter Twenty-four - Unravel
Chapter Twenty-five - Awake
Chapter Twenty-six - Rise
Chapter Twenty-seven - Thirst
Chapter Twenty-eight - Boots
Chapter Twenty-nine - Scouts
Chapter Thirty - Landsville
Chapter Thirty-one - Holy Relics
Chapter Thirty-two - Labyrinth
Chapter Thirty-three - Hunger
Chapter Thirty-four - Mutiny
Chapter Thirty-five - Empty Chambers
Chapter Thirty-six - Brahms
Chapter Thirty-seven - Fire Blind
Chapter Thirty-eight - Map Maker
Chapter Thirty-nine - The General Arrives
Chapter Forty - Broth
Chapter Forty-one - Way of the World
Chapter Forty-two - Hightown
Epilogue - Simon
From the Author
Acknowledgments
Preview: Whiskey Devils
Prologue
Marianna
In the low of the valley lay a pond, whose brackish water veined into the soil to make the bowl of land fertile against the harsh desert terrain. Upon society’s collapse, people gravitated to this land to possess the water for whatever length of time their fate would allow, before hostilities put them at odds against their fellow man.
A soldier named Gerald White led a disorganized flock of survivors, who thrived for peace amid the carnage of the world, to construct walls out of scraps of wood, road signs, and fallen trees around the pond. They claimed the water as their own, and cultivated plots of the fertile soil to support the agriculture needed to feed their feeble numbers.
Dour men stood guard at the walls with rifles and blades, many adorned in biological protective coveralls and face masks. Towers were in the midst of construction, when on one early morning, an armed horde appeared on the horizon like an army of ghosts. They were covered in the white dust of the desert wind, and dressed in a nightmarish array of spoils: army fatigues, construction helmets, and hazmat suits torn under the masks so that they fluttered over their backs like surreal capes. The adversary marched to the defenses and broke down the walls in a clatter of gunfire and explosions. Gerald White died on the battlefield, lanced through by a bayonetted rifle. He would perish before seeing the face of his enemy’s leader, Nathan Clemens, once a soldier in the Canadian Royal Forces, who had armed and trained these people to fight.
The barriers were reconstructed tall and strong, with cement bunkers and hardwood walls, and lookout towers were erected in haste. The flimsy huts made by Gerald White’s people were torn down and built anew, designed by an engineer who went by Georgia. This man was second in command under Nathan Clemens, and a skilled architect.
The settlement was christened as New Faith, and in time it would grow to an avenue of homes, a clinic, and a plank-board saloon that served whatever was plundered or fermented by the townspeople. The strumming of guitars could be heard at night, mixed with the crackling of the bonfire in the center of town, and for a long duration, peace endured. Even the occasional drifter who would chance encounter their walls, begging for food and water, was allowed entry and made a part of their citizenry.
In a dusty pit of desert, two towns over, was the Haddonfield Maximum Security Prison. The guards had disappeared or perished long ago, as had much of the prison’s population of rapists, serial murderers, gang leaders, perverts, and the insane.
The cell doors were unlocked after society’s collapse, and a stew of starved human filth stumbled into the dismal halls. A thick smell of rot permeated the building from the many doors that opened on the long dead and decomposed.
Old affairs were settled with fists, pipes, and knives, and the guard’s armory was sacked. The small yet formidable population that remained in Haddonfield Prison fell into isolated groups that waged conflict with each other over the more valuable real estate—the kitchen, bathrooms, and offices—and eliminated any of the more peaceful and terrified survivors.
On a cool fall day, a man came galloping to the prison on horseback, with two dozen armed men following his lead. The prison population knew this man, for he had been one of their own: a death row candidate who’d been transferred many months ago. His deep, dusty words echoed in the halls with the promise of reward. He brought the divided groups out of the shadowy corners to stand united, as he belonged to no single ideology, but created his own, and gave the starved and crazed assemblage new purpose. This man called himself the General.
Far in the deep, dark recesses of the solitary confinement wing, the General searched for and found his old cell neighbor: a man whose crimes were more appalling than the worst among them. This man had been hiding alone and feral in a cell, with only a candle for light against the crushing darkness. Neatly organized in the surrounding units were the dissected remains of the prisoners the man was able to trap like a spider and drag back to the depths to feed on.
This miscreant was taken out of the darkness and made the lead physician to serve among the other officers, who each in turn had a storied past of comparable villainy.
Under the General’s control, the various gangs and ethnic groups took up arms together. Neighboring army barracks were looted, the soldiers who had guarded the posts no more than weathered hide and bones. With some training, the General’s men became a formidable fighting force.
