I punch Markus in the side as hard as I can.
He coughs but continues. “Ah, Ben. You were easy weren’t you? Busy blaming everyone else for your failings. Mad at the world for the actions of the lost souls around you. You all have no principles to guide you. It keeps you all lost and afraid and confused. It is why God chose you to do the hard thing. To help him return his children to Heaven.”
Ian leans close to Markus. “Why did you do this? Why?” I hear his voice crack. “Why?”
Markus lifts his chin. “It was already done. In God’s plan, it was always going to be this way. Now we can live out our lives in his service because we are the chosen ones. We will be at God’s side for eternity.”
Ian turns away from Markus. “Fucking madness. Why let people be born in the first place? Why let everyone suffer like this?”
“Religion is not logical, but ideological.” Josh says. “Just as fucked up as fascism and communism and any other idea that justifies one person killing another.”
“What do we do?” Tanis asks.
“Kill the idea. It’s a virus, no less real than the one this piece of shit used to kill the world,” I suggest. I look at Hana. She closes her eyes. I know she agrees with me now.
I punch Markus in the side again. He bends over holding to the lifeline, waiting out the pain. Like a thief, I slip my hand into his jack pocket and pull out the case with the anti-virus syringes. Markus doesn’t stop me. He’s still fighting the pain. I lift him, turn him so he’s hanging over the lifeline and then grab his ankles and lift. His body flips over the side and splashes into the water.
I turn and take my shotgun from Ian. “Anyone that has a problem with this, speak up.” No one says a word. “You, Hana?” She stands there with tears streaming down her face, but says nothing.
Josh runs to the railing and stares down at Markus, who has started to swim away. The shore is close, but so are over a thousand puppets. They’re foamin’ at the mouth. “Markus won’t survive the night,” he mumbles.
“I know.” Ian unhooks us from the mooring ball and sails further south. We slip past the infested residences, full of puppets watching us. We’re the parade of the living and they hate us for it.
I’m not too pissed that I didn’t shoot Zilla in the face because I know what lies ahead for him. It’s a more poetic justice. The worms will crawl into his skin and try to take his body. Though he is immune, he will still die at the hands of his children, the dead that walk in his image, the dead that are a reflection of his twisted soul.
Ian pulls out a hose. He washes himself clean and I take the next turn. With the hose and buckets and sponges we clean the boat, and purge the sadness from her teak and her tackles and her lines.
As I scrub the gunk out of the nooks and crannies I think about Zilla. The master game he played — and won. I think about my life before the extinction event. I’m not the same anymore. There’s no part of my mind or body that feels like the old me. It seems like, before all this, that I was a phantom on the Earth, a mind in a foreign object that went from place to place. Now I feel every muscle, every scratch, every wound. My body is different and so is my consciousness. Yeah, I’m different, and because of the emptiness around me I feel vulnerable. I feel like a scared little girl who just can’t seem to wake up from the scariest nightmare anyone has ever dreamt.
Chapter 1.33
Ian:
The six of us gather around the helm. Isabella and Ben smoke like steam engines.
I hold up my hand reverently, “What Markus said was true. I got a syringe. I’m vaccinated.”
Isabella blows out her smoke. “We all know he was telling the truth. Except for Rice, Andy and Josh, and a handful of other fuckers, the main reason we survived is because of the shots.”
We take turns sharing the finer details of our roles, and how, collectively, we ended the world. Josh listens, though he’s in shock, looking small and thin.
I listen to the water lapping off the boat’s sides. Finally, I say, “So, you get the shot, Josh. You’re saved,” I mumble. “That leaves one dose for anyone we come across.”
Hana gives Josh the shot. When she’s done Josh laughs. Josh hadn’t said a word since our confessions. “Finally,” he mutters, “You guys are like the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse.”
“There are five of us, you know,” Ben adds. “Six if you count Zilla.”
“Whatever, you’re the fucking Six Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“I want to know how a minister becomes a mass murderer,” I say.
Ben pulls out a bottle of whiskey and takes a drink. He passes it around. “I thought that shit was what the Muslims wanted to do, hasten the return of the Mahdi, or some shit.”
“Anyone can twist their mind to justify whatever they want. He twisted Christianity into a pretzel so he could make his God however he wanted. I’ve seen every color of criminal do it.” Hana takes a drink.
“We’ve all twisted ourselves up to justify what we’ve done,” Isabella says. “I don’t really like people, but I didn’t want to off them all.”
“I don’t know how he went crazy or why. Maybe one day we’ll know,” I say. The horizon is calm as the sun sets. It will be a long night.
The next day I set sail just as the sun rises. Isabella stares at the shore and I know she’s hoping to see Markus. She repeatedly checks through her rifle’s scope. Though he is immune, she wants to see his face in the crowd. I know it. But it’s clear he’s gone. The shore is so loaded with puppets, if he didn’t drown in the water, he drowned in the tsunami of biting, clawing automatons.
The day passes quietly. I see a sign on the channel marking South Carolina waters. I keep at the wheel. I insist. It keeps me from freaking out. Everyone else ends up on his or her own part of the boat. There’s a heavy silence and it feels shitty.
