6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (2 page)

After mumbling to herself a while longer she sat up,
grabbed my shoulders, and pulled me close. “Don’t get me wrong.”
She held me tight. “You can’t do anything about it. You’re too
young and too inexperienced. There’s nothing you can do. I just
want you to listen to me and accept this as the way of the world.
No one can change this. This is the way it is and you have to get
used to it.” Her eyes were wide and red. “I forbid you to fight
back. You can’t change anyone. Or punish anyone for their vile
behavior,” she hissed.

I shook my head. “I can do something.”

“There are those who need to take matters into their
own hands, but I don’t think you are one of them.”

I had suddenly felt confused and disoriented. She had
never said those things before.
I could do whatever I set my
mind to.
That’s what she’d always told me.

“There’s nothing we can do. We must sit on our hands
and be beaten. Oh, Ian! We will watch our world die!” She’d gotten
out of breath so she let herself fall back into the cushions.

After she popped a pill and passed out on the couch I
went back to the beach. I saw the beach as my mother saw it. Wave
runners zipped off (of the) shore. Their engines, muted by the
waves, were still audible. They seemed to be following the dolphins
around disrupting their feeding. So the dolphins would go hungry
tonight because some idiot wanted to see one up close. There were
paragliders tethered to speedboats zipping back and forth, and
kites were everywhere. Every twenty feet there was someone selling
crap to the tourists. It was a sideshow, not a beach.

I’d been looking for the girl who punched my mother
when some muscular dude walked past me. He finished off his beer
and tossed it into the surf. I started to feel that anger my mother
felt. I wanted to scream and cuss at that guy. I picked up the beer
can and walked it to the trashcan. I started to notice all the
trash on the beach: a bag of chips over by the reeds, sea birds
fighting over a half-eaten sandwich, another beer can sitting two
inches from the trash can.

I had a thought that would follow me into adulthood,
people are just animals that need to be caged.

My mother had given me two hands. She not only wanted
me to use my hands to change the world, she
begged
me use
them. She challenged me through my natural rebelliousness. It was
reverse psychology, masterfully played.

I remember deciding right then and there to do
something about the bullshit in the world. I sped down the beach
looking for the muscular dude. I wanted revenge. The sun was
setting and people were going home. I picked up the pace hoping he
had not left. I found him sitting on a wooden, hotel beach lounger,
with four muscular guys. They were all laughing and drinking beer.
I watched the group a while. They were acting stupid. Every time a
girl walked by they’d whistle and yell. Even though they looked
strong, I wasn’t scared. I had kid immunity.

After a bit, they ran into the surf leaving their
beer cans by the loungers. I casually walked by their stuff and
snatched up two cans. The hotel behind me had three levels of
parking before the floors turned into hotel rooms. Perfect. I hid
behind a car and peed into the beers. I’d never done anything like
this before. I could barely contain myself. I replaced the beer
cans and took two more cans.

Half an hour of waiting paid off. The muscular dudes
got out of the surf and ran to their beers. Their buzz must have
worn thin, so they guzzled their piss beer. Then came the spitting,
the coughing. They cussed and threw the cans. One dude vomited in
the sand. One guy saw me. His eyes locked on mine and like a
missile he came for me.

“Fuckin’ kid! I’m gonna get you!”

I ran and I ran fast. He didn’t last more than a
block before he broke chase.

I ran all the way to the hotel, smiling wide, showing
my teeth. Pride made me lighter than air. Justice had been done. I
burst into the room and flipped the security bar over the
latch.

I told my mother what I’d done. She scolded me softly
then took me out for ice cream.

After that day things changed for me. My mother made
me take dictation every day and eventually made me write her
speeches and press releases. She said I was the most gifted writer
the world had seen in a hundred years. I earned A+ grades and
forced my teachers to write college recommendations as early as
freshmen year.

Seven years passed in the blink of an eye. My mother
was elected Senator of New York, and poised to run for the White
House.

The day she died she called for me. Her voice seemed
panicky so I ran. When I opened the door she was behind it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as she closed the door after
me.

She went to the bed and sat. “You are going to hear
things about me tomorrow or the next day. They are lies. The news
will break that I transferred classified satellite defense
documents to the Chinese government.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “They are lies. They have
manufactured the evidence.”

I wasn’t a baby anymore so I knew the game, or
thought I did. “So fight them in court. We’ll prove your innocence.
You’re being targeted because you’re outwardly Socialist and a
Green Party member.”

Her eyes fluttered. She seemed pale. “I will lose.
The powers are too strong. I have to pass the torch to you
now.”

“Wait a second --”

She shushed me with her hand. “Take the torch and run
with it. We’re close to changing things. So close. Don’t distract
yourself with anything. Not girls, drugs, or greed. The system has
cracks throughout. Use them to smash the walls to bits.” Her eyes
rolled around and she fell back suddenly.

“What’s wrong with you?”

My mother took my hand. “I love you. I’ll be watching
you. Make me proud. Don’t feel sorry for me. This is okay. I will
not go to jail. Not ever.”

