6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (43 page)

I’m at the helm, but that’s speaking loosely.
I haven’t touched the wheel in over an hour.

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.

Thank you for reading 6th horseman!

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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
)

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 take 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.

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.