Historic Church of the Lamb
Preserved
That same church had been used as an office by the prior leadership, and their blood still soaked the dry, thirsty floor.
Earlier, as the Red Hands dealt with the last bit of fighting, Karl and Laurence convened in the church. Seven of Odyssey’s former officials lined the wall, including President Clark, all kneeling with their hands on their heads. The rest of the officials were taken as prisoners, but these men and women were the top leaders and advisors. The president’s crisp button-down shirt was untucked, and strings of blood stained the front, dripping from his broken nose. Colored light filtered in through strips of stained glass, casting bright hues along the dark woodwork.
“You son of a bitch,” the president said in a huff to Laurence. “I trusted you—you were a friend!” Spittle shot from his mouth and trailed down his chin.
Karl rolled his eyes, leveled his pistol, and fired. The president’s head jolted and a red mist covered the floor.
The rest of the leadership shrieked, and Laurence and a group of his separatists opened fire. The line of Odyssey’s leadership dropped, the wall behind them burst into splinters.
Now outside the Masonic lodge, guards brought out the rest of Odyssey’s former officials to stand before Karl, their wrists bound behind their backs, gags stuffed in their mouths. Their eyes screamed at the terror all around them. The drunken Red Hands hollered and threw empty bottles, animal bones, and rocks at their approach. Most were already bloodied, their clothing torn, and two had been stripped naked. They shivered despite the warm evening breeze. They had been thoroughly interrogated, and shared the location of several smaller colonies that were marked down on a map to be saved for leaner times.
Mark got to his feet and raised a glass. “Quiet!” he yelled, and repeated the command until the clamor lessened.
“We’re here,” he said, and turned to Karl, “because of this man, who devised this strategy and saw it through. We achieved victory because of his leadership, and I see nothing but a long and happy accord between our joined forces. So, it’s come time … my men—line up!”
The crowd scuffled in something of an orderly fashion, and the men belonging to Mark’s brigade formed a line.
Mark unsheathed his long rosewood-handled machete, and held the blade high so the metal dazzled in the firelight. The line of prisoners glanced his way, sputtering into their gags, and as Mark stood behind the man on the end and crashed the blade down upon him, the rest of the prisoners howled and some attempted to stand before being kicked into submission.
Three of Mark’s men removed blades of their own, and in a skillful fashion they proceeded up the line. Two prisoners fainted, and were slapped awake before being added to the slaughtered. Sultan stood from his table and joined the massacre, shouting orders for his men to line up. The Priest followed, standing on unsteady legs. The doctor had given him the largest dose of painkillers possible.
Ten more prisoners were brought out, and in quick succession, they too were disposed of. Mark, the Priest, and Sultan wiped the dripping broad sides of their blades over their palms and held their hands out high.
“It’s an honor,” Mark shouted, his eyes locked with Karl’s, “to be joining a brotherhood such as this order. We follow you, General Metzger, leader of this fine band of butchers.” He slapped his hand over his chest, and each man in line followed suit, taking an oath to Karl Metzger.
The Priest smiled and proclaimed, “Let it be known that I follow the Lord above all else, but on this mortal earth, my path shall be in congruence with General Metzger as a member of his fierce Red Hands.”
Karl sat at the table before them, sipping at a bottle of whiskey.
Dozens, if not over a hundred more prisoners sat shackled, awaiting their fate. Karl whispered to Liam for long poles to be sharpened, crucifixes to be constructed, and ropes to be strung up. These implements were to be mounted on both sides of the entrance leading into Odyssey, and continue down the central lane of the town. Festivities would last all night. Karl would allow his men to celebrate for days to come, but the officers would be needed to begin plans for the next incursion. This victory in Odyssey was nothing more than a step toward the conclusion: invading Alice, and claiming the gardens and reservoir as their own.
Karl found a cigar on the table and lit it, staring over the sea of faces, hundreds of demonic eyes reflecting the leaping flames of the bonfire. This was his army, his legion of horribles, and they would follow him into the depths of hell and massacre all who stood in their way.
