6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1

by Anderson Atlas

  “Where are you headed?” Josh asks.

  I shrug, “What’s it to you?”

  “I can help you get out of the city,” he says shyly. He’s obviously looking for company.

  “I don’t need help.” I’m reluctant to let him tag along, but then I look at my ankle. There are two large sections of skin that were ripped off, exposing my muscle. “Fine, you can shadow me, but I move fast.” I sit on the bottom step of an apartment building then tear a piece of cloth from my shirt. I wrap it around my ankle and cinch it tight.

  Josh points at my ankle. “Even with that?”

  “Just watch me.”

  We start walking. Pain tears up my leg with every step, but I’m good at ignoring pain. It isn’t too hard; you just have to focus on something else. You have to close off the pain, lock it up and move on. I pick up speed. Josh keeps up. We rush past more and more puppets, and around the next block I look behind me. They’re following us. Damn.

  Josh slows. I can tell he’s out of shape. He’s also whiter than white. He either doesn’t get outside much or his pigment has high-tailed it out of his skin. After a few blocks I have to slow even more. A shot of pain bursts out of my calf muscle. I reach out and grab Josh’s shoulder for support. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  “So, you didn’t get sick?” he asks me.

  “Neither did you,” I snip back.

  “I’ve got a condition,” he starts. He still has his medical mask on.

  “You don’t say.”

  “I’m afraid of germs. When it became obvious people were dying from infection I sealed my apartment with tape and plastic,” he says. “But then people started coming alive. I knew I couldn’t stay locked in my apartment anymore. I saw you needed help.”

  He’s so proud of himself it makes me ill. “Told you, I don’t need help.”

  “Yeah, okay. I just wanted to help. I haven’t seen anyone in days. Well, besides some gangsters. And I did see a tank or something come through with a handful of mean-looking guys.”

  “Yeah, I saw those fools too.” Josh reminds me of a guy I was with in Iraq. He was smaller though, but he had the same look on his face. Smart, but not too smart. Anyway, Josh isn’t all macho or always starin’ at my tits so I’m okay with him.

  We move quickly down Seventh Street like we’re late for a court date. It’s raining hard, but I like it. It washes all the blue shit off me and out of my hair. I know we’ll get to the river soon, but I have no idea what I’m going to do after that.

  Chapter 1.14

  Tanis:

  We’re in North Harlem and I’m getting tired of walking. Hana agreed we need shelter, and she’s running around looking for a safe place. Most everyone locked their doors when the shit started going down. Finally, she returns and leads me down a side street to a half-open roll-up door. We duck underneath.

  It’s a metal workshop where they make gates, balconies, and security bars for windows. The building is quiet and there are no dead bodies around. She tries to close the roll-up door, but it’s jammed. “This is out of the way. So I think we’ll be safe here.”

  We pass a large open floor space with worktables and racks and racks of gates and metal bars. She goes to a lobby door. It’s open. “I just need to make sure the front door is secure.”

  I follow her. Windows run the length of the front wall and there’s a glass door, all of which are covered with decorative security bars. Looks pretty secure to me.

  I stop next to a gumball machine and stare out the window into the gloomy day. Normally, there’d be people walking by or the sound of horns or garbage trucks. Nothing. There are a dozen cars on the street, bumper to bumper and as still as stones. Some of the cars have dead people inside, and bodies litter the sidewalk as close to each other as stepping-stones.

  “I miss the sound of cars,” I say. “The sound of a normal day.”

  Hana stands next to me. “I don’t. I kind of like the quiet. The sounds that I like are long gone.”

  “What sounds are those?”

  “I like the sound of old trains; the hiss of their steam engines. I also miss the sounds at a cafe, or the clinks of china at a fancy meal, where everyone is so engrossed in what they’re eating they’ve forgotten how to speak. I haven’t heard any of those sounds in a while.”

  “You’re not eighty years old. Since when did you hear old trains?”

  She breathes deep and closes her eyes. I can tell she’s going far away, back into the younger parts of her brain. “My new parents used to take me on upstate train tours. The trains were classic steam engines. They’d take us into Canada and back, through some of the most beautiful forests. I’d never been so happy.”

