Frank’s arms went slack as Michael continued, then Karl said, “That’s enough.”
Michael was grabbed and pulled off Frank’s unmoving body, his face unrecognizable. The same could be said of Michael’s knuckles.
“Disarm them,” Karl commanded, and the mutineers were pushed to face the bumper of the truck and forced to put their palms upon it. They were patted down and small arms were pulled from pockets, sheaths, and ankle holsters.
Michael was still huffing and wriggling, and two men had to subdue him. The thick forearm of a soldier wrapped around Michael’s neck until his face turned blue and he stopped resisting.
On Karl’s instructions, they were stripped naked and their wrists were bound behind their backs. Two of the men struggled with their captors, yet the others somberly obeyed, saying things like, “Karl, we’ll follow you. Karl …”
They shivered in the cold as one by one they were hoisted up and tossed inside the open truck like livestock to the slaughter. Karl peered inside, saw them jump to their feet at the shock of their exposed flesh against the cold metal floor.
Michael was lifted, his eyes wide and his jaw clenched. A trickle of blood trailed down his forehead.
“No,” Karl said. “Not him.”
The door was shuttered with the bound men running to the edge, yelling their apologies, swearing allegiance, and being prodded back by the tips of knives and machetes.
The locking handle was brought down, and a thick stick was worked into the eyehole where the padlock had been. Michael was tied to the tire, the rope around his neck made taut so that he could not lean forward more than half an inch.
He did not speak as the trucks started and the army took its course south.
Karl found a cigar and lit it. “If you’re still alive when we get back, we’ll bring you back to town for a proper trial. We are, after all, civilized. Are we not?” He tossed the extinguished match at Michael’s chest, leaving a trail of smoke as it cascaded to the ground. “That’s the last bit of warmth you’ll ever feel.”
Karl pulled at his horse’s reins, and the stallion turned, snorting, the wiry muscles under its thick neck contracting.
***
The march continued until they paused before a tall black-metal fence. Bishop rode beside Karl, reading a map. His finger trailed over the page.
“You sure you know how to read that thing?” Mark said.
Bishop looked up. “Of course I do. We’re here.”
“No shit.” Mark gestured to the fence, the tops arched forward and sharpened to points.
Bishop folded the map into his front pocket.
The locked chain-link doors bent as a pry bar worked its way in, until the lock snapped in half and the gates slid open.
“Hope they left us something,” the Priest said, following Karl into the fort.
Karl glanced at the shrunken corpse inside the security booth, and the other slumped over the handle of a mounted machine gun behind a nest of sandbags. Both wore camouflaged hazmat suits, the material like deflated balloons around the bones.
“Why don’t you give them a prayer, Mister Dietrich,” Karl said.
The Priest opened his mouth, then Karl said, “I was being facetious. I don’t think prayer will do much to help them now, do you?”
The Priest laughed. “The power of prayer is a worthy comrade in warfare, General. You’d be wise to heed its ways.”
Karl’s heart thumped fast. “I’d be wise to tie your naked ass up to a tire and leave you trembling in the wind.”
The Priest, Mark, and Bishop chuckled, and the laughter followed down the line of men entering the base.
“I will pray for you then, Sir General, if you will not do so yourself.”
“Please do,” Karl said. “I need all the prayer I can get. When I was a child, locked away for all those years in a Christian correction institute, do you know how they prayed for my sins? All the priests and saintly teachers—do you know how they prayed for us wayward children?”
“Perhaps I’m better left wondering.”
“Indeed.”
The trucks rumbled in the rear, followed by the last four riders, and the men stopped before a series of drab, tan-colored buildings, all identical and rectangular in shape. Several of the windows were blackened, with dark soot marks in dancing array around the walls where fires had left their grimy residue.
“They fight here?” Bishop asked.
“No,” Karl answered. “There are no bullet shells. No shredded corpses.”
Bishop nodded.
