6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1

by Anderson Atlas

  “Government’s gotta have a quarantine line set up,” Ben slurs. He takes a pull from his flask. “I made myself a bacon and potato burrito just a bit ago.”

  “Precooked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take me there,” I order lightly. “I’m starved.”

  “Me too. I think there’s enough for a few more burritos.”

  I have a huge question on my mind, but not sure how to ask. Finally, I just spit it out, “Do you know why you’re not sick?”

  Ben’s face reddens. He looks at me for a moment then looks away. “I must be immune or something.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I lie.

  We walk down the street that surrounds Central Park until we make it to the northwest corner. I see the Fredrick’s round-a-bout. My stomach growls, reminding me of my dire need for food. “I can’t take the hunger. I’m stopping for a snack.”

  There’s a BP gas station on the other side of the round-a-bout. Cars are bumper to bumper under the canopy. People had been trying to fill up before getting out of town. They never had a chance. I pass a blue Volkswagen that had driven up on the curb between the two pumps trying to fit in between a truck and a motorcycle. The motorcycle driver had lain down next to his bike with the gas handle still in his hands. He is wearing a brown leather jacket, jeans, has bright red hair, and is lying in a puddle of gasoline. The driver of the blue station wagon is an older woman who’s slumped in the front seat of her car. In the back seat are the bodies of two children, a girl around eight laid across the back seat holding her younger brother in her arms. They are so still. I choke on my own spit then run to the store, feeling a wave of anxiety fill my head. I fling open the door to the convenient store and hold it open for Ben. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to burn away the image of the two kids from my mind. The image will stay with me until the end of time.

  Sadness fills my body. I feel the darkness all around me. It seems to enter my body through my skin. The sadness spreads all the way to my toes. My whole body disappears. Somehow I become the sadness. I feel so much shame and want to die. My mind fogs over as I lock myself in a prison of utter regret. What did I do? I cry like I’d never cried before. Sob after sob erupts from me as I slide to the floor, covering my face and hands. I’m ashamed to be walking, to be alive, when those two kids have died. No one will know why this happened, except me and Zilla. I hate knowing what I know.

  When my outburst subsides like the tidal wave always does, I take deep breaths and open my eyes. Ben is at the other end of the store, grabbing beer and chips. Why is he immune? What’s so special about him? Some drunk is spared but not those kids? It doesn’t seem fair. I feel the burning desire to kill Zilla with my own hands. I want to rip his throat out with my fingers. I want to kick him so hard he would bleed inside and die a slow, painful death. He didn’t tell me this would happen, but I can’t blame it all on Zilla. Unintended consequences do not absolve me from guilt. I released the virus into a population. The choice and the consequences are mine.

  Ben walks up to me with this kid-in-a-candy-store look on his face. His arms overflow with booze and junk food. He notices my tears and he lets his smile drop. His eyes grow wide and his skin turns white. I’m confused by his reaction. Never seen a person cry? Did he not feel the sadness that is everywhere?

  Ben drops the beer and the food. Without taking his eyes off me he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his revolver. The tip of the gun shakes wildly.

  I raise my hands. “What’re you doing, man?” I say, getting nervous. He doesn’t answer. I duck to the side. Ben doesn’t move. He is pointing his gun at the front door where I had been.

  On the other side of the glass stands one of the dead bodies we’d just passed. It is the motorcycle guy. He looks normal in his leather jacket and worn jeans, but his face is white and pasty. His eyes are gone. Instead, his sockets are filled with white parasitical tentacles. They spill from his shrunken eyelids like they are birthing baby octopuses. A dark blue, almost black liquid pours from his ears.

  A large chunk of his hair has fallen out leaving a white piece of his scull exposed. His clumsy arms reach up and awkwardly push the door open.

  Ben shakes and can’t speak. The door opens a crack. The motorcycle guy flops his arm and works his way inside the store. He seems to be looking right at Ben even though he has no eyes. He takes a step toward Ben. Ben retreats a step. I run to the guy, grab his shoulder, and spin him away from Ben. I touch him for only a millisecond like he is a hot pan on a stove. The guy stumbles off balance and falls on his butt.

