We belong outdoors, he told himself. Not suffocating behind walls.
The hinges of the cabin door creaked, and Karl looked up to see Liam Briggs step into the room.
“Karl … my God …”
His expression was the same as the soldiers at the gate.
“Yes, yes. I’m alive.”
He rushed to the table. “Two soldiers came fleeing here, must have been a day before the battle. They said you were dead, they said they saw Mark Rothstein walk out of a burning house, barely alive.”
“I would imagine as such. Sultan was in the basement with the explosives; he would have died instantly. I don’t know about Mark. The room where I woke up was burning to the ground as I escaped. I presume his body went with it.”
Liam took a seat beside him, and Karl explained the battle in Alice, from what he’d gathered. He stopped before going in depth about his journey with the doctor.
“Why didn’t you attack Hightown? The commander promised he’d send a vessel into the bay.”
“When word of your death arrived, he rescinded. Said it is a futile gesture.”
Karl was quiet in contemplation. He ladled a spoonful of broth and let it trickle back into the bowl. “These are meager offerings you got here.”
“The rations are low,” Liam said. “Desperately low. Half the boxes that we saw in storage when we first came to town are empty. A few days after you left for Alice, rations went down to half, and it’s only gotten worse.”
“So, they lied to us, fully prepared to leave behind an army that couldn’t be fed. Where are the commander and his lieutenants? Where’s Bishop?”
“I sent someone to find Bishop. The officers are on their way.”
“How many escaped the battle? How many of our men made it here, to safety?”
Liam shook his head. “Not many. Less than a hundred, I believe. I’ll get the exact number, but it was eighty-seven last I heard. Most fled when the fighting began—they were all sick and hallucinating. Ran right off the line and stumbled here, dehydrated near death.”
“Less than a hundred …”
“And none from Dietrich’s attachment.”
Karl nodded. “I came across three scouts from Hightown on my journey here, and managed to keep one of them alive. He’s in the brig as we speak. Dietrich’s detachment battled Hightown far from either of the settlements, in what we thought was an ammunition stockpile. Turns out it was a trap. They were slaughtered.”
Karl sipped the last of his broth and pushed the bowl away. He went on to explain everything the scout had told him, and then reached to his backpack for the hand-drawn maps.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Liam said. “Hear anything from Sergeant Marcus? He make it into Hightown?”
“No. I was about to ask you the same. Tell me, what is the commander’s thinking—what is his plan?”
Liam shook his head. “No plan. After news of the war, he spent two days locked in his quarters.”
“All the while, his soldiers are starving …”
“Search parties and hunting expeditions go out daily, but they don’t turn up more than a handful of cans or a dead bird or two. The fishing’s good off the dock, but all they got are some lines, and one or two nets. They’re not bringing up enough to feed an army. With proper guidance, they could. But the commander … sure, he can steer a vessel, but actually governing men? Not so much.”
“Are his thoughts still on sailing back to Russia?”
Liam shrugged. “To be honest, he hasn’t made his intentions known. But I’d imagine his objective will always be to go back to Russia.”
“There’s a whole army here at the commander’s disposal. Is he set on doing nothing with them? Hightown is sending scouts in all directions, surveying, mapping, looking for members of our organization. They’re traveling north, south, and west. They’ll be on us in a matter of weeks, maybe less; and by then, our defending army will be nothing more than walking skeletons. I sent a scout to Masterson, commanding a full departure. I thought they’d be here before my arrival. Let’s hope they weren’t discovered by Hightown on their way and engaged in battle. Send scouts to investigate.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make the order. There was word that they came under attack after the battle in Alice. The last report stated it was a small melee, but they’re expecting a large counteroffensive. By all accounts, let’s hope they got out in time.”
“Indeed.” Karl had expected this. It was only logical that Hightown would follow the Priest’s trial. “What about the commander’s men? Are they sitting idle, willing to starve while their officers do nothing to ensure their survival?”
Liam cleared his throat and said, “All hope was on you. The men, all they want is to eat, drink, survive. If things had gone different in Alice and Hightown, and the commander and his few Russian counterparts sailed across the ocean, there was no protest over you becoming their new leader. In truth, from what I gathered, the soldiers were happy to have someone in power that displays a willingness to fight, and not simply hide away forever in the boats. They’re sick of playing defense.”
“Is that so?”
“After the reports of your dying, the attitude changed around here. The men walk around like they’re defeated, already dead, when in truth, they still maintain a vast arsenal of weaponry. But under the commander’s leadership, there’s nothing being done to ensure their safety. I’ve heard rumors of a few wanting to take power themselves, overthrow the Russians. It might have gone that way if you hadn’t returned, and rightly so. To be honest, I was thinking of doing it myself.” Liam paused, scratching at his unshaven cheek.
Karl nodded. “Get me a full report of the army’s numbers, munitions, and food stockpile. Everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Footfalls came from down the hall, echoing through the metal cabin room. Karl spoke fast to Liam, and a moment later, Commander Sergei Ivanov walked into the room in full battle dress, followed by his lieutenants, Ivan and Viktor. His dark uniform held an excess of colorful rank markers and intricate gold embroidery, with shiny golden buttons. His peaked cap was held in the crook of his arm.