We keep going. The water we have doesn’t hydrate us enough and the food doesn’t satisfy. The fact that we were still breathing hardly changes our moods. We’re stuck in sadness. Since the moment of the first death I’d been holding it all in, waiting for the right time to grieve. Now that the truth stands in front of me like a phantom, one that I just can’t leave behind, I want to drop the sails, drain the fuel into the ocean, and float over the horizon to whatever afterlife awaits.
But I don’t. Instead, I hug every last person on this boat, even Ben. I let myself cry, not caring how the strain and tears twist my face, or how weak it makes me look.
We work as a team, trimming the sails and adjusting our course. We continue down this everlasting southern migration for no other reason than it was what we set out to do.
Eventually, I feel further away from that phantom. Is it behind me now, or am I too tired to see the shadow it casts over my mind? Either way, I start to feel the breeze on my skin again and it is cooling.
The Florida Keys disappear over the horizon, but it has minor effect on me. We’re on a course for Cuba and even though we don’t have enough food or water, I don’t care that we’re leaving sight of land. I have something else on my mind. I’m stuck thinking about Markus. How he used his religion to justify his dark desires. He was the same as us, blinded by our points of view, our biases, our hubris, hobbled by our inability to use reason and common sense. I never sought out the opinions of those that tried to disprove the conspiracies. I never took the time to think. I just absorbed the lies. They were packaged so nicely.
I’m going to have to do better than this from now on. I need to rebuild what I helped take down. In Cuba, where the radio chatter says there are survivors, I will need to find salvation.
#
The moon is so huge it fills the horizon like a god. I think it is Nyx, the Greek goddess of night. She pulls on my chest like she pulls on the tides. I’m not afraid of her power. Zeus was, supposedly, but Zeus hasn’t just survived the apocalypse, and gone days without food or water.
I’m at the helm, but that’s speaking loosely. I haven’t touched the wheel in over an ho
ur.
It has been two days of ocean swells, eerie calms, and freak squalls— and now I’m done.
We are surrounded by water a mile deep and a million miles across and we can’t drink a drop of it. We’re out of bottled water and booze, and the only food we have will dehydrate us, so we can’t eat it.
Like I said, I’m done. I feel as if I will close my eyes tonight and not open them again. As my eyelids get heavy, I stare at the reflections of the moon on the ocean.
I have no real identity any more. I’m a community organizer with no community. I’ve got nothing to rail against, no corruption to fight. I’m starting to think that most of the corruption and injustice was all in my head to begin with. We’re all out for what we want and nothing more. Society, cohesion, and altruism happen because it benefits us as individuals in some way. The moment a colossal ass finds the benefit in hurting others is when we have to run for the fucking hills. Or we can fight back.
I sit up. Cuba can’t be too far away. I will fight Nyx. You can’t take me yet, baby. Not yet. I check the compass and correct our course. We’d started drifting West in the trades.
I stand on the seat at the helm, hold onto the main sheet and stare at the horizon, but it’s as straight as the blade of a sword.
I am about to sit when someone makes a noise at the bow. I didn’t know anyone else was up here.
“Ian! Ian!” It’s Josh. He sure does love that bowsprit. In the light of the moon I see his curly hairdo coming at me like a ram toward a rival mate. “We’re here! We’ve made it!”
I hop off the helm seat and run to him. He grabs me and leads me to the front of the boat.
“See that?” he yells into my ear.
I recoil at his volume but squint at the horizon. I see a light, then another! The lights drift up into the sky like balloons.
Josh disappears and I run back to the wheel. I point our bow Southeast, toward the lights, and run to the main sheet. I pull the sheet and the wench ticks as it turns, holding the rope with its powerful grip. The sails tighten like muscle fibers and the boat tips as the Pioneer picks up speed. I run to the forward sheet and do the same, then I tighten the jib sheets. We’re close hauled now. The Pioneer finds her comfort zone and spears through the placid ocean. She heels further and her side rail touches the water, splashing with enthusiasm.
Josh returns with everyone else. They’re all skin and bones, as thin as I’ve ever seen living human beings, but they move as fast as cheetahs.
We see a dozen lights lift into the sky and then more and more. I lose track of how many.
The Pioneer remains on her side and sails faster than I have ever sailed her. She makes great time.
As we near the source of the lights we see what they are. Hana turns to me. “Oh Ian, they’re lanterns!”
They’re the paper lanterns with the candles in the middle, like fancy resorts use to enchant their guests. They rise high into the night sky before burning out, sending glowing embers back to Earth.
We jump and scream and hug and everything else we can do to express the joy that fills our bodies. Could it be?
An hour later we see the island of Cuba. The shore glows from a dozen tiki torches and the hotel windows have flickering lights. They really have a survivor city! It has to be safe to have all the lights on. We’ve made it. We are finally saved.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
Thank you for reading 6th horseman!
If you liked this book, help an independent author out! Post a review on Amazon.com, on Facebook, or your blog. I don’t have a marketing department, or the exposure of being on national bookshelves (yet). So, as an independent author, your help would mean a great deal to me.
If you are ready for the continuation of this story, stay in touch!