  “Are you okay, man?” I ask.

  “What the fuck is wrong with him, Ian?” Ben yells. “No, really!?”

  The man clumsily stands and reaches out for me. He manages to moan a gurgling sound. I take a step back. Ben fires. Boom! The slug hits the guy in the head. Half of his skull explodes from the .45 caliber round. A thick white root flops out of his skull and hangs limply. His body continues to move toward us. The white root twitches then shrinks back into his skull. As it recedes it pushes out a mass of brain matter, which splatters on the floor.

  Ben fires again. This time the shell hits the man’s chest. Dark blue liquid pours out of the hole. His body moves toward us, one step at a time. I back into a rack of chewing gum and knock it over. The clatter startles me.

  “What the hell is going on!?” Ben yells. He fires again into the walking corpse. “This dude’s a zombie or some bullshit like that!”

  As soon as Ben yells ‘zombie’ my brain kicks a ton of adrenaline into my body. I turn and grab the nearest mobile rack near me, a wire potato chip stand. I raise it over my head and bring it down on top of the motorcycle guy. He, or it, I should say, reaches for me, but I stay just beyond his grasp.

  “Over here, dude!” Ben holds the door to the cooler open. I turn and shove the thing into the cooler and Ben slams the door shut.

  My heart jumps around in my body, making me feel ill. I sit down to catch my breath. Ben shuffles to the front door and looks outside. “I’ve been thinking I’m in some game show. Must be good special effects. Shit, can they make it that real? I blew his fucking head off man! Can that be faked? Am I hooked up to a machine or something? Maybe this is virtual reality.” Ben droned on and on. I had to tune him out.

  “Zombies,” I state. “Don’t exist. It’s impossible to reanimate dead tissue. Totally impossible. That’s just movie stuff.” I look at the cooler’s handle, making sure it won’t open. The thing is banging around inside knocking over bottles of soda and juice.

  “Don’t exist, huh? Just look outside.” Ben points out the door glass.

  I run to the door. The woman in the blue Volkswagen has climbed out the broken window and I see movement in the back of the station wagon. “Zombies,” I mumble.

  Lightning whips around the dark clouds and thunder follows. It starts raining. Now I see movement all over the place. They are moving behind a wrecked truck on the round-a-bout, over by the park’s brick wall, and by the gas station garage.

  “I don’t feel so good, dude,” Ben mumbles. He turns and throws up on the magazine rack by the door. He really heaves. I feel sympathetically nauseous and look away.

  I can’t stand it. I can’t just watch this happen. It’s straight out of a horror movie, re-animated dead bodies. A sharp pain rips at my heart as I watch those dead kids move around in their car. “Fuck,” I snap.

  I pull my huge pack on, fling the door open, and run. Ben follows. It is hard to run with my pack. I pass by a body that slowly tries to get to its feet. “Bullshit!” I yell.

  As I slog through the rain I get wet but don’t care. The clouds are as dark as oil and a mile high. This storm is about to get bad. I round the garage corner and slide my pack off. In the middle pocket is my lighter. “Stay right here,” I order Ben, then run back to the gas pumps.

  The woman who had climbed out of her station wagon limps toward me. The broken glass on her car window has cut her arms the entire length, but
it isn’t red that pours from her wounds, it’s blue. She looks right at me with those root-filled eye sockets. Not zombies. Fucking aliens or something.

  Thankfully, she is slow and stiff, slow enough for me to run around her and continue to the gas pump. I bend down to the puddle of gasoline that had pooled under the motorcycle and light it on fire. I run back to Ben, screaming, “RUN!” We take off down 110th Street, which borders Central Park.

  Seconds later, the gas station’s holding tank explodes. The sound of the blast deafens me. When I’m far enough away, I slow down and look over my shoulder. A fireball rises along the red brick building that blocks our view of the gas station. I stop and catch my breath.

  I wipe rain from my eyes and face. There’s movement everywhere.

  “What the hell are you stopping for?” Ben yells. He stops running just ahead of me.

  I run back toward the gas station, stopping at the corner of the red brick building to peek around the edge. Ben catches up with me. I whisper, “I have to see.”