There were machine-gun nests constructed at various points, some still manned by the soldiers in hazmat suits.
“Get to it,” Karl instructed, and the men took to removing the machine guns and ammunition.
A soldier grabbed the back of a corpse leaning over the handle of a gun, gripped the plastic material of the suit, and dragged it aside. “Good thing these guys come in their own garbage bag,” he said.
The men around him laughed, and the tripods and guns were disassembled and loaded on the backs of the truck, then the men divided to scour for what was left in the buildings. Karl rode around the property with Mark, and counted a total of six buildings and one large white dome in the rear, shielding some sort of radar.
“We’re not going to find much,” Mark said. “Just some ghosts.” He looked down to a pile of body bags laid in orderly fashion beside the back fence.
When they’d circled back to the trucks parked out front, the men had piled anything of use on the flatbeds. Karl opened the corner of a cardboard box.
“Shirts,” Bishop said. “A whole mess of long-sleeve shirts, and we got a few dozen pants, and some socks too.”
Karl pulled a button-up camouflaged shirt from the box, feeling the coarse material between his fingers.
“Shirts, pants, and socks, all brand new. Not a bad haul. Anything else?”
“Some small arms and ammunition.” Bishop pointed to a stack of rifles on the back of the truck. “The buildings are untouched. Looks like they were just setting this place up when the virus hit. There are boxes of electronics, mostly still packed.”
A few minutes later, the men finished their haul. The trucks were started, and the procession turned back home.
***
It was nearing nightfall when they returned to the cargo truck and Michael Rogers. He remained unmoved, an obelisk of despair in the cold wind, his skin a pale shade of blue.
Karl rode out and studied his face. Clatter from inside the truck increased with his presence, and soon anguished voices began calling out for redemption.
Michael’s eyes flickered.
“He’s alive,” Karl said, and laughed. “Oh, sweetie pie, are you chilly? Mister Rothstein, please, get this man a blanket. He’s freezing.”
Michael’s body convulsed and his eyes faded back shut.
“Cut him down,” Karl ordered.
Mark removed his binds, but the man did not collapse when the ropes were cut. They wrapped him in a blanket, and he hollered as his body was touched and moved.
“Oh, come on now. It’s just a bit of frostbite. You’re fine. Who needs extremities anyway?”
The men locked in the back of the truck banged against the walls, shouting and pleading as the procession moved off.
“Huddle together,” Karl shouted over his shoulder. “We’ll be back in a jiffy … or maybe not.”
Michael’s hands were tied to a rope trailing to a horse’s saddle, his fingers like blackened hooks, and a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. They moved out, and over the miles he slipped and fell, and was forced to stand back up again.
It was night as they entered Odyssey, and a crowd grew at the gates. No one questioned the state of Michael Rogers. Captain Black had made sure that word was spread prior to their return.
On Karl’s instructions, two men untied Michael from his binds and led him to the edge of the pond on the outskirts of town. A child’s wooden sled was taken from the h
ardware store on the main street, and Michael was made to lie on it, then tied securely to the wooden planks. He did not protest. He did not utter a word as the ice around the shore was cracked away. He moaned as the sled was pushed, feetfirst, into the freezing waters, and slowly inched over his knees, groin, stomach, and chest, until his face and head were covered. After a moment he was brought back out and dragged, sled and all, to the stage on the commemorative grounds beside the Masonic lodge. A bonfire was lit and extra wood added. Michael rolled in and out of consciousness as Karl stood beside him, the boxes of plundered goods brought before his feet. The men gathered and cheered as the clothing was handed out, first to those whose attire was in dire need. Bottles of alcohol appeared, and a few men who knew how to play acoustic guitar took up impromptu performances, sitting on the podium with legs dangling.
Karl and the Priest stood to the side.
“Are you going to say anything about the popsicle there?” The Priest pointed to Michael, who had most likely expired.
“No need,” Karl said. “His words preceded this action, as did the choices he and his associates made. The men understand.”