I started to freak out. “
What is going on?
I’m
going to call the ambulance! You look terrible.” Her grip tightened
on my arm.

My mother pulled me to her chest and hugged me, hard.
I started crying and pulled away. She listed her favorite memories
in a soft voice. I ran to the door, but she’d had a deadbolt
installed and it was locked.

“Where’s the key? Mother!”

She ignored me and kept talking. Her voice softened
even more until it was like a breeze. I tried the phone but it was
dead. I tried to open the window, but it was nailed shut. I saw the
hammer under the bed and grabbed it. The nails were finishing
nails, and I couldn’t get the claw under the head to pull them
out.

As I smashed the window with the hammer and opened
the hole large enough for my body, my mother whispered, “I love
you. Take my torch. I love you. Take my torch.” Over and over she
said this. I pried the screen off of the window frame and hopped
out. I turned to look at her while standing on the fire escape. Her
jaw slackened and her head rolled to the side. Her eyes were blank
and thoughtless. She was dead.

After a lot of tears, which my father did not share,
I took her torch. Though the press threw her under the bus for
weeks, it was surprisingly gentle because of her suicide. She’d
left a twenty-page document expounding her innocence, and her loyal
community believed every word.

That began my career of mischief and malcontent. My
life took a tumble through chaos and organized anarchy. I longed
for a better world and I wanted to destroy this one in order to
find it. That’s when I met Zilla.

#

The girl at the bar has been talking for the last ten
minutes, but I haven’t heard a word. My nods and smiles are enough
to keep her chatting, even while serving beers and making drinks
for impatient patrons.

My phone buzzes, startling me. “I’m sorry,” I say,
cutting her off. “I’d love to continue our chat, but I’ve got to
go.”

Unfazed, she puts down a fresh napkin and writes her
name and number on it. “Call me?”

I smile and touch her finger as she hands me the
number. “Yeah.” As I walk out of the bar I take one look at her
number then wad it up and toss it in the garbage. I’ve got some
history to make now. No distractions. My real work has just
begun.

I walk down the street quickly. After a block I walk
to a van parked in a special permitted spot on the curb. It’s got
the same logo that I now wear on my chest. A woman in a tight dark
blue skirt and white collared top comes at me. She’s got bright red
lipstick and rich brown hair. Her green eyes target and hold me. I
notice a scar on her cheek that extends to her jaw. At the moment
of passing she stumbles and grabs on to my arm. She quickly slides
the van keys into my hand.

“Excuse me,” she blurts as she regains her footing
and walks away.

Everything is going according to plan. This is the
craziest thing I’ve ever done and if I don’t do this right I’ll go
to jail. I open the passenger door and grab the bag on the
seat.

My instructions are clear. I head to the tall
glass-faced skyscraper trying to look as confident as I can.
Keep your head up, back straight but casual. You’re just another
guy doing his job.
I pass the lobby counter and swipe my card
at a reader next to a door adjacent to the elevators. The card
reader’s light goes green and I step inside the small room.

I am greeted by a man in black fatigues with an M-16,
a snub nose machine gun, strapped to his shoulder. “You’re not
Redmond. Where’s your ID? Put your tools down and get your hands
up.”

I do what I’m asked. There are no windows,
adornments, or seats. There is a back door, plain white with more
security locks. It flies open and another guard comes through
looking like his skin is about to burst into flames. He walks right
up to me and snatches the ID card I’d used to gain access to the
room. After a moment he looks up. “I’m sorry about the
inconvenience, Mr. Hadley. We had a bomb threat in the building
this morning and are running hot around here.” He moves to the back
door quickly. “Stay put, we just need to run additional security
checks. It’s protocol, that’s all.” He leaves.

Oh shit
, I think.

I don’t like it when people look at me for too long.
They stare. I turn away, then peek, and they’re still staring.
Either they’re jackasses, or they just don’t have a fucking clue
where their pupils have decided to take a rest. Either way, it’s
their fault and I just want to slap the shit out of them then throw
them off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Today the bank is full of shit eaters. Half of which
have already stared at me for too long. Too bad I don’t have the
guts to say something. I look down. Maybe they’ve noticed the stain
on my shirt that looks kinda like Jesus.

Finally, the teller calls me up to the window. “My
card doesn’t work at the ATM!” I say loudly because there’s three
inches of polycarbonate, bulletproof plastic between me and this
broad with the hairspray hairdo.

“To withdraw money you need to slide your card.” She
says. Clearly she didn’t hear a fucking word I just said.

“It doesn’t work.” I take a chance and slide the card
into the metal tray underneath the bulletproof glass.

She looks at me weird.

“Come on!” Some construction worker yells from the
line.

I turn to the worker, my eyes wide open. “I’m fucking
trying. This babe can’t hear me through the sludge that is so
obviously clogging her ears.” I turn back and get the look that
says, ‘Now that I’ve decided you’re an asshole, I’m going to sit
here and pretend to type out shit just so I can waste your
time’.