6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1

by Anderson Atlas

  It doesn’t take long for me to see the first puppet pop up. Then puppets pop up everywhere. I want to bash all their little heads in, but we just run past ‘em. They bug me like those white head zits that stare back at you in the mirror, begging to be popped. We pass a small strip mall. There’re a bunch of stores here: a tile shop, a tuxedo shop, a Mexican restaurant, a deli, and a bait shop. Across the street is a fancy bimbo hot spot. You could probably get a martini on the rocks garnished with a roofie for only thirty bucks. I keep going. There is a pizza joint down the road and a wave-runner shop. I think about trying to nab a wave-runner but because of the EMP they’re just paperweights now.

  “Seven Eleven!” Josh spits out from behind me.

  “Let’s try to find real food first,” Markus replies. “We’ll come back to it if we need to.”

  Down the way I see a Duane Reade drug and grocery store. Perfect. We stop across the street from the front door, which faces a small parking lot. There are too many puppets there. A group of fifteen stand by the front door. It’s like they are waiting for the door to automatically open.

  “Around back,” I say. When we get there I take my assault riffle off my shoulder then set down my Beater Stick. Five rounds in the back door. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. The lock disengages. Josh and I pry the door open. The store is a mess. Someone’s already ransacked it. I close the back door and cram a doorstopper under it.

  “I’m getting medicine,” Markus says. “Whatever is left, by the grace of God.”

  “Good. Josh, you get water, as much as you can fit in a shopping cart. Pile it high,” I order. “I’ll get food.” I immediately go to the bandage aisle. My injuries are healing, but if I don’t get fresh wrappings on them I’ll end up dead. I’m not about to go out because of an infection. Not in my cards. I re-bandage my ankle and the cuts on my arms and ribs. Then I stick extra bandages and antiseptic in my cart. Forty minutes later we arrive at the back door with three shopping carts full of shit. Josh is looking dorkier then ever. He’d duck taped potholders to his upper and lower arms, has a novelty Giants helmet on his head and a cookie sheet strapped to each thigh. He still has his white medical mask on. I don’t say a word. Whatever keeps your heart tickin’.

  I open the back door thinking we’ll just make a run for it, but the back door is a doorway to hell. There are more than twenty puppets, with even more approaching. They push toward me. I slam the door, but one of them gets its hand into the crack. I slam the door repeatedly until the hand comes off.

  It comes off way too easily. There’s no reaction on the puppet’s face.

  “What do we do?” Josh asks. He’s freaking out. “I mean, what the fuck do we do! We can’t push past them! We’re stuck here. Stuck!”

  I smack that doof across the helmet. He shuts his trap after that and takes the helmet off, realizing that it doesn’t protect his head from anything but respect. He’s telling me with his eyes that the smack wasn’t completely necessary. I tell him with my eyes that it was.

  “We do need a plan,” Markus says. Doesn’t he have the Almighty on his side? Where are His answers?

  I start getting pissed. “How the hell are they following us?” I ask. “They can’t see us. Their eyes are just white root things. Can they hear us?”

  “God only knows,” Markus says.

  “Be back,” I say and run to the front door. It’s wall-to-wall puppets lookin’ to get in, like this was Black Friday and they want the cheapest deal on a new plasma flat screen. I wish I was in that Bradley fighting vehicle, unloading that cannon. That would do some good.

  I notice, however, they aren’t as crowded at the front door as they are at the back door. “Markus! Josh!” They run up to me expecting to see something terrible. “Look, they’re following us. They’re gathering at the back door because that’s where we went. Maybe if we get them to come to the front door we can make a break for it when the herd at the back thins out.”

  We bang on the front doors, which are two sliding glass doors surrounded by thick glass windows. Too thick to be broken, I hope. After ten minutes we have a decent crowd foaming at the possibility of tearing us apart.

  “Do it,” I yell and then run. I get to the back door and crack it. There’s a nice group still back there. “Shit, they have memories.” I slam the door shut, turn and round-house an energy drink display off the counter of the pharmacy check out.

  “That plan sucked. We wasted thirty-five minutes,” Josh whines.

  “You come up with something, doof,” I say, wanting to smack him again.

