6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (31 page)

Mitchell tells me to wait by a small grey
car. He runs out of sight toward the mosque’s side entrance. A
moment later he pokes his head around a corner and waves me over.
Mitchell is standing at the back door, holding a gadget up to the
lock. He’s trying to break in using the codes he spoke of. At his
feet are three guards lying on the ground, dead or out cold. They
all have big machine guns, so I’m glad they aren’t moving. Their
uniforms are black, with green berets, thick waist belts filled
with bullets, grenades, and who knows what else. Mitchell strips
some gear from them and takes a machine gun.

Finally, the door pops open. We slip inside
and close it after Mitchell pulls the soldiers in. The room is
dark. Mitchell tells me to wait, then disappears. My adrenaline
peaks. All I can hear is my beating heart. I shut my eyes and pray.
Oh, God, why have I chosen to take such a path? I should be at home
with my parishioners and my wife, spreading Your Word, not decoding
history’s obscurities.

The lights flick on. The entire room is a
vault, with metal walls and not a single window. It’s about the
size of my living room back home. Every corner of every wall is
filled with papers, notes and diagrams. I walk to the most colorful
diagram. The writing is in Arabic, but I recognize a detailed map
of Western Europe during the middle ages. I think back to my
history lessons. Was this the time of the Black Plague? I move to
the next wall. It’s a map of Caesarea. The opposite wall has a map
of Tunis and Medinine. On the last wall is a map of the world. It’s
dated 1918 with red marks all over it.

Mitchell reads the paper over my shoulder,
scaring the Holy Ghost out of me. “Influenza outbreak in 1918
killed more than forty million people. More fatalities than
WWI.”

“You don’t say,” I mumble. Both of us moved
to the map on the opposite wall. “What does this say?”

Mitchell interprets the writing. “A dysentery
plague in Tunis in 1943 and here in Medinine in 1985.”

“King Louis died of dysentery,” I say,
recognizing the pattern of this recurring disease.

“Yeah, so there are a few cases of dysentery.
The bug’s been in the historical record since the 1200’s.” Mitchell
moves to another wall. He reads, “1818. Dysentery again. This time
it was in Chicago.”

“When did King Louis die?” I ask
Mitchell.

“1270,” he answers.

Other sites of dysentery are highlighted on
the world map and cluster around the sub-tropical latitudes. The
final poster I see is an illustration of a constellation and
orbital pattern circling the solar system.

Mitchell studies the diagram. “Looks like
these guys think there’s a connection between meteor showers and
viral outbreaks on Earth. But the dates don’t line up. If dysentery
came from a meteor shower there would be a regular orbital pattern.
The outbreaks would happen on a predictable schedule.”

“Meteors can carry viruses?” I ask. “Doesn’t
it get too hot burning through the atmosphere?”

“Somebody should tell these guys that.”
Mitchell reads some more. “Here we go. There’s a centurial orbit
plotted here that intersects not with Earth but with the asteroid
belt. They think the resulting collisions pushed some of these
infected meteors to Earth.” Mitchell moves to the large safe in the
far corner and takes out his gadget again.

I continue to look around until Mitchell
returns, carrying something large. He’s holding the Stone of
Allah.

“You got it!”

Mitchell snickers like a boy. We admire the
black and gold lace cloth that covers it. “This is the
million-dollar secret.” He pulls off the cloth slowly.

The stone looks like a diamond. The edges
aren’t precisely cut but they are smooth like polished stone. There
are lots of little cracks throughout the clear stone and a
fungus-like growth in the center.

I admire it, but I won’t touch it. “This is
the stone that killed John the Mighty, might have adorned the Holy
Crown of Jesus Christ, and maybe even killed King Louis IX and
countless others.”

“And it has been a secret for six-hundred
years,” Mitchell says. He rewraps the stone in the cloth. “We have
to go now, Father.”

“I’m not a Father. Just a preacher.”

“Whatever you say.” He stuffs the stone in
his backpack.

I’m inspired by God at that moment. The Holy
Spirit enters me. I rip down the papers on the wall and collect
them. Then I notice a red envelope on the desk. I take that too and
run back to Mitchell. He smiles and nods at me. A look of childish
mischief crosses his face as he grabs my hand. “When we leave this
room, you cover your eyes and barely peek at your feet. We’re gonna
run as fast as we can. Got it?”

I don’t argue. Something bad is about to
happen. Instead, I pray. Mitchell flings the door open and runs. We
run right into a group of very angry Tunisian army men. They’ve
found us! I cover my eyes and look at my feet, just as Mitchell had
ordered.

T
his was supposed to
be easy. Not anymore. I lead Markus and Doof — sorry, Josh, with
his white medical mask, down the path that leads from the kiddy
dock to the nearest road. Tanis, Hana, and Ian have taken off ahead
of us. They move much faster because they have a longer way to
go.

We’re looking for a market so we can stock up
on food and water. We pass a grove of trees and bushes, then follow
a ramp that connects to Cross Bay Boulevard. It’s pretty quiet. No
puppets are here, yet.

We move fast. I have my Beater Stick and my
M-16A. Josh has his small electric chainsaw, oddly enough not
killed by the EMP, and Markus has his bat. We’re ready for a fight,
although avoiding one is our priority. To clarify, I wouldn’t mind
beating down a few hundred puppets, but I’m tired and sore. I’ll
get this done and then I’m out of commission for a while. I’d like
to crash for a day or two.

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.