  I turn from the window, not wanting to see outside anymore. Constantly seeing dead bodies keeps my chest tight and my stomach sour.

  The roll-up door we’d entered through rattles loudly. Someone enters our hideout. I fall to my knees and crawl to the cover of the front counter. Hana pulls her gun and heads for the lobby door. She’s too late. The door crashes inward and people funnel inside. Hana’s caught out in the open!

  “Fuck, man. We got’s us a little lady hidden in here!” I can’t see them from behind the counter, and they can’t see me either.

  “Drop your weapons, guys. Tell me what you want. I don’t have anything here, but what I found is yours. Let me show you where my stuff is.” Hana tips up her gun’s muzzle and opens her fingers. She moves toward the men. I can’t see her anymore. My chest tightens further and every breath feels like breathing through a straw.

  I hear her yelp and the lobby door slams shut. I listen, but their voices are muffled. There’s no way I’m standing by while they attack her! Staying crouched, I move around the counter and to the factory door. It’s metal, but has a small window in the center. I peek.

  Three men stand in front of her, holding National Guard issued rifles, but they’re not Guard. Hana is on her knees with her fingers laced around her head. I see her glance toward me. One guy dumps my backpack out on the floor and kicks my shit around. Bastard!

  “You said you got something for us.”

  “She’s got somethin’ for each of us, that’s for sure.” The guy touches his long goatee like he was stroking a cat’s tail.

  “No way, man. Look at her pants, her belt, her shoes. She a cop! We gotta get gone,” says a man with a baseball hat.

  The short one moves to the roll-up door that leads outside. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  “Look around! There ain’t a cop for a hundred miles. No soldiers either. They blew the bridges and the subway tunnels. They left us here to die. They left her, too.”

  The man in the hat joins the short one at the exit. “This is fucked up. I ain’t staying.” The two duck out and are gone. The remaining guy steps closer to Hana. He’s got her gun trained on her. “So you’re the po-po? I guess this is my lucky day,” he says, and his hand goes for his belt. “Get on your back.”

  Hana lies down.

  I can’t watch this. I have to do something. My asthma kicks in and I choke. My inhaler is in my bag! I fall to my hands and knees. How can I help? I’m just a kid, a nerd! My vision gets dark at the edges like I’m looking into a spyglass.

  And in that small circle of light I see metal rod samples for gates and balconies. Without a moment’s hesitation I grab the black, metal bar and return to the door. I open it carefully. My lungs are tight and I can’t breathe well, but some air gets in, enough to keep me from blacking out.

  The guy straddles Hana and tries to get her pants undone while cramming his gun into her cheek. “I’ve got a bullet with your name on it, cop, unless you stay nice and still.”

  I run at him and plunge the metal bar into the back of his head. The bar pushes into the brain surprisingly easy. “Ahhhh!” I back off. The guy twitches and drops the gun. Hana pushes off the ground and the guy falls. She takes one look at him, then me, and runs to me.

  “Can’t, breathe.” I fall to the floor and curl int
o a ball.

  Hana finds my stuff, rifles through it until she finds my inhaler. I take a few puffs and feel the air fill my body. She pulls me onto her lap and hugs me hard. “It’s okay. You did good. You did what you had to. You saved me, twice. You can stop now. How about I save you next time? ”

  I chuckle weakly. “I couldn’t let him do that to you.”

  “We’re all predators. Only, some of us are cannibals, too. Those are the ones we have to watch out for.” From the inside of her boot she pulls out a four inch fixed blade, sharp on both sides. “Don’t think for a second I was going down without a fight. I was just waiting for my moment.” She winks at me.

  “I . . . never killed anyone before.” I wipe blood splatters from my face and feel dizzy.

  “I’m glad. But don’t worry, self defense doesn’t make you a monster. It only makes you stronger.” She helps me clean my face and hands with water from my bag.

  I know she’s right. I saved her, and I saved myself.

  We sit in silence for a while. Hana keeps looking toward the door. “We have to move. This is not safe. Those guys might come looking for their friend.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “We need to get across the river,” Hana says. “That means if we don’t want to swim it, we need to find a boat.”