  “They seem to dislike fire. Maybe we can start one,” Markus mentions.

  “That’s actually a good thought, pops.” I look around. “Big hot fire is what we need.” Josh runs ahead yelling, “Camping, aisle nine!”

  I go to the liquor aisle with my own idea. We both meet at the back door. I have bottles of hard booze and Josh has gas canisters. We twist open the booze bottles and stuff rags into their necks. Twenty-two bottles total. Markus grabs an empty cart and we nest the bottles side by side. Josh puts the fist-sized camping gas canisters on the top of the cart.

  I light the tops of the bottles. They burn slowly. “This better work,” I mumble. “Or I’m using one of you as my distraction.”

  Markus opens the door and Josh pushes the cart out. The cart collides with the puppets. He pushes hard. Markus, ready to close the door, grabs the side of the cart and helps Josh force it out. I push too. We slowly move the puppet crowd away from the door. Markus is able to close the door behind the cart, leaving it open just a crack. He crams the doorstopper under the door and runs behind an aisle where Josh had ducked. I aim at the gas canister through the crack.

  “Cover your ears!” I take the safety off my M16A and breathe. “Big fire, please,” I whisper.

  The puppets keep their distance from the flaming cart. They stare at it like they’re stoned and it looks pretty.

  One shot into the heart of the gas canister. POW! Explosions rock the door. Another explosion. Then a huge explosion erupts and the door is flung open.

  All the canisters went off, I think. I stand and look out the door. The puppets are on fire and scattering. Now is our chance. “Run!” Each one of us grabs the handles of our cart and pushes them out the door.

  Markus and Josh follow me out to the parking lot and onto Cross Bay, heading back to the boat. I ram into a puppet and knock it over. It’s some dude in a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt. His ear buds are still in his ears and the cord is no longer connected to his iPod. Our carts vibrate wildly on the pavement. Josh loses a bottle of water. My mind is blank, glands spitting out adrenaline like a dragon breathing fire up my spine. A minute passes and I start to feel pain fighting through my sledge-hammering heart. I need to focus on something in order to ignore my complaining ankle and ribs.

  The cheap wheels on the carts rattle like an insane monkey locked in a cage. The sound reminds me of the rapid fire of a nail gun. I picture shooting the nail gun into my father’s knees. One nail for each nail he and his thug employees shot into their interrogated victims. That would be something I’d like to see — my father in pain.

  #

  I remember walking in on one of his interrogations. It was late on a Sunday night when I was twelve. I’d just gotten up for water when, after grabbing a glass and shutting the cabinet door, I heard a thud. The floor had jumped under my feet. I noticed the basement door was open. The thud came again. It was followed by the sudden scream of some fool. The scream was cut off. I remember it so well. I tiptoed down to the cellar. A single lamp on a desk lit the wooden stairs as I descended. The shadows seemed to reach out for me like a monster, but I didn’t let that stop me. I was so afraid the stairs would squeak, but they didn’t. Half way down the steps I saw my father and cousin Lorenzo standing in front of a guy strapped to a chair. He had a sock crammed into his mouth and blood all over his face.

  My father hissed at the guy about his money and how he had trusted him like a son. Lo
renzo raised his nail gun and shot a nail into the ceiling. “You gonna get one in the other leg, so help me God. Maybe in your family jewels next time.”

  My father pulled the sock from the man’s mouth and waited. The man coughed blood all over my dad’s face. Lorenzo brought the gun to the man’s leg and pulled the trigger. THUNK! The man gasped just as the sock was crammed back into his mouth.

  I yelped, then ran upstairs. My father followed me.

  He busted down my door and then smacked me across the face. “Do not go where you should not be.” He’d hissed. In the darkness of my room he looked like a monster. It wasn’t the first time I’d met his evil side. When he was in a rage he didn’t look like my father. He looked like an old troll with red eyes and deep wrinkles. He hit me again.

  “I have to show you with pain how not to stick your nose in business you don’t understand,” he yelled. After that beating, I didn’t cry when he hit me. It hurt, but I didn’t cry. Sometimes it would piss him off that I wasn’t crying. This same man, on Sunday, would act like he was God’s favorite son. He’d hug old ladies, give money to God’s church, and pray. He liked talking about family and strength, but he was the weakest of them all.