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Black
Cold fall nights came early, after an extended duration of late summer rain. It was decided that the army would wait until the spring to travel east to the docks. On the way, they would invade and conquer the town of Masterson, where they had scouted a weak settlement ripe for the taking. Sultan sent a delegate of men to his port city, informing the commander to await their arrival as the seasons changed in the coming months.
Messengers continued to travel back and forth between the settlements, all the way west to Marianna and Haddonfield Maximum Security Prison. However, as fall turned to a cold and bitter winter, long-range scouting trips were halted. Come spring, all settlements were instructed to send the bulk of their soldiers to Odyssey in preparation for the attack on Alice.
The soldiers in Odyssey spent their days indoors, as the bowl-like formation of the land sent shrill winds howling down from the mountaintops. Fires burned around the clock in steel drums, and a large bonfire in the park outside the Masonic lodge warmed the men gathered after being fed the slop-stew from the building’s kitchen.
On one warmer than average evening, Karl called his men to gather in the lodge’s field, where a makeshift stage had been constructed. An aged bronze statue of a marching soldier with his bayonetted rifle gripped tight adorned the center of the square. To maintain morale, a series of promotions had been planned. Among those being promoted was the elder Sergeant Black, a rightful captain in the Canadian army who had disavowed his rank after society collapsed.
As the men made their slow procession, Karl and Sergeant Black spoke beside the heat of the bonfire.
“It don’t mean nothing,” Sergeant Black said. “Rank, title. Just words. You want to do it, go ahead. Suppose the men will find something admirable in the motion. As long as you keep me training the troops, I don’t give a damn what my stature is.”
Karl smiled and said, “Sergeant, no one can keep the men in such combative vigor as yourself. You have a way of directing the human spirit that no other can match. Your new title may be only that, words; but to the men, it means something more. It shows authority and respect. Something to strive for, if nothing else.”
Sergeant Black adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “Speaking of authority, I think there’s something you ought to know … something I’ve just learned. This may not be the best time to bring it up, seeing as we’re about to address the men, but it’s imperative. Some of the soldiers, well, they’ve been talking behind your back—”
Karl whipped his head around to face him. “Talk of what?”
“Mutiny, sir.”
“Mutiny? Ungrateful bastards … how many?”
“Just a few that I know of. They think we’d be better off staying put come fall. No more marching. No more fighting. They don’t give a damn about the port town and Alice—they want to become sedentary.”
“No more fighting?” Karl patted his front pocket and found a cigar. “What kind of a world …” He paused to light the end with a wooden match, taking in puffs. “What kind of a world do they think we’re living in?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Who told you this?”
“Private Pechman, sir. He overheard some men talking, and informed me just this morning.”
“Pechman, huh?”
“Yes, sir. It’s being orchestrated by Michael Rogers, from Lieutenant Rothstein’s division
. There’s always been something about him … an unwillingness to march in procession … an objectionable look.”
“I know the man. He was second in command under Mister Rothstein prior to our merger. On my insistence, he was demoted to the fighting ranks before we marched on Odyssey.”
“I was gonna wait to tell you until I knew more, but seeing how such things can spread like wildfire, I thought it best you should know right away.”
“Indeed. No more fighting … what that idiot doesn’t realize is that maintaining the water filtering plant is no easy task, and the reservoir is well below where it should be to support our numbers. Come summer, Odyssey may not be able to house our army. Marching, continuing the fight, is a necessity.” Karl patted his soon-to-be captain on his shoulder and began walking toward the platform, where the men were mustered and idling about, rubbing their palms together to keep warm.
Karl stood tall before the podium, and kept his words short. Sergeant Black was promoted to captain, and afterward, Karl looked out over the gathering.
“Private Ryan Pechman,” he shouted, scanning the hundreds of faces and clenching his still-burning cigar in his teeth. “Join me onstage, please.”