Sign up for the Part 2: Killing Salvation newsletter here
Keep reading for a free preview of Killing Salvation.
Sincerely,
Anderson Atlas
Thank you to all that supported me through this novel, including my family, for putting up with my writing and drawing zeal. Thank you to my critique group members: Pam, Elaine, Kate, Marilyn, Elise and to Karl, my first beta reader.
I also need to thank my editors whose expertise helped me conquer my blind spots!
Robert Hill, master critique
(www.wordywizard.com)
Jason Eberhardt, eagle eye copy editor
(www.authorswriteinc.com)
KILLING SALVATION (preview)
Anderson Atlas
Chapter 2.1
Ian Gladstone:
1.5 years after Extinction Event
The rattle of keys wakes me, followed by the slide and click of a deadbolt. I look up to see the door shake as a shadow passes in front of it. The shadow has a texture that circulates like reflections in water. Damn, I’m hallucinating. I don’t move. I can’t move. Though hunger hurts more than anything I’ve ever experienced, my body has moved past the pain. Now I’m disconnected. I am eyes and ears and nothing more.
The door opens and in walks one of the two men I hate more than anyone. His name is Lowell. He’s got short sandy-colored hair and ice-blue eyes. Muscles define themselves on every surface of his body, and his face is lean and angular. He’s as intimidating as a gorilla, especially when he points his gun at me. Mostly because I know he’s got a body count a mile long, and is as emotionless as a blank sheet of paper.
“Cott wants to read some work today or tomorrow,” Lowell says. His voice is steady. He sits on the corner of my desk. It’s not my desk. It’s Cott’s desk, one of his many stolen keepsakes. By the way, Cott is the other man I hate. Together they are the corruptors of the new world. A world I thought could be free from corruption. Ha! What a fool I was.
“You hear me?” Lowell asks.
I ignore him. I’m not even alive enough to roll my eyes. I’m a neglected toy robot with just enough juice left to twitch. I’m starving myself. It’s my only recourse from tyranny, from evil, from this pressure weighing on me.
Lowell polishes his gun with his shirt, pointing it at me the whole time. “I know your pen is mighty, but at this juncture my gun is mightier. If you don’t produce some language that reinforces Cott’s government, then I have to kill you. Renounce your friends’ actions and stop this rebellion. You used to be on Cott’s side. Remember that?” Lowell holsters his gun. He takes a step toward the door. “Power is what it is. It can be passed around like cash. You want things your way, give a little first.” Lowell’s eyebrows lift, the first hint of emotion he’s shown. “Then you get a little. We can all help Cott give the herd a good life here and have a bit of power for ourselves. Be one of the shepherds.”
Lowell sighs when I don’t answer him. “Your mother would approve of what Cott is doing if she were alive. Don’t you feel the need to make her proud?”
I summon more energy and sit up. “I’d rather force my hand through a meat press.”
“I know. Frankly, I disagree with making you to do this,” he chuckles. “Cott keeps saying that you wrote some amazing story that won awards and that you can pen the most elegant of propaganda pieces. He seems to think that one of your stories can reignite his agenda.”
I huff. “I guess the pen is mightier.”
Lowell moves closer to the door. “Today or tomorrow. Then you’re at the end of your line.” He steps out of the office prison and re-locks the door.
I don’t want him in this office again, until I’m dead. Rage fills me up like a hot air balloon. My brain wakes up from its slumber, and I feel as though I’d just rebooted my body’s operating system. I sweep off the rotten food I left on the desk in one angry motion then push the large wood desk to the door. I tip it up on one end so it barricades the door securely. It’s an old wooden desk and solid like a rock. I breathe again and my body relaxes. Maybe I can die in peace now. Maybe they will let me be so I can let others screw things up. There aren’t many of us left on this planet, so some smarter people need to tak
e over from here. I’ll atone in my own way and either meet God or nothing at all.
I look at the great wooden desk now barricading the door. It’s red mahogany and polished. Someone loved this desk. The brass handles are thick with delicate patterns. Every joint and edge is embellished with carved flowers, leaves, and designs. My eyes trace the details. I’d never seen anything like it, even though my father’s study was filled with furniture like this. It’s a sudden reminder that my father hid behind his desk even as my mother’s body stiffened under the bed sheets. I want to axe the desk into pieces and burn it. I want to pee on the ashes.
I can see the underside of the large desk. There’s an arrow carved into the bottom of the middle desk drawer. It points to a gap on the bottom inside edge. I inspect the gap. There’s a lever there. I depress the lever and wrench open a hidden drawer. Out fall two chrome plated guns and a note.
The note is from Isabella. I laugh. Her words address the origins of freedom more eloquently than I’d ever thought possible, and it makes sense, so much sense. She is more of a poet in her heart than I am. I sit with the note all night long, cradling it and the two pistols. Instead of starving myself, which is quite painful, I could just end it all.
No way. Now I have real chance to get away.
I look at the rotting food, and with a less-than-scientific deliberation I cram it into my mouth and swallow. Bad idea. I throw it up. Weakness is my mistress now, even as the shadows around me get deeper and blacker, leading to the eternal abyss.
6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 Page 27