6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1

by Anderson Atlas

  We are almost to the other side when Rice screams, “There are more on this side!”

  Heads pop up from behind the trees and the bushes that conceal Roberto Clemente State Park.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” Ben yells as he rocks the boat heavily.

  “Sit the fuck down!” Isabella snaps.

  “Christ be with us! There are too many to land here.” Markus presses his forehead to his Bible.

  “So we follow the river. Find a different place to dock,” I reply. The boat turns as we row back to the middle of the river and head up stream.

  “This is technically not a river. It’s more like a canal. It rises and falls with the tide,” Josh says through his mask. “We’re going north, so I guess the tide is rising.”

  “I can swim faster than this,” Ben complains.

  “No you can’t,” Isabella retorts.

  Ben stands. He looks like he is going to snap, so I stop rowing. “Relax,” I tell him. He sits back down. “No one can swim this for very long. We don’t even have life vests.”

  From both sides of the river the infected people leap into the water. Thankfully, they can’t swim. When their heads drop under the water, they don’t come back up.

  “Dock over there,” Markus suggests from behind me.

  There’s a rocky point on the shore where there are no walkers. Ian and I pull hard on the oars and angle the boat toward the open spot. When we get close, a walker stumbles from the bushes and throws itself at us. More of them gather and rush toward us like an avalanche of gnashing teeth and jagged broken fingernails. I quickly count over twenty people heading toward us. A dozen we can handle, but this is a lot. I see more moving around in the bushes. My heart hurts my chest. I’ve only experienced this feeling while in a riot a few years back. It got scary. There was so much energy. We could barely contain the mob, and we had thirty cops with us.

  I recount the walkers. Fifty, at least. And there are more coming.

  “Back, back, back!” Ben yells.

  There’s a realization that seems to blow through all our bodies. Our little trip across the river has failed. We can’t land because we’re floating slow enough for the puppets to keep up. They won’t let up. Soon there will be thousands of them. We’re trapped.

  This boat is a tight fit and I want off. I’m on the edge of losing my composure when I hear Rice sobbing.

  Chapter 1.18

  Markus:

  I awaken from a drug-induced sleep when someone rips the hood off my head. The room spins and swells. When my vision clears I see that I’m in a shack — dirt floors, curtain over the door, walls and ceiling made of corrugated metal. Sunlight shines through the cracks and imperfections in the slats. They took my jacket and pants, but I am still wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

  A man dressed in a Tunis police uniform steps into my line of sight. He slaps me across the face. Stinging pain shoots throughout my skull. The room starts spinning again. I’m hit again from the other side. Nerves in my face start thumping and burning like my skin is on fire. I close my eyes, bracing myself for the next blow. It doesn’t come.

  “You have been nosy in our country,” he says with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. My speech is slurred. My voice sounds deep and hollow. This time I’m hit in the jaw. The sickening taste of salty blood coats my tongue and slides down my throat.

  “Now, now, Mr. Markus Coburn.”

  “What do you want from me? I’m just a preacher. Born in Alabama. Son of a farmer who was the son of a slave. Been righteous in the eyes of God. I mean you no harm, brother.”

  The man takes a hammer from a nearby table and places the end on my knee. Another man behind me holds my chair. “If you choose to answer my question in any way other than truth, I shatter your knee. At your age, that might put you in a walker for life.”

  I start shaking. The room seems to shrink. Pressure grows in my chest. I fear my heart will give out. “Whatever…whatever you want.”

  “Why you ask about the Stone of Allah?”

  “I. . . I’m studying the Crusades. The ninth one,” I say, stammering. “I don’t know anything about any Stone of Allah.”

  “The Catholic Church has all that you need in their archives. You come to Tunisia for research? Why you ask Christian about the sickness King die from?”

  “I. . . I wanted to know about the plague that hit Tunis and Caesarea,” I say. “It seemed like a similar thing. And I heard about a meteor that killed John the Mighty.”

  “Now we are getting right to truth,” the man says. He walks to the man behind me and confers in Arabic. I listen anyway, trying to hear any word that would tell me of my fate. He comes back to me, striding casually, like he is enjoying himself. “Tell me what you know about Mehdi.”