Karl found a cigar and struck a wooden match to light it. Once lit, he flicked the extinguished match, and watched it trail a twisting descent of smoke until it disappeared into the bonfire.
Chapter Fifteen
Target Practice
The onset of spring brought unceasing rain, and in the intervals when the precipitation stopped, a heavy fog rolled in, cascading down the mountains like spilled milk. The air remained so vaporous that after only a few moments outside, Karl’s clothing and skin grew damp and he preferred it when the rain returned and beat away at the mist.
On a cool, wet morning, the men marched to a lightly guarded settlement, twenty miles to the north. When the sharpshooters eliminated the handful of watchmen protecting the walls, and the army crashed through the gates, the town they raided was turned to a morgue. The enemies were easy to spot and kill, with nearly all of them donning bright hazmat suits.
“This is like target practice,” Liam said to Karl during the melee. “Look at ’em—like giant chickens.”
Karl smiled and laughed, taking aim at a fleeing yellow blob.
Over two dozen corpses lined the rear wall, giving evidence to what the winter had done to their numbers prior to the battle. The earth needed to finish thawing and the rain to cease long enough for the townspeople to dig proper graves. But that opportunity would no longer present itself, and the bodies of their comrades would join their numbers, never to be buried or lamented. The more desirable residents were kept alive, stripped out of their hazmat suits, and bound or beaten into submission.
The men swarmed the buildings, finding troves of preserves and a storeroom filled with military-issue fatigues. Karl and Mark remained saddled on their horses during the looting, and ordered a prisoner brought before them. Sergeant Pechman left and returned after a moment, pulling a frail and skinny man by his arm, and pushed him down to kneel in the mud before the mounted officers.
They interrogated him for many minutes, the man saying, “They all got sick, one after the other. We thought it was the plague again. We thought it was back.”
Karl laughed. “Even if it did return, how would those suits help you?”
The man cast his eyes to the ground.
“Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate you wearing them. It made it all the more easy for us to kill you, but they did nothing to stop the disease before—why would they help now? Do you know what the definition of insanity is? You all probably had the flu, a common cold, or something.”
“We don’t got a doctor. No medicine.”
“You all might be the stupidest we’ve encountered.”
Karl looked up to see Sultan appear through the cluster of men.
“General,” he said, smiling wide. “Oh, I got something for you, my man.”
He handed Karl a full bottle of liquor, the cap still sealed.
“Scotch,” Karl said, pulling at the foil wrapper. Sultan held three glasses in his other hand, and Karl and Mark dismounted their horses.
“A toast,” Karl said, filling the glasses to the rim. “To victory, yet again.”
Mark took back half the glass in a gulp, then said, “Sweet Jesus. Lemme see that bottle.”
Karl passed it to him. “It’s the earth itself inside that glass. You can taste the wind, the rain, soil, and fire.”
“Goddamn.” Sultan contorted his face. “Ain’t that some shit. I’m more of a vodka man myself, but damn, that’s some good stuff right there. We found boxes worth, and not just the brown stuff. Rum, wine, even beer.”
The three men began walking off.
“What do you want me to do with him?” Sergeant Pechman called out, standing beside the prisoner.
Karl shrugged. “He’s of no use.” He paused, and then returned to give what remained of the bottle to his sergeant. “Live a little, Mister Pechman.”
The sergeant unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He coughed and spit up the liquor. “Holy hell … you like this stuff?” He coughed again. “Tastes like dirt.” He handed the bottle back to Karl, unsheathed his knife, and walked toward the scowling prisoner.
The man moved back on his knees, saying, “Please. Oh, Christ—”
Karl and the officers walked away, examining the dark hue of their drink in the glow of the overcast sky.
***
They rode back into Odyssey in a misting rain. The guards awaiting their return were tossed bottles of alcohol from the back of flatbed trucks, and the foil caps were quickly removed.
