6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (21 page)

A window on the third floor of a building shatters
and to my fucking surprise, a walker jumps from the building,
trying to land on us. He gets close, but misses. His body explodes
on impact. Again, I get soaked and Markus remains dry. Kamikaze
bastard! Another fucker flies at us, splashing his guts.

I slip on blood and body parts. I think I
’
m going to barf again.
NO!
I order my stomach.
Stop with this throwing up shit!
More fuckers fall and
splatter around us. One almost hits me but I dodge it. Popping like
they do is weird, like they
’
ve built up
pressure inside their bodies. I know dead bodies bloat up, but they
don
’
t look bloated.

We sprint past an ever-growing crowd of the most
fucked up, sorry sacks of walking corpses I
’
ve ever seen.

Two blocks away, with the walkers way behind us, we
slow to a fast walk. I’m hot and dizzy. I just don’t have a high
tolerance for pain.

Markus lets the woman hold on to his arm as
we walk. She’s got the kid’s hand. “Are you guys okay?” he asks.
“What’re your names?”

She’s plump, but has a cute face. She has
brown hair with dyed blond streaks. I look at her huge boobs and
then at her designer nails. I’d do her. I stop myself from thinking
about that. Millions of people are dead and now walking around with
roots in their eye sockets and I’m thinking about banging this fat
chick.

“My name is Rice,” the woman says, out of
breath. We’re all out of breath. “This is Andy. He’s my
nephew.”

“You guys don’t feel sick?” Ian asks.

Rice shakes her head. The boy doesn’t speak.
His brown hair is matted with crap and he’s got dark circles under
his eyes. “When the news said there was something in the water
making people sick I locked us inside my apartment. When they said
it was harmless... I don’t know... I didn’t believe them. I didn’t
trust the radio reports.”

“That was smart,” Ian says. “They should have
been able to quarantine the city. I’ve seen the government’s
secret, red-label, contingency-five plans on the Internet. The ones
that direct the armed forces in case of a biological attack. First
order of business is to blow the bridges and tunnels to isolate the
infected. If that fails, they firebomb the infected area. So far,
no firebombs, so they must have succeeded in making a quarantine
line. All we have to do is get there, spend some time in isolation,
and move on with our lives.”

We continue walking. If Ian is right, then
I’ll be hitting the drive-thru somewhere very soon, and finding
something to watch on HBO.

Markus nods. “They had plans, but it was for
an identifiable viral attack on the city. What they found was some
kind of bacteria in the water. Those tap water pipes fed other
areas besides the New York Island. To control this outbreak, they’d
have to seal off a five-hundred-mile area, including parts of
Jersey and South Brooklyn.”

“And it would have to be done in two days.
That’s millions of people behind the lines,” Ian adds. “Tens of
millions.”

Markus points to a group of walkers on an
intercept course. “We have to run again.”

“Shit,” I say under my breath.

We start jogging, thankfully, at an easy
pace. It’s so hot. I’m sweating badly.

“I know they blew the bridges. Before the
planes stopped flying I saw jets and heard explosions, lots of
them. If they blew all the bridges then we should find a boat to
get us off this island,” Ian suggests. “Getting off the island is
our priority.”

“Unless those ugly walkers can swim,” I
mention.

“I know where we can find a boat,” Markus
says. “Every year I do a youth retreat at a place called Swindler’s
Cove.”

T
he flight to
Tunisia is short, the landing rough. The airport is international
and not a place I’d want to get lost. Signs in Arabic and French
are everywhere. I have no idea what they say. I’m equipped with a
Tunisian travel book that translates most of the signs, and I plan
on hiring an interpreter. If you’ve ever been to a country that
doesn’t speak your language, I’ll tell you, it’s unnerving to say
the least. I hear French everywhere. The place is bustling.
Thankfully, it’s easy enough to find my way outside.

I figure this land, being just north of the
Sahara Desert, would be hot and dry, but there is a cool breeze,
ocean smells, and bright blue skies. It’s only seventy-eight
degrees, and there are lush palm trees and vegetation everywhere. I
finally start to relax. I’m on a grand adventure, after all, and
I’ve got God on my side.

I see a sign that’s slightly familiar; it
points to the taxi area. I find a cab and give him a paper that
lists my hotel. He takes me there. The roads are old but
maintained, meaning they are narrow. Small cars and motorcycles zip
everywhere — like traffic rules are more suggested than enforced.
The buildings are dusty, cracked, and tightly packed. But there is
a style, a feeling to them. They all work together in an isolated
architectural standard that makes such bygone cities seem so
beautiful.

My hotel is as nice as anything in the modern
world. The outside looks brand new, five stories tall, fresh paint,
and lots of decorative lighting. Reflective glass panels arch over
part of the lobby. It’s a warm lobby with plants, rainbow colored
lights, suited employees, and a comforting smell.

The bellhop helps me find my room and sets my
suitcase on the bed. There’s satellite TV, a refrigerator, and a
small kitchen sink. Perfect for an old man.

I eat curry lamb steak and yam and red bean
stew at the hotel restaurant, which is unique, to say the least; I
could go for some real greens and some homemade gumbo or jerk
chicken. I finish my tea and move to the bar to have a drink. Just
then the stage at the end of the bar lights up and a beautiful
olive-skinned woman takes the microphone. She sings in French next
to a keyboard and bass player.

I wave the barkeep over. “Monsieur, Je
voudrais vodka et tonique veuillez, Merci beaucoup,” I order in the
worst French accent possible.

He slides me my vodka tonic. It’s wonderfully
strong. Later, I asked the barkeep, “You speak English, young
man?”

