#
My mother had driven herself off a bridge and into the river when I was young. We all thought it was an accident until they dragged the car off the river bottom and found her body. They found a note in her pocket. She had drug problems, serious ones. She had a lot to say about herself and her problems, but didn’t write one word to me.
That first night away from home was the worst for me. I was abandoned and alone. I was discarded trash. I tried to picture what it was like for her in that car. I wanted to be in there with her, to die with her.
I was sent to a boarding house where I would spend the next few years bouncing around from foster home to foster home. It was absolute hell.
Finally, after I failed my freshman year of high school, I was adopted by Beth and Ricky. Beth was my mom’s cousin and Ricky was a cop. They were my salvation, the best mom and dad in the universe. I went back to high school, graduated with honors, and with Rick’s help, became one of the best cops in New York. As far as foster kids go, I was one of the lucky ones.
#
I grunt. My ten years on the force prepared me for all kinds of situations, but tight spaces have always unnerved me. I pull my necklace out of my uniform vest. It’s a half dollar sized wooden circle with engraved Japanese kanji writing, peace and love through truth and strength. Ricky and Beth had given it to me for graduation from the academy. I rub the necklace between finger and thumb to feed off its calming effect.
My mind still needs to work out this problem. I’m trapped in my cruiser as it sits upside down on two or more vehicles. I try to kick the door with controlled leg thrusts, but it’s crumpled, making it inoperable. I will need the Jaws of Life. With my boot, I test the metal frame that is bent over the smashed windshield. It won’t budge. I can’t squeeze through any opening or force any of the metal to budge. I sweep out the glass on the ceiling so I can get more comfortable.
I hear a moan from a car below me. I turn and listen. “Hello! I’m here!” I yell.
“I. . .I’m hurt,” sobs a woman. She’s in the car under me. Her voice is weak.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I say. “Stay awake. Keep talking. What’s your name?”
“Jan. . .ice,” the woman says through her crying. She screams, “I’m bleeding! Oh God, what is happening to me!”
“Stay with me Janice! Help is on the way,” I lie.
There is no reply.
“Janice!” She is gone. I kick the ceiling. Tears flood out of me. I’m so scared right now. I try not to think about how long it will take for help to show up. It might take days. I’m locked in a prison of smashed and useless cars. People all around me are yelling and screaming and no one is checking on the overturned police car on the Queensboro Bridge onramp.
Hours go by. No one comes. Why? Nothing is making sense to me.
I like to think I’m as tough as they come, but I’m not. I sit with my eyes closed and try to think of other things, but I can’t seem to relax. I’m shaking. My blood sugar has crashed. Maybe if I try to eat. I reach for my glove compartment. I have granola bars in there. Instead of my bars falling out, a red box falls. I open it. Inside is a red syringe and a note:
‘Use or die. The New World thanks you. Your service was indispensable.’
~Zilla.
Chapter 1.4
Markus Coburn:
Seven years before the Extinction Event
I lock the door to my church and stagger down the steps to the sidewalk. The sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. Jordan, my secretary, is staring at me. She’s botherin’ me. I know she cares, maybe too much. I look at her. “It’s fine, J,” I say.
“We don’t have to cancel Wednesday service yet. We get the word out to the neighborhood on Sunday, go door to door again,” she offers, tryin’ to act cheery.
“I can’t pay you. We have no volunteers and Regional has cut our stipend again.” I follow the sidewalk to the street then stop and look at Jordan. “I don’t like preachin’ to empty pews.” I shrug. “I failed.”
“Mrs. Clarady is there. And old man Rinald.” Jordan’s a young and proud black woman, always wearin’ fashionable pantsuits to church like she’s a lawyer. Good lookin’, but naive.