  “I don’t know anything. I’ve never heard of that word before.”

  WHAM!

  I yell out. I thought the hammer had been brought down on my knee. The two men look away. An explosion goes off outside the shack. An entire wall falls inward, letting the bright sunlight in. The two men run to the collapsed wall, drawing their weapons, but they are too slow. Shots ring out and my captors fall. I can barely see through the dust cloud. My hands are grabbed and freed.

  “Can you run?” a man asks me in English.

  “N. . . no,” I answer. My throat is so dry I can barely speak. I’m thrown over the man’s shoulder and he hauls me away. Gunfire goes off all around us. I see bullets hit the dirt next to the man who’s carrying me. I’m thrown into the back of a Jeep. I hit my head on the floor, then against the seat, as the Jeep takes off.

  “Turn!” yells another man, riding in the passenger seat. Just as I pull myself off the floor of the back seat, an explosion goes off in front of the vehicle. My vision goes white. I feel the jeep turn over and land on its roll cage. I try to hold on, but I’m tossed from the Jeep.

  I open my eyes. For a moment I see blue sky. I land hard in water. It floods my mouth. In a panic from the drowning sensation I push off the sandy bottom and easily sit up. The river is muddy and shallow. I climb out of the water. In the distance I see a coal-fired power plant. It has three smoke stacks that tower high into the sky. They’re spewing out black clouds of smoke into the noonday sun. I hear shouting, so I run to a nearby building. The door is locked and there’s nowhere to hide. I run across a small parking lot and into an ancient neighborhood. There are rows and rows of mud huts. It’s more than ancient; it’s a slum. A dog snarls at me as I pass.

  I can hardly run any more. Pain spears my brain, emanating from my ears and eyes. I duck into a small mud hut. It has a back door that leads to a courtyard. I run through the courtyard and kick over a bucket of water. My head snags someone’s clean laundry and rips it down.

  At the back of the courtyard I discover another house. I run into the house. I am being followed. Someone closes the door behind me.

  “Stop!” an American yells.

  I stop and turn. I can’t stop looking at his kind eyes. I instantly feel at ease. I feel I can trust what he says. The Holy Spirit sets my mind at ease. The man looks out the crack between the mud hut and wood door that sits poorly on its frame.

  “I don’t think they saw where we went,” he says. “We have a few minutes before we have to find somewhere safer.”

  “Who are you?” I ask, taking heaving breaths.

  “Call me Mitchell. I’m CIA.”

  “What on God’s green Earth led you to me?” I finally sit, the world spinning around me.

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re safe. They were going to kill you,” Mitchell says plainly. “They don’t want anyone poking around asking the questions you are asking.”

  “About the Stone of Allah?”

  “Whatever that stone is, it’s being protected by Saudia Arabian money and some hard core believers. They don’t want anyone to know about that thing.” Mitchell pulls out a pistol, opens it by sliding the top piece back, and cleans dust
off the sides. “We’ve been trying to find out what is so special about that stone for years.”

  “It’s a religious artifact. A treasure to them.”

  Mitchell rolls his eyes. “Right. But the part that confuses me is that the stone should have been a bad omen. It came on the crown of an invader followed by a plague. And before that, it killed the entire population of their city after a victory.”

  “Caesarea.”

  “You’ve been doing your research.”

  “I thought I was the only one.”

  “Good one. And you’re the only one smart enough to end up in Tunisia,” Mitchell says sarcastically. He grabs my arm. “Time to go.”

  We run as fast as my ol’ bones can take me, down a narrow alley between mud huts that are just taller than me by inches. I pass a dog in the alley — skinny, beaten. It doesn’t even bark at us. We pass another cluster of homes. The neighborhood looks empty.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask as my body struggles to breathe.

  “At prayers. We need to find a hideout until night fall.”

  After a few short blocks we find a small shack that looks abandoned, no clothing, cookware, or other personal items inside.

  I didn’t notice at the time, but my CIA friend had snatched some material from a hut we passed. He hangs the fabric in the doorway.