  I can see the explosion damage. The woman has been thrown into the middle of the round-a-bout, her clothes on fire. She has stopped moving. The rain will put her fire out, but the gas fire still flickering from the rubble might burn for days. A chemical stench enters my nose and irritates my lungs. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt collar.

  Over by the pumps, the station wagon now sits on its roof in the middle of the road. A small arm hangs out of the back seat, black as tar, and still. I look away, not wanting to see any more. There are a few other burning vehicles with nothing moving inside them. “Looks like fire works better than bullets,” I say to Ben.

  A smile surfaces and he nods, “Nice work, Commando.”

  “Don’t celebrate just yet,” I begin. “There are ten million zombies waking up.”

  Ben looks around. “Fine, I won’t smack your ass just yet. But don’t call ’em zombies. It’s too damn weird. This is something else.”

  “Walkers then,” I say. Then I take off running. Another explosion rocks the ground under our feet. I run harder, feeling lucky that it didn’t blow up in my face. I turn on Seventh Avenue. Ben follows. I’m in decent shape, but with sixty pounds on my back I feel like a sloth. I have to slow down.

  Ben is gasping for breath. “Let’s walk, please. I’m a fat bastard, you know.”

  At the corner of One Hundred and Eleventh Street and Seventh Avenue a black man in a dark grey suit stands. He is older, bald, and has a thin grey beard. He stands in the middle of the road with his arms out as if he’s waiting for death to sweep him up and take him to heaven.

  Ten, no, eleven walkers approach him from the buildings. He sees me and Ben approach. I recognize him. “Hey,” I say to Ben. “That’s Markus Coburn. My father’s company rebuilt his church after it was burned to the ground. The new church was the largest one built in New York in over fifty years. Pretty cool building too. They spared no expense.”

  “I’ve seen that church. Damn huge.”

  Markus picks up a baseball bat that had been leaning against his leg.

  Ben yells as I run to Markus, “What are you doing, dude? There’s, like, a million fuckers! I only have two bullets left and they don’t do shit!”

  Markus kicks a walker away from him just as he swings his bat into the skull of another one. His baseball bat is already soaked with blue goop.

  I think I’m being helpful, but in minutes walkers surround us. They grab at me and try to rip me apart. Their hands are so strong. A young gangster walker with long braids bundled in a do-rag grabs my collar and pulls me close to his face. He screams a shrill cry. His eyes are gone, replaced with those moving white roots. Markus pulls him off me and beats him with his bat until the head caves in. I push a walker away. A group of them stumble backward, locked together by proximity. I break from the crowd with Markus’ help and we run, with Ben close behind.

  Everyone that had died days ago is getting up and attacking us. It’s surreal. I’m confused. I try not to think about the past, and instead focus on staying alive.

  While we’re running, Markus says, “Thank you, young man. I’m out of my game. My name is Markus. And who are you?” There is no fear in his eyes. There isn’t confusion. He’s a rock. I guess he thinks God has his back.

  “Ian,” I answer. I’m glad I ran into him.

  “You look familiar,” Markus replies. “I know your father!” He realizes. “Did good work on my church! Yes, I knew him well. And his team. He’s got photos of you on his desk.”

  “Had,” I reply. Unfazed, Markus doesn’t answer. He knows what I meant.

  “I’m Ben.” My companion is so out of breath he’s hardly understandable. “Got an extra baseball bat? Or a flame thrower?”

  “Sorry, son,” Markus answers.

  We continue jogging, soaked by the rain. I’m glad for it. It keeps me cool. Unfortunately, I know it is going to get worse.

  A couple of blocks later I hear gun shots behind us. They are rapid-fire shots. I hope it’s the Marines or the Army or someone coming to help us. I’m wrong, again.

  Chapter 1.13

  Isabella:

  I step up to some crazy lookin’ thing that used to be human. Now it’s just a headless body covered in blue shit or somethin’. It walks right up to me with an attitude. I notice ten or so dead people around me now. They look beaten and badly broken. They struggle to move, not like people, but like smashed puppets on strings. There’s something under their skin, slithering and twisting.