After a moment of uncertainty, the men glancing around, the young private appeared, pushing through the throng of soldiers until he reached the steps and stood before Karl.
“Such valiant effort in battle,” Karl said to the young man, “cannot go unnoticed. Pechman here has displayed not only loyalty, but a courageousness that musters his fellow man. I know this, for I have fought beside him and witnessed his fierce determination. It is befitting that you are given the title of sergeant.”
As Karl spoke, a bitter wind howled, and the army in the field stood hunched over, noses red and dripping, pulling up the collars of their frayed jackets and stuffing their hands in their pockets. Their thin gloves were full of holes, and those who did not possess woolen hats wore strips of material wrapped around their heads and faces, their eyes peering out like dark slits.
Sergeant Pechman saluted, and Karl noticed how clean the young man kept his uniform. His pants were ironed, his boots polished, and the strip of red cloth tied around his arm was vibrant. With the absence of red paint, the men had taken to using material to differentiate themselves from their enemies in battle, and many wore strips of torn, red cloth over their upper arms, or tied around weapons. This trend began soon after Odyssey fell, and Karl found it so appealing to see his men cast in a red hue, and the material blowing in the wind tied below spear points, that he encouraged every man to adorn himself in such a way.
The ceremony concluded, and the men were dismissed.
“Captain,” Karl said, as Captain Black put his battered cavalry hat back on his head. “A moment, please.”
“Sir?”
Karl led him to the edge of the podium. “I want the men to begin training tomorrow morning. They need activity, movement.”
Captain Black looked up at the overcast sky, the heavens full of dark rolling clouds.
“We’re fixin’ for a storm, by my perception. It would do them good to sludge through the elements. Harden them up some.”
“Look at them,” Karl said, turning his gaze to the dispersing crowd. “They’re growing weak, soft. Perhaps a foray will sharpen their spirits. We can march on Masterson sooner than planned if need be.”
The captain shrugged. “I agree on all accounts about training. Gotta keep them sharp. But by my counsel, if we go marching to Masterson now, I reckon a third will die from exposure before we reach the gates.”
Karl nodded. “Not Masterson then. What’s that military base twenty miles south? The one we were going to raid come spring, that our colleagues hanging from lampposts on Main Street blabbed about.”
“Fort Anderson?”
“Yes, Anderson. Have Pechman muster a squad, and include Michael Rogers and all other malcontents.”
“Yes, sir. You aiming to kill them?”
Karl took the last puff of his cigar and flung the end in the bonfire. “Perhaps. I thought about killing them just now, on stage. It would have been good for morale. We’ll see.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have Pechman assemble a raiding party.”
Karl nodded and walked off, spitting a piece of tobacco off his lip.
Chapter Fourteen
BB Guns
Twenty-five men gathered in the stables, including Mark, the Priest, and the scout, Bishop. Michael Rogers was among them, along with the five other mutineers, looking nervous in their saddles. The Priest had recovered from his injuries, but his eyesight in his left eye was partial. He took to wearing an eye patch at all times, and was still struggling to regain his balance.
Karl joined them and mounted his horse, looming tall over the others as he commanded, “Move out.”
Two pickup trucks met them at the entrances, their engines rumbling loud in the quiet morning. The gates opened, and the men rode out, with Karl and Mark leading the march.
The Priest took up a hymnal tune, but the growl of the trucks kept his singing to a murmur. The mutineers had congregated to themselves, yet Karl never turned to face them. He rode on, his horse clomping the pavement under hoof.
Few automobiles littered the back roads they stuck to, but twice they had to push stalled cars out of the way for the trucks to ride by. They pulled the crusted corpses from the drivers’ seats and tossed them to the pavement to put the cars in neutral.
The on-ramp to an interstate was packed with an innumerable number of vehicles, and one large moving truck was stalled among them. Karl led his horse to the back of the truck, eyeing the padlock.