  “There,” Mitchell says finishing the drapery. “That should hide us. If they find us, we go out the back door and find somewhere else to hide.” He takes off his white head wrap and uses his sleeve to mop the sweat off his head. I am exhausted and I pray that God will not let them find us. If they do, I will re-assess the situation as it pertains to God’s plan for me.

  I hear voices. Many voices. I sit in the corner and pray. No one comes. The residents seem to think everything is normal. Night comes. We sleep on the floor of the hut.

  Mitchell planned on leaving that first night but we couldn’t risk it. Night after night passes. I never leave the hut. Mitchell steals food and clothing during prayers and snoops around at night. It’s three o’clock in the morning and he heads out. He returns and tells me the eight roads leading out of town are guarded by over five hundred soldiers, a handful of A1-Abrams Tanks, a small helicopter field, a temporary command unit, and lots of cameras. The U.S. sold Saudi Arabia hundreds of tanks in an arm’s deal that kept Saudi Arabia on our side of the Middle East peace talks. We prop up a country that is diabolically opposed to our Christian values and way of life. Seems kind of odd to me. I guess it’s true. The enemy of my enemy is truly my friend. Until they aren’t.

  The next night Mitchell goes out late again. He returns with blood all over his arms. He doesn’t say why and I don’t ask. Our lives are at risk. One bad move and we are finished.

  I’m bored. I recite my scriptures and think of Marian. My body lets me sleep — a lot — which I’m glad for, because when I’m awake I feel like I’ll crawl out of my head.

  It’s late and my oil lamp is getting low on fuel. If it goes out, I’ll be wide awake in the pitch black. I don’t like it. It’s as though death has found me and is negotiating my surrender. Nervously I pace. The dust is in my mouth. I hate it. I drink all my water.

  There’s a crack on the far wall. It is roughly an oval. I get closer. The crack circles around dark smudges. It looks like the face of Christ! I stare. He’s there! Smiling at me. The more I look the more I can see his eyes staring right back at me. He’s telling me it’s okay, that I should be brave, and that God still favors me. I fall to my knees and cry.

  An hour later Mitchell comes back. He always slips in so quietly. It is impressive. “Hey,” he whispers.

  “Uh.” I keep the image of Christ to myself.

  “Tomorrow night we go.”

  “Now, why is that?” I sit on a blanket and rub the sore part of my back. My fingers ball up bits of grime off my skin. I’ve never been so dirty.

  Mitchell slips into his makeshift bed of stolen blankets. He tosses a small loaf of olive oil bread in my lap. I tear into it. The bread here is the best I’ve ever had. Or maybe it’s just that I’m a starved ol’ man.

  Mitchell starts talking while I stuff my face like a schoolboy after a fast. “I’ve been monitoring their movements. Tomorrow there is a big celebration at the outdoor stadium in the south. There’s a big speech by a top scholar. The troops will be re-stationed then and only then. This leaves maybe five to eight troops covering the Ali Ben Abid Mosque and maybe a single unit covering the south road.”

  “Oh, Lord. Five to eight is no big deal. Just five to eight,” I whine with my mouth full of bread. I lie back down. With food in my stomach, my body instantly relaxes.

  “You know,” Mitchell starts. “I heard one of them talking about a big secret in the local mosque. The guy spoke about normally being stationed at the Ali Ben Abid Mosque protecting Mohammed’s biggest secret. Which I believe has something to do with the meteor that killed John the Mighty.”

  “I’m glad you can understand them,” I say.

  “You know we’re in Medenine, right?”

  “As you’ve told me.”

  “Anyway, it’s considered a holy city. Has been for centuries. That’s the official reason there’s so much Saudi money here. Since becoming interested in this secret the CIA has been trying to get a guy on the inside for decades now. We’ve failed. We watch and listen now. Unless there is a wayward American who is in way over his head.” Mitchell smiles. “Yes, your government sent me here to rescue you from yourself.”

  “I’m glad to see big brother is watching,” I answer.