  “I think I’d rather find a boat,” I say.

  Hana nods. She snaps her fingers, looking excited. “I know where there’s a boat.”

  “Hudson River has docks,” I interrupt.

  She shakes her head. “Too big. Those boats are electronic. Dead in the water. Plus, there was so much panic, we’d probably have a hard time finding a boat left on our side of the Hudson. No, there’s a nice boathouse just north of here in a place called Swindler’s Cove. It’s gotta have a row boat.”

  “We’re gonna have to row?” I complain.

  “Either that or swim,” Hana repeats. “It’s only four hundred feet or so.” She stands and shuffles over to the small window on the garage door and looks out. “I think we can find a boat. I’ve seen Columbia University rowboats on the river hundreds of times, and I think they dock those boats at Swindler’s Cove. It’s worth a shot anyway.”

  We head out. It shouldn’t take us more than a few hours to get there. It’s hot again like yesterday. The sun burns my neck, and it’s bright. More and more I want out of this city. The air smells foul. The bodies we pass are swelling with stink and they look weird. Some even look like roots are covering them. I feel wound up and on the verge of freaking out the whole morning. I’m hungry and sick to my stomach at the same time. I just want to go home.

  The highway is empty now, exposed, like bones after vultures pick off the meat. Up ahead is a plane crash. It is a huge passenger plane half buried in the asphalt. Concrete Jersey barriers ripped off one wing. Stillness surrounds the plane, forgotten, along with everything else. As we get closer I expect to see the emergency hatches open and slides inflated on either side, but there are no open doors. No slides. No one got out alive. Maybe they didn’t let themselves out. If they knew they were all sick maybe they tried to contain the bug inside the plane as an attempt to save everyone else. Maybe. It must have been hard to do. I would have wanted to throw the doors open and hit pavement.

  We get closer and I see blood splattered in the cockpit windows. I can’t think about it anymore. I’m fucking sick. The road is barren, empty. These roads were filled twenty-four hours a day. It’s so quiet I can’t stand it. It makes me nervous and jumpy. There’s smoke in the sky from colossal fires gorging themselves on overflowing platters of empty buildings. No one’s around to stop them.

  We cut across a parking lot to an apartment complex. We pass clusters of dead bodies, like everyone huddled before they died. It’s like those holocaust videos they made us watch in history class. It makes my stomach grind on itself. When I see the blank faces of the dead I want to freak out, to run somewhere dark and quiet. I want to climb into a CAT5 Ethernet cable and find the nearest server. Then I’d cozy up to some funny YouTube vids. Yesterday seemed easier than today. Being stuck inside that duct seems easier. I can’t even wish I was somewhere else. That would take some kind of clarity, which I don’t have at all. My head tumbles on itself and feels heavy. My eyes burn. I’m firmly stuck in that Blue Screen of Death error mode PC’s find themselves in. I grab Hana’s hand and hold it.

  That’s when I notice something strange. There are bodies on the rooftops of the buildings and they’re hanging out of windows. Why go to the roof if you’re sick? Or hang out your window? It doesn’t make sense. They’re clustered in dog piles, frozen, but not quite still. Tears roll down my cheeks. This is a lot of dead people. When will the death stop? Did my Ma make it? Are people dying outside of New York Island too? I’m glad sweat is pouring from my forehead so that Hana can’t see my tears.

  We follow Harlem River Drive because it parallels the River. We pass the Kennedy Bridge. It’s blown to pieces. All the bridges, 3rd, 138th, 145th, Alexander Hamilton and the George Washington Bridge. My feet hurt badly. Hana says we’ve walked over ten miles. I can’t remember when I’ve walked so far. The river is narrow here, but I can’t swim it. It freaks me out thinking about jumping in. Aren’t there mutant river monsters in there waiting for me?

  Finally, we reach Swindler’s Cove. We follow the road that leads to a security gate. Beyond the gate is a shiny new aluminum bridge that leads to a floating pier and a much larger boathouse. The boathouse is two stories, freshly painted blue with yellow trim, and has bright red doors. It looks nice and new. Hana checks the security gate. It swings open.