“Karl,” the commander said through his faded accent. “I don’t believe it.”
Upon the commander’s arrival, Liam stood loosely at attention. Karl leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the table.
“Commander, sir, you’d better believe it. How about one of those cigars you’re famous for sharing and a spot of whiskey? I’m dying for a smoke after such a fruitful meal.” He tapped the empty bowl with the side of his boot, and put his hands behind his head.
Chapter Forty-one
Way of the World
Karl was given privacy to bathe and dress while word of his return spread like fire throughout the army, and the men were ordered to meet on the dock in two hours’ time for a speech. The excitement was noticeable.
Other than the occasional sponge bath down in the dark recess of Doctor Freeman’s basement, Karl had not felt jets of water for … weeks? It was hard to determine how much time had gone by with his consciousness fading in and out through the majority of his trek. But both Liam and Bishop had told him the battle in Alice ended over a month ago. Had the doctor really kept him sedated for that long?
Standing under the stream of water, he leaned against the wall and cut away the final stiches from his leg. The sensation of pulling the threads was not enjoyable, but when he finished, all that remained was a puffy red strip of scar tissue.
Despite there being no hot water, Karl stayed in the shower for a half an hour longer than necessary, re-lathering himself in soap over and over. When he turned off the water and stepped out, dripping on the frigid metal floor, he scrubbed his body with a towel until his skin was red and raw. He felt lighter, if that was at all possible. And then looking at his reflection in the mirror, he picked up the disposable razor he’d been issued, and lathered his face with the soap.
He picked from the meager stoc
kpile of army fatigues a plain set of olive drab pants and a button-up shirt, and fashioned his belt and holster around his midsection.
Karl was not a new man, standing fresh and clean; he was his old self, before the battle in Alice. He was the leader of horribles, the general of all things.
Liam and Bishop waited in the meeting room down the cavernous hall.
“Karl,” Liam said as Karl stepped into the room, along with four of his trusted soldiers who had escaped the war. “We just received word; the army from Masterson will be approaching the gates soon. They’re only a mile out. There’s no indication that they’ve been followed, but we should assume they were.”
“Mister Briggs, that is the best news I’ve heard in quite some time. Have them march straight to the docks and join the crowd.”
“Yes, sir.” Liam relayed the message to a guard, and joined Karl beside an ample porthole window, facing the ships. Their warship was at the end, attached to the left lane of the trident-shaped dock. A makeshift podium and stage was being assembled where the three berths converged to a single, wide central road, and the crowd was growing.
A few moments later, the three Russian officers walked into the room.
“Karl,” the commander said, “the soldiers are gathering.”
Karl had been instructed that they were going out there to tell the people that they had accepted defeat. They were to detail their failed attempt to conquer Hightown and Alice. They were going to explain that they would still survive …
The commander walked beside Karl at the porthole window, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s time,” he said.
“Yes, Sir Commander. It is. Look there.” He pointed to the crowd. “In the rear; my army is arriving from Masterson.”
The commander leaned closer.
“Your men are impressive,” he said. “I thought for sure that Masterson would be defeated.”
Karl nodded.
A legion of several hundred advanced onto the docks, mixing with the others, shaking hands, and even hugging some of their comrades. Drifts of smoke wisped into the air as the armies exchanged tobacco, and Karl could only guess the abundance of alcohol that would soon be consumed. His mouth watered.
Despite the arduous fighting in Masterson that saw masses of his men die, and the long march after, his army was in all appearances stronger, larger, and healthier than the near-starved dockworkers. Many were still caked in the mud and gore of warfare, their red handprints freshly painted over their chests in a display of camaraderie. Their weaponry was a mixture of modern firepower along with anything that was sharp or heavy enough to maim and kill. Some wore machetes and swords, spears and sledgehammers, the handles and sheaths adorned with ritualistic artwork and embroidery, made from plunders of war: gold teeth, locks of hair, tanned hides, and sparkling jewelry. Red strips of cloth were tied around their arms, and secured to the ends of spears.
“Dear God,” the commander said, his hand held loosely in the fold of his buttoned-up wardress. “They look like demons.”
Karl turned, and when he uncrossed his arms, he slid his bowie knife from the sheath in a smooth motion. The blade was sharp and glistening, and Karl aimed right below the commander’s lower rib, where the flesh was soft, and the blade could be stabbed upward toward his heart and main arteries.
But the commander was quick to jump back, the blade pierced halfway in. With a terrible shriek, the commander grabbed at his belly with one hand and scratched at his flapped pistol holster with the other. Karl sprang forward, slashing and jabbing at the commander’s flailing arms until he had him pressed against the corner of the room. “You’re a coward!” Karl declared. “You should have attacked Hightown instead of recoiling away like a whipped dog!”
The two Russian lieutenants leaped forward to help their superior officer, but Liam and Bishop were ready, and grabbed them from behind. They choked them with their forearms, muffling their screams, and stabbed unrelenting down into the men’s chests and throats with their knives. The officer’s two guards jolted into action, but were subdued by the four Red Hands who had been waiting to pounce.