  I nest my assault riffle in my shoulder and pump a few rounds into the puppet in front of me. It doesn’t go down. This has gotta be a joke. Maybe I’m seeing shit. I flip the rifle’s automatic switch and pull the trigger hard. I unload the entire clip into the crowd stumbling toward me, but they keep comin’. Puppets stream onto the street from alleys, buildings, and cars.

  I click the safety on and sling the rifle over my shoulder. I grip my Beater Stick with both hands. It’s time to get some aggression out. I run at the group of puppet people, swingin’. I land my Beater on the head of some dopey lookin’ woman. Then I jab the next sucker in the throat. My Beater easily pushes through the soft tissue and gets stuck. I pull it free and spin to strike the headless fool across his knees. That takes him down.

  It feels good. My muscles vibrate like guitar strings. I turn and punch puppet flesh with everything I got. The air fills with screams weirder than anything I’ve ever heard before. The background blurs as I spin and fight. The blood is blue, not red, and it splashes on me. I taste bitterness on my tongue. I stab and bash. I’m on fire. I feel a burn in my muscles that makes me feel strong, stronger than any man, and stronger than these puppets. I dominate the fight. I’m different than most. I’m a warrior.

  When the headless guy comes at me again I realize these bastards aren’t stayin’ down. One of the bodies I’d taken down grabs my ankle. I try to pull free, but fall. The hand squeezes my ankle, breaking the skin. My stick catches something. Then my right arm is grabbed and torn into. I scream. Another hand grabs at my upper leg and tries to tear my jeans. Something grabs my hair. Shit, shit, shit.

  I’m held. Time dilates as I notice a white worm-like creature as big as my middle finger slink up my arm. It’s tacky and leaves a slimy trail. I look up and a worm slithers out of the nose of some lady. It lands on my shirt and starts moving up to my face.

  That’s when I hear a motor fire up. It sounds like a small chainsaw. My vision blurs from rain or that blue shit they’re bleeding. I struggle, but can’t get free. More worms fall on me. They’re trying to get inside me!

  The motor sound revs and idles, then revs up again. I feel liquid splash all over me. Finally, I get one hand free. The Beater is mine again. I jab and swing. I can’t see with all the blood and blue stuff in my eyes. I blink furiously. I get my left hand back, finally. The chainsaw revs again. My leg is free. I slip away from the puppets and crawl.

  I wipe my face until I can see. Then I furiously slap away th
e worms that were crawling on me. Shivers assault me. The things were trying to climb into my body through any available opening. UGH!

  When I’m sure I’m worm free I see my savior. He’s a thin boy with a white medical mask covering his nose and mouth. He is chopping at one of the puppets with a small electric chainsaw. He has thick, curly, dark brown hair and thick glasses. He turns to me and extends his hand.

  I grab his hand and stand up. He’s taller than me, but scrawny. He looks like the typical gamer dork who plays video games until the sun comes up. He sports a Ghostbusters shirt and very tight jeans. I don’t care if he’s a dork. He just saved my life.

  He holds on to my hand and helps me run. Pain tears through my ankle, my arm, and waist. As I run I feel more cuts and bruises. Those bastards almost tore me limb from limb. I stop and notice one last worm crawling on me. I slap at it until it’s gone.

  “See any more white things?! The fuck if any of those things are gonna bore into my skin.”

  “Or crawl into your ear hole.” The guy looks me over. “I don’t see any more.”

  I don’t scare easily, but that freaked me out. “They looked smart. Tapeworms with brains.”

  “Didn’t have eyes but they could see. They’ve completely taken over their host bodies.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. It was obvious the people were totally gone. My mind is having a hard time accepting the whole walking dead crap. It’s like trying to fit a metric wrench on a standard inch bolt; it doesn’t work. Fuckin’ things are more like an alien invasion or something. Body snatchers.

  More puppets emerge from the buildings, cars, and alleyways. They’re slow, which makes me feel better. I hobble along, forcing my brain to ignore my injuries.

  “You’re welcome. My name is Josh,” he says quietly.

  “I had it covered,” I snarl at the boy. He looks away.