  After we pass through the security gate, Hana closes it and ties it shut with a wire. “If there are looters, this might slow them down,” she says.

  We continue down the aluminum walkway and then move onto the wood dock.

  “What happened to all the boats?” I ask.

  Hana points to the other side of the river. “Looks like people took them in the panic before everyone started dying.”

  There are ten or so boats clustered on the opposite shore from the boathouse. Hana moves to the boathouse at the end of the pier. She breaks the window to the main office and enters the building. The house is floating on the water and moves after every step. The bottom of the building is a storehouse for the boats, and the top floor is a lobby or something. There’s only one boat inside the storehouse. It’s a wooden boat sitting upside down on construction A-frames.

  Hana eyes the boat for a while. “Damn.” She moves around the suspended vessel. “If we take this boat out it’ll sink. There’s a hole the size of my fist.”

  “Can we patch it?”

  “Epoxy should seal it. But we’d have to stay an extra day or so until the glue dries.”

  “Fine by me.” It feels good to get out from under the sun. I find a towel in a locker and dry the sweat off my forehead. We spend the rest of the afternoon patching the hole with this putty stuff Hana found in a locker. After a couple hours we paint the patch with a blue epoxy sealant.

  Hana inspects the work while eating M&Ms and then gets the idea to make a smiley face with the candy in thick sealant. She pushes the last M&M into the smile. “That should do it. Give us a little good luck.” She winks at me.

  I laugh and add crazy eyebrows to the smiley face. She elbows me lightly. Hana is a cool chick and funny too. Which is weird for a girl — I mean, a woman. Even weirder for a cop.

  We walk upstairs to check out the building. There’s a meeting room, a bathroom, and two other rooms that are locked. I guess they’re storerooms or something. Hana bashes the handle off one door and peeks inside. It’s a room with a couch and a TV. It must be a lounge or a waiting room. The other room is locked with a deadbolt. She gives up trying to force it open. Probably has something of value, like life-vests or keys or a motor or something. No big deal. We’re gonna be out tomorrow anyway.

  “I got the couch,” I declare, as though I’m staking out a room in a new house.r />
  Hana gives me a crooked look. “You’re gonna let the lady sleep on the floor? Some gentleman you are.”

  I chuckle, feeling hot in my face. “Sorry, I guess you can have the couch.”

  She walks by and pushes me. “I’m kidding. You take the couch. You’re a kid, and that beats the woman trump card.” She looks me up and down for a second. “What are you, like ten?” She laughs.

  “I’m fifteen.” My face burns. “I’m short. That’s all. I haven’t hit my growth spurt yet.”

  She laughs then winks at me. I’ll forgive her for that one. The sun sets behind dark storm clouds, as dark as fire’s smoke. A storm is coming from the sea. It’s going to get really dark soon. I’m glad we’re inside.

  Hana snoops around while I sit on the couch, wishing I had my laptop or a tablet. Later, she starts cheering in the back room. I run to her.

  She’s head first in a crawl space in the back of the closet. “They got an old generator in here! If this thing is properly grounded it should have survived the EMP blast. It’s just a simple diesel engine.” She removes a case cover on the front of the generator and hands it to me. “See these wires?”

  I get on all fours and tuck myself as close to her as possible.

  “They run down the inner walls to the frame of the boathouse.”

  “A ground wire?” I clarify.

  “Yes. Good,” she says. “Plus, this cage is lined with insulation that keeps the sound down. Perfect insulation from the EMP.” She flicks a fuel line switch and then the starter switch. The motor fires up. She cheers again like a little girl.

  We have electricity! She’s still paranoid about looters, so we shut the blinds tight and only keep one light on. She dims the lamp by hanging a towel over it.

  Hana and I get hungry, so we try the stove. It doesn’t work. She lifts the lid of the stove. I can see that the stove regulates heat with a simple circuit on the control panel — a fried control panel. I take the lead on this one. I’d built some cool electronic kits when I was younger. I pull out the wires from the circuit and touch them together lightly. Sparks fly, fed by the generator power. Hana disconnects the plug, and I connect the wires directly to the burner.