Karl led the procession down the main strip of town toward the storerooms and barracks. The prisoners were stripped naked, and their wrists or necks were leashed to the backs of the trucks. They were prodded forward by the tips of sharpened spears, with red strips of fabric tied below the points. The prisoners stared aghast at the abundance of crucified and executed corpses displayed along the main entrance into Odyssey. The guards took revelry in pointing out some of the more elaborate executions, such as the impalements, saying things like, “Took ’em days to die. Look at them there; we fit three on one pole. Just imagine slidin’ down that sharp point, a bloated corpse right below you. We got a pointed stick just for you.”
Karl and his officers left the men at the barracks to have their celebratory homecoming, and gathered around a table in a home used as an office of sorts. Bottles of hard alcohol and jars of preserved vegetables were passed out. A sergeant in charge of inventory read them figures and numbers. Their stockpile of weapons and ammunition was more than adequate, as was their immediate supply of food and clothing. It was fuel that would soon become troublesome. Not only was the store running low, but the barrels of gasoline were continuing to go bad. Keeping generators running in the barracks was a necessity—a driving force that gave the men something to fight for. Light. Warmth.
After an hour, when the glasses on the table had been drained and refilled three times, it was decided that the time was right to march east. Sultan ordered an officer from the docks to leave first thing in the morning, along with a squad to precede their advance. Scouts had been sent earlier that week to inspect Masterson, where prior to the winter, evidence of fuel consumption had been seen. Plans were already drawn to attack Masterson, but first they would march to the ports. With the two settlements working together, true dominance would be at hand.
Karl refilled their glasses and called for the kitchen to prepare a proper meal. Something to give them strength. Something dead and cooked over a flame.
Chapter Sixteen
Search Party
A tentative departure date for a company of twenty men to leave was decided for the next week. That being if the unceasing rain would ever stop.
The morning after their fruitful raid, and the celebration that followed, a search party left to find two men who had not returned from their morning duty of checking the fish traps, east of the town. One was dis
covered a quarter mile downstream, caught up in a thicket of rush, and the other was farther along, at the edge of the bank. One was shot, and the other’s neck was so broken that his head faced in the opposite direction.
As an investigation was underway, two sergeants were found dead inside a home on a hilltop, where some of the officers were given housing to keep vigil on the community from above. Both of the men were killed by brute force, and Mark put together a scouting party, along with Captain Black and Bishop, to follow the killers.
Karl was made aware of the murders, but paid it little mind.
“What’s the bother?” he asked. “If their tracks are leading away from town, they’re long gone. Sending men after them only puts more at risk. We weren’t attacked—it was a chance occurrence. And the tracks indicate that it was only two people.”
Liam shrugged. “Guess to make an example. Whoever they were, they killed four of our men. One shot, the others mangled. Shit, one of ’em’s face was so busted he must have had every bone broken.”
“That’s still of no consequence,” Karl said. “But I trust Mark’s opinion; follow the killers. Just make sure your pursuit is not in folly. We’re set to leave in less than a week.”
“Yes, sir,” Liam said, and stood. “I’ll tell them now.”
***
One of the guilty men had been found injured in the woods, and brought back unconscious. Mark sent scouts to follow the second man who’d slipped away, as the rest of the company returned. Final preparations were made for their departure to the East, with another few days added to the timeframe, as the weather still had not cleared. The paths outside of Odyssey were thick with mud.
Captain Black spent much time with the captive man, claiming to Karl that he was the largest man among all the soldiers, except perhaps in comparison to Karl himself. Among the man’s possessions was a weather-beaten map. A clear line of travel was marked, but most of the eastern section had been marred beyond readability. The officers studied the path, and Captain Black claimed it was the best possible route for them to take to the docks, before it appeared to veer south by a number of miles. The final location was lost to pulp. Karl met the captive and asked him about his travels, but the man had been put on strong sedatives by Doctor Freeman, and could not offer much of a response.
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