  #

  We continue running down Cross Bay toward the boat when I notice Markus trailing. I slow down.

  Markus heaves, “I . . . can’t run like this.”

  We’re so close to the beach. “Fine, but don’t lag too much, otherwise, see ya,” I say.

  Josh is huffing, too. He chugs from a bottle of water.

  When we reach the shore there’re no puppets on the beach. It’s not too sandy at first so the carts take the rough terrain okay. However, farther down the path we go, the harder it is to push them through. Markus falls further behind. I stop and wait. I don’t like waiting, but the way is clear so I give him a minute.

  Behind Markus is movement. Quick movement. I block the sun with my hand but it blocks the movement. I wait. I move off the trail to get a better view. The movement is fast, like a…

  Ian on a mountain bike?! Hana and Tanis follow him on bikes — with a dog. It’s a hairy, white mutt with brown and black patches. It looks so happy. Fuckin’ dogs always look happy. Josh jumps up and down. Don’t ask me why. Maybe he loves dogs, or he’s an avid biker.

  Ian slows, “Hey, nice work.” On the back of his bike is a metal rack with three five-gallon gas cans strapped to it.

  “Looks like you did okay, too.” I smile for the first time in a while. He looks at me cockeyed, like I’m a dog that just spoke English. “Nice smile.”

  “Shut up,” I say, hiding my smile, but he keeps smiling at me. “Don’t make me smack that smile off your face.”

  “Right,” Ian replies, still smiling.

  Hana pulls up to Ian’s side, “Nice to see you brought the groceries,” she says. “Let’s get off the mainland.”

  “Yeah, lets,” Josh says as he pets the dog.

  “This dog comin’ with us?” I ask. I don’t like dogs much. The mutt comes up to me and licks my shoe. It looks dumb and happy, like all dogs do. I shoo the dog away. “I’m off limits, mutt.”

  Tanis rides past me slowly, “My dog’s name is Kat.” He laughs, then rides off toward the beach.

  When all six of us get to the water, Tanis freaks out. He hops off his bike and runs down the small dock to where the rowboat is supposed to be. “The boat’s floating away!” I run to the water’s edge. The rowboat bobs in the water, slowly moving away from us.

  Markus is farthest from the water. He shouts, “The walkers are gathering. If we don’t get that boat, we’re trapped. We’ll end up swimming to the Pioneer.”

  “There’s so many of them.” Josh says, looking back.

  Ian waves for me to follow him. “Get all the gear to the end of the dock. Get ready for me.” Before I have a chance to react the fool dives into the water. I consider joining him. He’s as slow as a cripple.

  After what seems like two years, Ian tries to haul himself into the rowboat. It rocks and takes on water. I get hot in my veins as I watch him struggle. Never send a man to do a woman’s job. Finally, he gets one leg on the boat’s edge, but he can’t pull his other leg from the water.

  “For fuck’s sake, Ian! You look like a weenie!”

  “Something’s got my leg!” he cries out. He manages to get mostly in the boat. Sure enough, somethin’s got his leg.

  I pull out my pistol, flick off the safety, and aim.

  “Don’t shoot me!”

  “Then don’t move!” I can see the puppet holding on to his ankle. I aim for the wrist. Damn, he’s moving too much. It’s trying to pull him off the boat. I take a breath and tap the trigger. POW.

  The puppet’s forearm is split by the bullet, freeing Ian’s leg. He swings it into the boat. The boat calms. Ian starts rowing it toward us.

  “That was cool,” Josh says. “Where’s a vid recorder when you need one?”

  “Yeah,” Tanis agrees.

  “That was unexpected,” Markus says. “They aren’t drowning. That one was under the water waiting for him.”

  Markus and the others start hauling the groceries and the fuel to the end of the dock. Puppets are thirty, maybe forty yards off. The path is full and there are puppets bush-whacking through the thicket to get to us. I look at Ian. He is rowing too slowly. I try to hurry everyone, “Jesus, get a move on it!”