On a crisp morning, the gates of the prison were thrown open, and the army spilled forth to desecrate all they trampled upon. The General had adorned himself in full riot gear, and led the procession into the desert, riding his muscular steed. A few who could ride were at his side, but the majority of the men stayed on foot in the rear of the cavalcade. They marched across the desert and to the edge of New Faith, spying the tall lookout towers looming over the surrounding trees. It was the water they desired. It was water they would kill for.
Shrill whistles blew behind the walls, alerting New Faith’s occupants. The General’s prison army c
ame snarling out of dawn’s early shadows to flood like a burst dam against New Faith’s defenses. Many fell before the boundary, but soon the gates were reduced to splinters by a shoulder-mounted rocket. The murderous horde swarmed the townspeople, shooting, hacking, and leaving trails of gore in their wake. The General rode into the melee with his officers, his stout lieutenant beside him, striking down the fleeing townspeople in experienced fashion.
New Faith fell. The engineer named Georgia was struck dead early on in the fighting by a barrage of bullets. Nathan Clemens lost a finger and sustained injuries before his capture. He was bound and blindfolded, and later brought to the inner depths of Haddonfield Maximum Security Prison.
Those who remained of New Faith’s population when the fighting ceased were consumed in an orgy of brutality. The more desirable among them were shackled and showcased as trophies of war. One such woman was Nathan Clemens’s young wife, Marianna, who wailed at the carnage displayed all around her and flinched under the filthy hands of her captors. Many men lusted for her, but the officers kept them away, as she now belonged to only one.
In the midst of this revelry, a dozen of New Faith’s detained officers were brought before the General and his lieutenants and made to kneel. The General sat on a wooden chair at the bank of the pond, a cigar clasped between bloodstained fingers, and watched as the enemy officers were executed by knife or bludgeoning device. One of the executioners dipped his palm in the blood of his slain and held his red hand high, swearing an impromptu oath to the brotherhood. The man slapped his wet handprint over his chest and smeared some of the gore over his face, howling mad in the debauchery of victorious warfare, his brain sparkling with narcotics.
After the man’s oath, others followed suit, raising their soiled palms and reciting ritualistic pledges. Alcohol and various substances fueled the celebration, either brought along or plundered from the homes they conquered.
The General produced great white clouds of smoke from his cigar and drank from a bottle of something brown. The more attractive prisoners, whom the soldiers had not yet hidden away for themselves, were led out single file, their hands bound, and chains around their necks. They were presented to the General as his trophies and made to sit at his side. The slim girl named Marianna, with fire-red hair, was displayed at the water’s edge. A soldier stepped forward to cut away her torn summer dress for the entire frothing congregation to witness. Tears rolled down her cheeks, yet she did not speak or cry out, but stood solemnly, glaring at the General and each of his vile officers in turn.
In a dash of movement, the young girl struck her elbow deep into the stomach of the soldier beside her, and twisted the blade out of his hand. She ran half-naked, palms clasped, into the frigid water of the pond. A few soldiers lunged to grab her, but stopped waist deep in the lapping water to laugh along with the others as the young girl cut at her wrists and stumbled beyond the murky shore, using the weight of the chains around her neck to hold her head below the water’s surface.
The General watched, sipping at the bottle and inhaling the rich smoke.
The next day he christened the land inside the walls as the town of Marianna.
Chapter One
Rock Forrest
Karl Metzger, along with a six-man exploratory team, traveled west, bypassing Albuquerque, where the racket of warfare could be heard from miles away. Flashes of light strobed on the horizon from explosions in unceasing intervals, like a storm of great magnitude.
In Arizona, the terrain became harsh, and his stout second in command, Captain Liam Briggs, asked, “What the hell type of rocks are these?”
Karl looked at the ground and then out to the far scope of the land, scanning the arrays of fallen pillared stone.
“Petrified wood,” Karl said. “This was once a forest. Look out at the valley.” He pointed to the basin of land, where the circular stones lay flat, all facing the same direction, as if some force had knocked the whole forest down in unison.
“Never seen nothing like this,” Liam said, and scratched at his developing beard. His voice was hoarser than normal, scratchy from the dry desert air.
“It’s a sight,” Karl said.
Before evening approached, they set up camp beside a dry gulley, and the men wandered about before darkness set in. Liam played with a small crank-powered radio, scanning the static for voices, while Doctor Freeman examined pieces of colorful stone by firelight, taking notes and making sketches in a worn leather-bound binder. He stopped to whittle a strip of charcoal with a razor blade, and Karl nodded to him. “What you got there?” he asked, looking at the half-moon-shaped rock held delicately in the doctor’s palm. The round side resembled bark cast in stone, yet the inside was far from any wood found in nature. It swirled in brilliant shades of red, purple, and black, with pockets of pure white. “I do believe the process of petrifying wood is called permineralization,” Karl explained. “Mineral deposits form internal casts of the organisms, much the same as dinosaur bones.”