“Open it,” he said, and Mark began dismounting from his horse. “Not you.” Karl glanced behind him. “Mister Rogers. Open it.”
Michael paused and licked his lips. All five of his compatriots stared at Karl.
“Is there a problem, Michael? I said to fucking open it.”
“No-no, sir.” Michael got down from his horse and took the bolt cutters from Mark. He slid the blade under the metal, and after a moment of straining, the handles clamped down, and the lock pieces fell to the pavement in a clatter.
Michael pulled the handle and opened the shutter door.
“What you got in there?” Karl asked.
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Go on and find out.”
The gathering pressed in, and the two truck drivers killed the engines and stepped out of the cabs.
Michael looked over his shoulder, then turned back to the truck and hoisted himself inside the cavernous interior.
“Bunch of boxes,” he said, then the sound of cardboard being cut open. He came out holding a soccer ball, still in its sales package. “Bunch of toys.”
Karl turned to the group. “You there.” He pointed to a man belonging to Michael’s rebellion. “Help him out, would ya? And you four. Hurry up.”
For a moment the men didn’t budge, then one got down from his horse and the others followed. As they passed Karl, he could see the sweat forming on their foreheads despite the frigid afternoon breeze.
Box after box was ripped open and tossed out the back of the truck. Two of the men stood outside, moving the assortment of baseballs, lacrosse sticks, and volleyballs further to the side.
“Hey,” echoed a voice from the truck. “Think we got something.” The flickering light of a lighter bounced off the cabin walls. “This a gun?”
A man came out holding a rectangular box, opening it as he walked. “It’s light.”
“It’s a BB gun,” Mark said.
The man removed a black rifle from the box and a plastic pouch of lead BBs, tossing the cardboard to the ground.
“Give it here,” Karl said, and the man handed it over.
“We got a mess of ’em.”
“Good. Good. They’ll do for birds. And Haddonfield is being overrun with starved rats the size of dogs. The men there can use some fresh meat.” Karl played with the pump and action as the men un
loaded three boxes full of rifles, and continued going through the truck until it was unloaded.
In the end, they uncovered two boxes of thick woolen socks. They loaded their flatbeds and Michael jumped down from the back of the truck, his entourage beside him.
“Hold on there,” Karl said. He looked to Mark and nodded. Mark turned to Sergeant Pechman and gave him a stare. Pechman got down from his horse, along with ten other men.
“Hand me your guns,” Ryan Pechman told Michael.
The mutineers stepped back and the soldiers leveled their rifles.
Michael swallowed visibly, and after a moment the men began handing over their rifles. Karl spoke from atop his horse, “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
“What are you talking about?” Michael said.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” a man at Michael’s side said. “We’re sorry, all right? It was all him. All Michael. He’s been talking about deserting for months, but then when we got to Odyssey—”
Michael turned sharply to the man. “Shut the fuck up, Frank!”
“He already knows.” Frank turned to Karl, his palms together before his chest. “Karl, I’m sorry, for the love of God.”
“You all want to leave, huh?” Karl swayed his finger before them, and the men shook their heads, saying, “No, no.”
“It’s Michael who’s been thinking that way. We shoulda told you, Karl. We were only listening—”
Michael swung around with a fast right hook and walloped Frank square in the face. Frank’s head jerked back, and he stumbled.
“Jesus!” Frank reached for his knife, but Michael grabbed him and they fell to the ground, arms wrapped around each other’s necks.
Ryan Pechman and his men jumped forward to stop them, but Karl motioned for them to halt. “Let ’em at it.”
The squad backed up, and the four men next to Michael and Frank moved aside as they rolled on the ground, hands searching for eyes and ears. Michael pulled his arm free and began hammering at Frank’s head until Frank had no other choice but to shield his face with his forearms. Michael straddled him and pummeled his fists down, striking arms, face, hits glancing off to grind on the pavement. Yet he continued to wail away.
Butcher Rising Page 9