The cabin door swung open, and two faces appeared. “Commander—” one said before they were yanked into the room and pressed facedown against the cold metal floor. Their eyes were inches away from the widening pools of blood spilling from the officers who lay beside them.
With a final lurch, Karl plunged the knife into the commander’s chest, feeling the handle buckle as it maneuvered between two ribs.
The commander’s eyes shot wide and his trembling jaw dropped open.
“You’ve done this to yourself, Commander.” Karl spoke through his teeth, his face inches from the man’s fading eyes. “This is the way the world works. People in power will always be at odds with impending doom. You never deserved the authority that you held. Your people will rejoice at hearing the news of your demise. They’ll rejoice at knowing their fates are now held in the hands of someone capable. Death comes for us all, and now it is your turn to face the reaper. You stopped being the leader to your men the moment you decided that leaving to Russia was more important than ensuring their survival.”
He stepped back and yanked the knife free.
The commander made a fluid-filled gurgle and dropped to his knees, then fell facedown.
Karl turned to the two guards pinned to the floor.
“Well,” he said, bending down to clean his blade and his hands on the back of the commander’s uniform, “in a moment, I’m going out there to address the crowd. I’m going to tell them exactly what has transpired here. I am not and never will give the speech that the commander had intended—to offer defeat, resignation. This war is not over; if anything, my lust for victory has been made even greater. All was not lost in one failed battle, as these men here would make you believe. Under their leadership you all would have died, either by starvation or by the impending fighting that will soon take place once Hightown musters their men to march upon us. They have air power, attack helicopters, and long-range missiles. They’d wipe out half the fleet before we could man the guns.
“However, at the moment, Hightown has little concept of our existence. We will strike while they’re still weakened from the melee in Alice. We won’t sit back waiting for them to charge our gates. From here on out, we are at total war with our enemies, and I will not stop fighting until all their people are strung up to lampposts. No more trickery to win battles; no more sly maneuvers to work my way inside. We will attack in the fashion that I had implored Commander Ivanov to do.” Karl pointed to the commander, who had become still. “This army—his army—was promised to me upon his absence, and I’m here to take it. Starting immediately, the men are issued full rations. They need their strength. They are to begin training at once, ready themselves for battle. We depart when they get some meat on their bones and spirit to their fighting: days, weeks, but not months. We depart for victory, and we will plunder all of the food and resources we could ever need. Gardens. Cattle. No more scrounging for spoiled cans and rotten fish. With victory, we will be the fiercest assemblage of fighting men walking this earth. Oh by God, I swear it.”
One of the men on the ground opened his mouth to speak, but Karl continued, “Some will be resistant to what I have done to the commander and his lieutenants. I have been given a list of names of his most loyal men, and my soldiers are ready to eliminate them now, in the gathered crowd outside. The rest will rejoice. Under my leadership, all will prosper. Just ask the men who have fought by my side. Ask the men who have returned from Masterson. Do they sulk at having to retreat from their conquered city? No. They arrive with fresh coatings of war paint on their chests. We will rejoice in the thrill of warfare and the euphoria of triumph. So ask yourself, are you with me? I could have killed you half a step through the door, but I have instructed my men to let all decide their own fates. Choose now the path of salvation, or the path of damnation. What’s it going to be?”
Blood had pooled over
one of the men from the slain officers, and he struggled to lift his face from the oppressive knee that held him pinned to the ground. “I’ll fight,” he said. “General, I’ll follow you. We all will. No one wants to starve.”
The other man acknowledged the same. “I’m with you.”
The guards let them go free. With disheveled, stained uniforms, they got to their knees.
“Up now,” Karl said. “Join me as I address the waiting crowd. Stand tall and proud.”
The guards helped the men to their feet.
“One thing first,” Karl said, and pointed to their chests. “If you are to join me, display your loyalty to the brotherhood.”
One man stepped toward the dead commander, and then the other followed. They dipped their palms into a pool of blood, and showed their red palms to Karl.
“Do you swear your allegiance?” Karl asked.
“Yes,” they said in unison. Then one said, “We serve you, General.”
They pressed their palms into their chests and stood tall, members now of the Red Hands, and under the command of General Karl Metzger. King of the East.
Chapter Forty-two
Hightown
Hightown’s inner shoreline and docks were protected from the ocean by two overlapping barrier islands. When viewed from over the ample bay, the horizon appeared to be one continuous stretch of land, with the two islands blending into one another. But the gap between them formed a wide channel that had been used for decades as a shipping route to reach the ocean.
High atop the steep banks, a half mile away from the harbor, was a section of Hightown used primarily for surveillance of the waters and the land adjacent to the shore. This was where Hightown’s defunct lighthouse still peered out from the top of the incline, along with a number of magnificent homes built to reflect the wealth of the landowners who could afford property with a bay and ocean view. At the bottom of the steep incline, the waters lapped at a shore comprised of boulders and bulkheads, with one small slip of sandy beachfront that once belonged to the county park system. A walking trail stretched along the base, following the shore as it snaked along, with the magnificent homes and the lighthouse high overhead, atop a near-vertical hill of wavering reeds and sections more wooded, with thick bramble and tall trees.
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