  Finally, he bumps into the dock. He tosses the rope tied to the front of the boat to me. I hand the rope to Hana and run past everyone to the sand, Beater Stick in hand, to stand guard. Everyone else starts loading the boat. A puppet lumbers up to me and grabs my arm. Its fingers are strong. Stronger now. This puppet used to be a middle-aged chick, probably a waitress at some diner, or a soccer mom. Her brown hair is matted and mud-splattered. I notice a change. There are more roots on this one. They cover her skin like a million worms. I raise my Beater and point it at her face. She tries to grab it. I tire of looking at her ugly mug. With a thrust that would run a lion through, I jab my Beater into her face. Her skull cracks like I shattered a car window or cracked an eggshell. She reaches out for me, so I swing at her chest.

  I sweep my Beater behind her leg and she falls onto her butt. She gets up. I jab and jab her in the chest, feeling her ribs crack. She stumbles after me. I keep her at the end of my Beater and force her to the water’s edge. I push her in.

  They finish loading the food and water and start yelling at me.

  Another puppet reaches me, some ugly dude. I grab his shirtsleeve and spin him like a top. The next one behind him gets a jab to the knee. His whole leg breaks backwards. He’s not able to stand anymore and topples to the sand.

  “Come on, Isabella!” Ian yells.

  I bash up one more puppet then run to the rowboat and get in. Too crowded. I land on some cans and boxes. Something hits my injured ankle and makes it throb. Ian unties the boat and pushes us off the dock.

  One of the puppets I’d knocked in the water starts sloshing toward us. It can’t swim. I think. I hope.

  “Come on,” Josh complains. “Let’s go faster.” Ian and Hana push and pull the oars as fast as they can. “We’re dragging,” Ian says.

  “Yeah, I feel it too,” Hana replies.

  I watch the one sloshing toward us submerge itself up to its head. “They can’t swim, but they’re trying.”

  Josh yells, “The puppet is still under us!”

  Hana and Ian grunt as they push and pull the oars through the water. We aren’t moving at all.

  Chapter 1.24

  Markus:

  Mitchell and I run out of the Ali Ben Abid Mosque. Mitchell holds my hand like a vice. He had instructed me to cover my eyes, peek at my feet and run, and I did. For the second I had my eyes uncovered I saw ten machine gun barrels pointed at me.

  Cringing, waiting for the pain to come, I say a little prayer. Pops explode in front of me like fireworks. Mitchell seems to be shielding me with his body. I can’t see with my eyes squinted in
to slits and looking down, but bright light sneaks through my eyelashes and washes out the ground. Incredibly bright light. Then Mitchell pulls me along and we start running. I’m stumbling, trying to keep my feet from tripping as machine gun fire goes off.

  “You can open your eyes,” Mitchell yells. He releases my hand. We run around a building and duck into a corner. Mitchell takes something from his pocket and jabs it into my shoulder. It’s a needle.

  “You’re going to have to run as fast as you’ve ever run in your life. Got it?”

  My lungs relax and stop gasping for air. My muscles and sore knees stop aching. I’ve never felt better in all my life. I want to sing! Mitchell looks back at me. He’s smiling.

  “What was that?” I yell.

  “What was what?” Mitchell picks up speed. I match him.

  “I’m running like The Flash,” I yell. My shoulder is tender where he jabbed me. “You drugged me!”

  “CIA sweet stuff!” Mitchell yells. “Experimental stuff to get you going! I was saving it. Don’t worry, the only side effect is a headache and maybe a bit of nausea!”

  I keep running. It’s quite fantastic. The air is cool and my clothing snaps in the wind, sending tingles through my body. We zigzag through the neighborhoods. There are a few people in the streets now, but they stay clear of us. We run through the old dome houses, around a manufacturing plant, and past some apartments. It’s getting dark. Lamps light the streets, but they are few and far between.

  At the edge of the main part of town we slow down. Mitchell stops at a huge gate. Its wood is painted red but weather beaten, such a fascinating gate. I wonder why I think it’s so fascinating. Behind the gate are two camels. They’re packed with water, food, and supplies. Mitchell has been preparing. I guess I should have expected that. The Lord is shining on him because he is with me. I feel like giving him a hug.