The barkeep nods.

“I would like to learn more about Islam and
the history of this area. Where would you suggest I go?” I yell
over the singing.

The barkeep cleans a glass while he answers,
his accent thick, “I’m not Islamic. I’m Catholic.”

I’m taken back by his answer. “I’m surprised
to hear you say that.”

“Not everyone here is Muslim. There are
Protestants and Jews here, too. This is a tolerant country,
contrary to what the West says.”

“I’m sorry for my assumption. I’m a preacher.
I’d like to learn about how this area was affected by the Crusades.
I’m on a learning expedition,” I say.

The barkeep gives me a phone number to the
local parish. I retire for the night still feeling embarrassed by
my ignorance. I pride myself on not being just another ignorant man
from the West.

I call Marion from my hotel room. She says
immediately, “You need to come home, Markus.”

“You have to be patient with me.”

“The other night someone broke into the
house. They didn’t steal anything, just rifled through our things.
They left a card on your desk. It has flames on one side and your
name on the other. What does it mean?”

So they’re harassing my family now
.
“I’ll be home in three days. Until then how about you stay with
your cousin. I have to finish this. You’ll be fine. God has a plan
for me and for all of us.”

“How do I fit into this plan?” Her voice
quivers, which gives me anxiety. She’s usually my rock, but is now
cracking under the pressure I’ve brought on her. I know I need to
end this. It is the only way our lives can return to normal. “I’ll
be home soon, trust me. It’ll be okay. I love you.” I hang up the
phone.

The next day I meet a man named Christian at
a Catholic church on the outskirts of downtown Tunis. The church is
a small building with an ornate front entrance and a tall roof.
Other than that, the building is unobtrusive and quaint. Christian
happens to be a tall, thin, young man with light blue eyes and
shortly trimmed, dirty-blond hair. He wears a cassock that starts
at his neck and hangs to his toes.

“Nice to meet you. Christian.” He introduces
himself and shakes my hand loosely, “So, you here to learn about
the Crusades?” His English is surprisingly good.

“I’m interested in the history of King Louis
the Ninth.” We move to a desk inside the church office and sit.

“I can show you to our local records.
However, you might have more luck in the Great Library at the
Vatican.”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “I’ve been
there. What I need is more information, such as local stories,
maybe even rumors. I’d like to see the place where King Louis died.
If that is possible?”

Christian thinks for a moment. “I do not know
where he died. That information has been lost to time. I do know
Louis the Ninth brought his brother Charles of Anjou, King of
Sicily, to Tunisia with ten thousand troops. They easily took over
the country. The King, however, died shortly afterward. The army
made peace agreements with payment, left a garrison, and returned
home with the King’s body.” After a short pause, Christian
continues.

“There is a story I heard that is odd. The
King brought a plague with him. Historians thought it was
dysentery, but I have been told it was something else altogether.
It made the entire inner city population die. The King’s remaining
army declared the city cursed, and burned every building to the
ground. In 1920, a mass grave was discovered on the Carthage side
of town, the old villa. It contained as many as six hundred bodies
— all burned.”

I circle the word ‘burned’ in my notebook. So
far, two similar outbreaks occurred where the bodies were burned in
an effort to control a plague. “Do they know for sure it was
dysentery?”

Christian shakes his head. “The symptoms:
vomit, internal hemorrhage, diarrhea, are similar, but who knows
for sure?”

“The King wore a particular crown on his
head. After his death his brother took the crown back to his
country, incomplete. There was a precious stone in the crown that
was not there anymore. This, too, is rumor of course,” I say,
making up a few details.

“I’ve not heard anything about a stone.”

“Well, I believe it was blamed for the death
of an entire city in northern Israel called Caesarea. It would make
sense that the army became afraid of the stone and left it behind,
but I would think a piece of that crown would be stolen, not
destroyed.”

“I’ve not heard of this.” Christian scribbles
a name on a scrap of paper. “Call this man. He is the Islamic
scholar in the area. He knows about the peace treaty signed with
the King, and his men and this plague. He may have historical
records for you regarding this cursed stone.”

I leave the Catholic Church immediately and
ask my cab driver about the man named Al-Ahem Mohamad Jahar. He
takes me to the largest mosque in Tunisia, Al-Zaytuna Mosque.

It’s such a beautiful building. There are
hundreds of columns lining the colorful tile-covered prayer yard. A
tall, square tower stands at one end of the yard. There’s a single
story building surrounding the rest of the yard with a dome top on
the far end. An old man who has thick, deep wrinkles and sun-worn
skin meets me. He wears a colorful tunic and a long gown as blue as
the sky.

As we cut across the prayer yard, the man
points out the significant parts of the structure. Thankfully, he
too speaks English. “The columns are taken from the ancient city,
all one hundred and sixty. They date back to the time of
Carthage.”

“Beautiful,” I say, feeling nervous. There’s
something about this man that I do not like. The wind picks up and
spins dust in chaotic circles. I sneeze. It burns my eyes. I cover
my nose and mouth with my handkerchief.

“Al-Zaytuna is famous university. Many
scholar come here,” the old man says as he walks me past the
Carthage columns and on to a building under the dome.

A younger man approaches me and shakes my
hand. “I heard you were on your way,” the man says easily. He wears
a white cap and an equally bright blue and gold cassock-style
dress. “Come this way, please.”

We step into an office. He shows me how to
wash my feet before I enter. “So, you’re interested in the disease
that killed King Louis the Ninth?”

“I’m studying the Ninth Crusade. I’m
particularly interested in a crown the King wore that is missing an
infamous stone.”