Morning comes and I’m still alive. As promised, Lowell checks up on me. He gets mad when he realizes I’ve barricaded the door. A gunshot hammers the silence. He’s shooting through the door! My heart races. I check myself. Not shot, yet. God, I don’t want to die. I don’t. The next slug almost hits me. More gunshots go off, sending round after round into the desktop. Every pull of the trigger rattles me, sending fear throughout out my body. Splinters fly like little dying moths. Their descent leaves trailing lines of color in my vision. I back into the corner opposite the desk. Come and get me, you whore-bastard. I scream in my head. I’ve got something for you and it’s not a propaganda piece about the future or the sustainability of Eden’s eugenic perfection. Fuck you!
More shots. Then he reloads. The desk is holding up, however, to escape I need to surprise Lowell.
My blood rushes. Think! How do I do this? Unless I can squeeze through a twelve-inch vent, I’m dead. I won’t win a gunfight with Lowell. He’s a green beret or something.
Lowell kicks the door. The desk rocks. I push all my weight against it. My body is weak and hungry, and I can barely hold the desk upright. It feels like an elephant leaning on me.
Lowell pounds on the door, “You shit! Maybe I’ll let you bleed out slowly!” He empties his clip in an uncontrolled tantrum. Lowell stops kicking at the door.
I cock each gun quietly and return to the far corner of the room. I feel life in my veins, power in my hands. I look at the guns. The weight makes me feel strong, secure. I point them at the door, putting pressure on the triggers, and wait.
It’s quiet for a moment. In the past I would have relished the absence of noise, but now it makes me feel uneasy. A knock hits the wall next to me. The plaster cracks. A huge chunk of drywall lands on my leg. Lowell is going to break down the wall! I think about running to the door, but someone will be there guarding it. Damn this asshole! Dust clouds the air. I rub my eyes, but it only makes them sting.
I grab a metal paperclip off the ground, bend out the end and stick myself in the arm as hard as I can. I hardly feel the pain. I jam it in deeper. Blood spills over my skin. I yank the paperclip from my arm. The dark red runs over the dust on my skin, turning clumpy. I mop up the blood then smear it on my forehead. I squeeze out more blood and make sure my head appears wounded.
Another huge chunk of drywall falls from the wall. More dust fills the air. I grab the chunk of wall closest to me and cover my leg with it. I slouch in the corner pretending to be dead.
Lowell pushes through the drywall. I peek at Lowell. His sandy brown hair is white with dust. He aims his gun at me.
“Get up. I know I didn’t hit you. I can feel it when I hit someone.” I open my eyes and look at him. I say nothing.
“I’m supposed to collect some work today,” his face contorting into a frown. “But the shit is hitting the fan outside. So it’s too late.” There are deep creases in Lowell’s eyes and forehead I hadn’t noticed before. He looks tired and pale, like he finished a marathon race, crossed the line a long time ago, but was still running.
The desk topples over, and one of Lowell’s goons squeezes inside the office. Lowell’s attention shifts for just a moment.
I snap up from my slouch with my chrome-plated pistols in both hands and fire point blank at his stomach. Lowell falls back, dropping his weapon. Shock explodes from his face. My eyes shift to the door following the lead of my other pistol. My finger squeezes the trigger multiple times until the man at the door falls into a lump. They say you get used to death. It’s true. I feel nothing for these two men. I don’t spill my guts. I don’t look backward, and I sure as hell don’t regret pulling the triggers. It’s weird, but life is more expendable now that the world has collapsed and there are fewer of us than ever.
I take Lowell’s gun then lean toward his tightened face. “I’m going to kill Cott. It’s the only thing I think about now. I’m going to put this gun to his face,” I hiss through clenched teeth and press my gun to Lowell’s forehead. “And I’m going to pull the trigger.”
A bead of blood comes out of Lowell’s mouth as he mumbles, “You have no idea what power is and you never will. You’re an ideologue.”
“Not anymore. I see things more clearly now.”
Lowell closes his eyes. I hear gunfire so I run to the door and take the other man’s gun. I step over the motionless body then ease into the hallway.
Moments later I find myself at the back door to Eden’s administration building. There are bullet casings everywhere, shattered glass and holes in the walls and door. Outside there’s an acrid smoky smell that burns my nose. I search for someone, anyone. The yard is deserted, so I run.
Someone yells at me. I turn to look behind me when I’m tackled. An explosion goes off nearby. Potted plants shatter around me. My guns are ripped from my hands then I’m rolled on my back. He’s red in the face and yelling something. He’s going to kill me. The man takes my own pistols and aims them at my heart. Something happens. He flinches. Did he shoot me? Am I too far gone to feel the bullet rip through my chest?
I see him look at his own body. He drops my guns and staggers back. He pats his upper chest, then his shoulder and then his neck. His hands find his wound as a river of blood spews between his fingers. His dark eyes look at me then turn away as he falls back.
I pick up my guns and run through an exterior courtyard door. Another explosion goes off, but it’s far away. Right now I’m away, I’m free. My elation makes me feel like I can fly. Freedom fills my wings.
The thrilling conclusion, Killing Salvation, is coming out soon!
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About the Author
Anderson Atlas is a graphic artist, illustrator, and writer who lives in Southern Arizona with his son, daughter and wife. He loves to read, sail, hike and watch movies. When it comes to his own books, he writes and illustrates them himself, and he especially likes writing character driven stories with fun and unique twists. He has written The Lost Spells, Missing Sun, 6th Horseman and is currently working on Killing Salvation (the sequel to 6th Horseman) and a middle grade novel called Allan Westerfield: Off-World.
Copyright 2015 Anderson Atlas
andersonatlas.com
Published by Synesthesia Books
synesthesiabooks.com
6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 Page 28