I chuckle weakly and shake my head, “See you on Sunday.” I start walking home. I take a detour, hoping to get a muffin at a nearby bakery. I cross the street without looking for traffic. A car hits its breaks and blares the horn, but it doesn’t faze me. I haven’t been feeling too good lately. My church sits empty. Thugs run my neighborhood. I don’t feel God in my life anymore. Does He even exist, or am I just a stupid old man? Everywhere I look there’s misery. Even in my own pews there are those that Jesus hasn’t helped. In the last two years I’d lost over a hundred parishioners. I’m failing at my job. I’m saving no one.
I head straight for the coffee shop. I look forward to drinking coffee with my Muslim friend, one of the few things I still look forward to these days. It was about a year ago when I met Ramid.
#
I’d noticed him sitting at a table, drinking coffee and reading. I walked to him and stared, not really thinking. I’d had a bad night and no one to talk to. Finally, he noticed me and turned. His smile was welcoming. As though he could read my thoughts, he motioned for me to sit across from him at his table.
“I know the look on your face. I’ve been there myself.” He sipped his coffee confidently. “You are living with the suffering of thousands upon your shoulders. It is common for men like us.”
“I feel,” My head lowered, and I looked at the passing cars. “God has abandoned me, maybe this town.”
“Have a drink,” he said and waved the waiter over.
#
Ramid Aheed Mohammed is a portly gentleman, tall, with a long fuzzy white beard. He has kind eyes and always wears a white thwab with a flat white cap. A whole year had passed in a blink of an eye. We’d become good friends, settled into a routine, having coffee twice a month. He’s the Imam who heads up the Islamic Center of New York. He’s a proud Muslim, even in New York, where he gets less than positive attention most of the time. He’s helped me through my dark times, though I still have not found peace. I’ve come to accept my empty church, and still fight harassment from the local thugs. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of being the vessel of failure. Ramid, even more so than my wife, understands my pain. It seems we were cut from the same cloth.
Today, we’re at a cafe in Uptown. I’ve decided to leave New York and Ramid is talking me through my decision. I haven’t even told my wife. When I look out at the streets of New York I see only red, a blur of activity enriched with the color of blood. There are empty shells walking around instead of people. They meander about, hollow and godless. They’re weak like foil figures. I admit it is possible I’m projecting. They are a mirror into my soul. I haven’t spoken to God in quite some time.
A minute ago, Ramid had left to answer his phone in private. The wind picks up, whips open his notebook, and blows loose papers off the table. I grab the quickly scattering pages and put them back in the book. I notice a fax labeled ‘URGENT.’ I read it because it’s hard to ignore a thing like that. It reads:
The Stone of Allah has been written about three times in the European press this past year. This is unacceptable. It seems there are records at the Vatican that we were not aware of. Our budget for this situation has been increased tenfold. I will be arriving in America on the 10th, 2:00PM, flight 2564. You will pick me up at that time.
~Signed, Aaban Aarif
The Imam returns to the table, somber. He must have gotten bad news.
“Your papers blew off the table. I collected them for you. I think I got them all.” I wasn’t sure I should say anything about the message, but I did anyway. “What is the Stone of Allah?” I ask.
Ramid’s face is in shadow as he looks down to me. He scratches his beard then looks down the street like one would do if they were waiting for the bus. “You were not supposed to see that.”
�
��Care to satisfy my curiosity? It will be between us and God,” I say easily.
“It is a personal matter. I’m sorry, but the only thing I can tell you is that the Stone of Allah is worthless to Christians.” He excuses himself for one more minute and gets on his cell.
Finally, he returns to the table. His demeanor has changed again. “Markus, will you come to my car with me? I think I can tell you something about this stone.”
“Certainly.” My interest is reinforced. I pay the bill then follow the Imam around to the alley. “You risk parking here?” I say stunned. The ticket is hefty.
There’s a black sedan in front of me, slick black, with dark windows. Strange, I’ve never seen the Imam in this vehicle. As we approach the sedan, two gentlemen step out. They have dark olive skin, dark hair, and dressed in black suits. They’re wearing heavy jewelry. One has a necklace, the other a thick diamond bracelet and a huge gold ring. They approach and grab me suddenly.