  “I was chosen because I’m very well informed about this area — studied Tunisia in the CIA for years.” Mitchell fluffs his stolen pillow and settles in. “Mohamed’s biggest secret is here and we want to find it.”

  “We?”

  “That was my partner in the Jeep.”

  “He didn’t . . .”

  Mitchell shakes his head. “No. But he was the fanatic. He knew we were finally getting close to the secret.”

  “After all these years of looking, how are you so close now?”

  “Something’s changing. I’ve never heard anyone talking about the secret until now. I think it is the reason for the troop increase. They’re doubling the garrison. There are more and more people privy to the secret, so that increases the odds of it getting out.”

  “Naturally.” I scratch my beard.

  “I’m so close now. Closer than ever.” Mitchell’s brow is tight but his eyes are radiant. I could see his mind spinning.

  “This all sounds like a job you can return to after getting me home to my church and my foam mattress.” I’m tired of being inside all the time, tired of feeling worried when I hear voices or someone passes the front door.

  “You lost your curiosity, huh?”

  I think about my personal quest. I did have a fire under my feet. I’m not altogether miserable. I’m sheltered and have food. It’s like fasting in a sense, fasting from modernity and comforts. I’m closer to God in this space. Now, with this new information, I feel a growing desire to find the Stone of Allah. “Are you planning on stopping by this mosque before we leave town? Can we do it and not get killed?”

  “Hell yeah! They don’t even know we’re here anymore. They think we’ve left town.” Mitchell has a smile across his face.

  “Mohammed’s biggest secret and they keep it in a dusty mosque? Why not keep the thing in Mecca or Cairo or something? I don’t quite understand.”

  “The mosque is heavily fortified. Plus, you don’t keep Mohammed’s biggest secret in a museum. You keep it hidden.”

  “Then how do you plan on getting in there? Stroll on up and say hi?” I feel like staying put until the job is done. I’m pretty sure the Lord does not want me shot at anymore. I’m sure of it.

  “I have an intimate knowledge of the mosque,” Mitchell answers.

  “What’s this intimate knowledge you speak of? Enlighten an ol’ man, please?”

  Mitchell
clearly doesn’t want to explain, but he does anyway, “The French manufacturer of the vault at Ali Ben Abid Mosque sold the CIA all their product schematics, codes, and keys in order to survive the recession of 2009. Cost us half a billion dollars. Also, I’ve studied satellite images of the area. I know exactly how to get in, so this should be a breeze. Trust me. I’m the one who saved your butt — so you have to trust me.”

  “I don’t feel saved yet!” I say, only half kidding. I sit in the duality of life, angel on one shoulder, devil on the other. I am at the crossroads. Will I die in a puddle of sweat and blood? Or will I find salvation? Even as blind as I can be I march on into the foggy road. Is the future unwritten and selfish? Or am I just the tool of the all-knowing light that is God?

  Chapter 1.19

  Ian:

  I order everyone to move and shuffle in the boat. “This way we’ll have the maximum elbow room.”

  Ben rocks the boat as he moves. Tanis grabs the side of the boat and holds on for dear life. When everyone is settled and the packs and weapons are stored properly, I try to relax. Behind the inky clouds I can tell the sun has set. The darkness leaps at us like the charge of a rhino. Stuck in this fucking boat we won’t have anywhere to run. But because I have no choice, I row. I pull the oar through the water in time and it helps to relax me. The oar becomes an extension of myself. I won’t part with it for anything. Even my cold, dead fingers will grip it like a vice.

  “What are we going to do?” asks Tanis.

  “We row ‘til we find somewhere safe. Maybe the Jersey side. Maybe further south.” It felt natural for me to issue orders. I’d been issuing orders for years, up until Zilla started telling me what to do.

  #

  I remember the night I found my audience. I’d gone to a midnight rally supporting the democratic candidate for President. I went with my political science teacher who I knew well. The candidate was Congressman Jones of Iowa. He had the crowd energized. He was ranting about how corrupt the current President was. Someone asked him how he would reduce corruption in the White House, and all we got were ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ followed by some bullshit answer. It was something like, “If you elect me President, I’ll see to it that the little people have a voice.”