The doctor looked up at Karl with dark beady eyes and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “That’s right. Where’d you learn that?”
“In my travels, good doctor.”
Karl leaned back, leaving Doctor Freeman to his studies, and watched the first stars shine out from the darkening sky. Soon, the stars would appear in such numbers as to make the heavens a tapestry of sparkling white.
Numbers and quantities went thought his mind in endless loops as the night wore on, causing pangs of anxiety. Marianna was little more than a small pond with a few buildings, surrounded by a tall fence. The population—his population, the prisoners, wanderers, and drifters he determined to be worthy of inclusion—numbered far more than the little plot of land could sustain. Haddonfield Maximum Security Prison housed the overflow, but transporting water and food back and forth was burning through their scarce supply of fuel.
It was his second in command, Captain Liam Briggs, who offered the solution: “Let’s just expand Marianna’s walls.”
Karl answered, “Expand to what? To encompass more dust?”
The only land fertile enough to grow crops in Marianna was near the water’s edge. Farther out, the soil became desert sand. Maintaining crops had proved a difficult process.
These people, he thought. They couldn’t make a seed grow in the best of conditions.
His men were trained for warfare, pillaging, looting—not maintaining gardens. Keeping the vegetable plots required constant attention and instruction from the few able gardeners. But farming would be essential in the coming months and years, as looted supplies would become scarce and increasingly difficult to plunder with the absence of fuel, and even canned goods would expire.
In the early morning, after a few hours of sleep, Karl announced to the men that their journey would go no further than this eastern section of Arizona. Before they left, they boiled strong pots of coffee over the campfire, and Liam reheated the charred remains of last night’s bean dinner, which had been left overnight in the pot. A thick layer of crust had developed, and Karl picked away bits of blackened soot and flakes of ash with his spoon.
“No more beans,” he said, “for the rest of the journey.”
A scout named Terry looked up from his bowl. “That’s all we got.”
“I don’t give a damn. No more beans.”
“Sir—”
Karl locked eyes with Terry, a young ex-con from Haddonfield who had a knack for scouting. “Did you not hear me?”
“Y-yes, sir. No more beans.”
“What was it you were in for? All those years locked away; it was murder, right?”
“Um, aggravated manslaughter is all.”
“Is all? Well then, how about you do what you’re good at, and slaughter some man for his food?”
The others laughed.
Karl tossed his plate into the sagebrush. “Let’s go. Saddle up.”
Terry chewed at his burnt beans. “You not gonna eat?” he asked.
“One mor
e word—one more word, Terry, and it will be you being served tonight.”
Karl and Liam mounted their horses as the rest of the men gathered their gear.
“There’s a pinyon pine up on that bluff,” the Captain said. “Want me to take a look?”
“Finally”—Karl looked down at Terry, who was retrieving Karl’s discarded plate—“one of you has a notion of how to survive out here. Leave the plate.”
Terry did as instructed and the men mounted their horses.
The entourage consisted of Captain Liam Briggs, the scout Terry, Doctor Freeman, two able hunters, and a man named Bishop, who had grown up in the Southeast and knew several varieties of edible plants. He was also the most experienced scout in all of Marianna, and could walk silently through any wilderness like an apparition.
As the afternoon wore on and the sun blazed down from a brilliant sky, the men fanned out and spoke in quiet conversation. Liam cleared his throat and fussed on his saddle, adjusting his pistol belt around his stocky midsection.
Karl spoke without looking over. “What is it, Captain?”
“Sir?”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I was just thinking, it’s not gonna go over well if we return empty-handed. The men are down to half rations as it is.”
“What would you have me do? Turn these rocks into meat?”
“No, sir.” He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat against the harsh sun. “Maybe we should take a closer look at what’s going on in Albuquerque?”
“War is going on in Albuquerque, Mister Briggs. Six of us riding headlong into a battle will see us all dead before sundown.”
“I’m just saying, maybe we should get a bit closer. There could be spoils to be had at the edge of town, a wayward brigade we can swipe food off of, or some dead ones still with gear. It’s worth inspecting.”
A pang of fear struck Karl’s mind as he envisioned himself addressing his near-starved men after another fruitless excursion. Keeping them happy, willing to fight, murder, even die under his command, was a pressing objective. He turned to his scout. “Bishop, what are your thoughts?”
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