“What are you doing? What is this!?” I cry out.
They force me into the back of the sedan and drive to a nearby parking structure. I plead for an explanation, but they say nothing. At the top level they stop. I’m dragged to the edge of the building. Ramid is a community leader. He’s a saint — was a saint. He was my friend. Now his slick smile and flaccid gestures seem like nothing more than insults.
Ramid’s eyes are strained. “You should not have seen that,” he repeats. He lowers his head and looks away. “This is partly my fault. I’ve become too casual with you.”
The two hold me over the edge of the parking structure. A pistol is pushed into my forehead. I see the road many levels below. Traffic is moving slowly. People are going about their day. God, please let someone see me.
“The information you have seen has led to your death,” Ramid says. “I’m sorry, friend. This is bigger than me. This is a war, and I am loyal to my side.”
“No!” I plead. “I saw nothing. Please, I have a family. I have a church. I’ll forget what I saw.”
I’m pulled back onto the roof. The pistol is brought down on my back, hard. My kidney feels like it explodes. Pain fills my head. I’m released, and I drop to the ground.
Ramid pats me on the head. “Time to leave town. This is not your home anymore. You were going to do this anyway so this is no great hardship.”
“I promise,” I say cringing in pain. “I’ll leave.”
“Keep your word and you will live to see the rest of your days. Stay or seek out more information and you will lose everything. Go to the police and we will find you or someone you care for and exact revenge. I will give you this one chance because we are friends. And we will be watching you to make sure you keep your word. The war has found your shores, my friend. We’ll be watching.” The Imam and his thugs leave me and drive off.
I sit and hold my side. I wait for the pain to subside. Anger fills my soul, bringing thoughts of evil. I’ve dealt with thugs before. Neighborhood dealers and thieves. This is different. This is a man of God! Threatening me! I’ve never felt so violated and upset in my entire life. I pray that the anger that wells up in my soul will not swallow me whole. My cell is smashed, but still works. I call a cab. Moments later a sedan marked in familiar yellow pulls up next to me. I practically throw my ole’ bones in the back seat.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
I give him my church’s address.
As the cab enters my street I see crowds gathering and pointing. The cab pushes through them and approaches my church. It’s ablaze. Towers of flame crawl up the steeple. Black smoke pours from broken windows. The cab stops to allow a fire truck to pass.
“Can’t go further, sir,” the cabbie says. “Sir?”
I can’t move. I can’t look away.
“Twelve fifty, sir,” the cabbie says impatiently. Eventually he speaks again, “The meter is still running, sir,” he says. I make no movement or sound.
“Take me home, please,” I mutter, then give him the address.
“Ah, finally, he speaks!”
The night comes. I’m still in my home office. Strangely, I don’t feel any sadness. I’m angry. I uncork a small bottle of vodka hidden in my desk and take a swig. The warmth in my throat distracts me. It was Benjamin Franklin that once said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Or something like that. He should have included vodka. I take another swig. I know the reason God lets evil exist. I know He wants us to choose, to earn our seats in Heaven. But I wonder if there might be another way for us to earn our stripes. I’d build a pyramid, or a city of gold for you, God. If only you’d deliver me from pain and sadness.
The next day I take my wife and seek refuge at my cousin’s house in Birmingham, Alabama. I choose to not tell anyone about Ramid or his secret war. I didn’t know exactly what he was speaking of anyway, but I think of little else.
Weeks go by. Marian, my lovely wife, eases my anger with her touch and kindness. My old parishioners do a fine job cheering me up. I get handfuls of letters. The insurance will pay to rebuild the church. I haven’t told my wife that I cannot return to New York. I don’t even know if I’ll be a preacher anymore. It’s so hard to keep going. It’s hard to think about anything else but my hate for Ramid. It burns my soul. I can’t sleep at night. I feel the devil at my doorstep.
Someone should have told Ramid that secrets only beget curiosity. I try to ignore the fax about the Stone of Allah. I try to forget his evil words. But he’s at war. He chose his side and I’m on the other side. What’s so special about a stone that they would mount a campaign to erase its existence? Who told Ramid to threaten my life and my family? Who gave the order to burn my church? There must be a damning reason they don’t want Christians to know about the Stone of Allah. There’s a reason I’m a threat even though I’m ten thousand miles away from Mecca.
I take a cab to the other side of Birmingham and end up at a cyber cafe. I use a gift card to pay for the Internet connection. I can’t explain my paranoia, but I believed Ramid when he said they were watching me. If this is a war, I need to know, and I’ll take every precaution I can to protect myself and my wife. I look up the Stone of Allah online. I find nothing. I don’t really have much experience with this online stuff. What I need is a library, a big, old library.
The sun rises and I leap out of bed. My wife watches me pack a bag. She doesn’t say a word. I feel a determination I’d not felt in years. I tell her, simply, that I need to seek some answers and that I would tell her everything when I return. Worryingly, she accepts.
The fax I saw said the Vatican has records on the Stone of Allah. Finding those records before they are gone is a top priority. It will explain the war Ramid is fighting and ease my mind.
I am at the airport an hour later. I buy a ticket to Rome with cash and board a plane to Italy.
Chapter 1.5
Isabella Torrioni:
2 Days After the Extinction Event
It takes New York two days to completely unravel. The Big Apple falls from the tree and now rots in the grass. Everyone is getting sick with some kind of flu. Crowds as big as New Years at Times Square flood the streets. And just like a fucking tsunami, they sweep from street to street, burning, trashing, fighting, yelling, and crying.
I watch it all from the safety of my apartment window. Across the street some dude stands at his window and stares like it’s the Macy’s Day Parade or somethin’. We see each other, lock eyes for a minute. He’s thinkin’ the same thing as me, This is fucked up. I am thinking one thing he’s not. Part of this is my fault.
People run down the street by the hundreds, no thousands. Shit is goin’ down and I am not prepared. No food or water. I can’t have that. I run down the empty stairwell and into the madness on the street.
The market is at the corner, but the door is clogged with people. I sock a guy in the gut and force myself through the jam. Inside, the store is already trashed. Cans roll around, some are smashed, spreading out their contents. Soda and jui
ces make the floor slippery.
The smokes and booze are totally gone. I grab some bread and a jar of peanut butter and some pads then make my way to the med aisle. Some shithead is stuffing his pack, clearing the whole shelf. He’s got bloodshot eyes and snot dripping into his goatee. I grab his beige shirt and slam him against the cooler door. He coughs up goop and burbles something incoherent. I reach into his bag. He struggles so I elbow him in the nose. That stops him. I grab aspirin and acetaminophen and let go. He falls to his knees. I got what I need. When I turn I see an old man sheltering his wife from some thugs in do-rags. The old man hands them all his shit. I push my way out.
The street is still a flood of people heading upstate. They don’t stop. The cars have long been abandoned and people run around and over them. Dead bodies are already spotting the ground like the sprinkles before the rain. Many have been trampled.
Hours later the sprinkles turn into showers. People drop where they stand. They fall from buildings, roll down steps, or simply cough, until all the breath has left their lungs.
And the shitty thing is, I’d just earned a half a million dollars. If I wasn’t able to collect, I was gonna bash someone’s face in, just to make me feel better.
It gets dark and I’m hiding out on the roof of my building. So are a dozen others. We see jet fighters overhead drop bombs where the bridges are. They shake the ground with their ordinance. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. It’s too dark to see anything from the edge of my twenty-story building. The wind fuels the chaos and whips up distant cries and screams. It’s nearly midnight. The power is out all over, but fires keep the skyline alive. Half of the group on the roof leaves when it’s clear that everyone is getting sick.
A large woman lumbers up to me. She’s dying. I can tell. I step away from her. “Do you have any pain killers?” She asks.
6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 Page 4