6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (23 page)

“I had to bust the lock when we got here,” I
confess. “Which means it’s not as strong.”

The dead surge at the gate and manage to bust
the metal tie. The gate swings open. Hundreds storm through.

Ben gets in the boat first and helps Markus
onto the deck. Ian and Rice board next.

“I just want to stay here until we’re
rescued,” Tanis complains.

“I know, but I don’t think we can. We’ll be
sitting ducks,” I say, holding Tanis by the shoulders. “We have to
get across the river. There’s probably a containment line — we get
there, we’re safe. Then we can find our families.”

Other walkers climb over the gate and drop to
the other side. Some fall over the walkway and into the water. The
others move down the walkway slowly but purposefully. From this
distance they look like drunks.

“Hurry! In the boat!” Ben cries out.

I help Josh, Tanis, and Andy aboard and then
hop in myself.

“Thank you,” Josh says from behind his
hospital mask. I pass around the three oars we have. I row out of
the dock area and into the river. The walkers mass on the dock and
struggle to get to the boathouse.

“Why are they like that?” Tanis asks.

“They’re zombies, dude,” Ben says. These
one’s are comin’ to eat our brains.”

I look at Ben and frown. “Let’s not be too
dramatic and scare him. He’s only fifteen.”

Ben tries to stand, rocks the boat, then
sits. “Shit, lady. I’m not being dramatic. No reason to sugar coat
this crap. We’re all havin’ nightmares tonight.”

I look away because Ben’s glib, in-your-face
remarks are making me mad. The only way he’s coping is because he’s
drunk. At the dock those things stopped just short of jumping into
the water to pursue us. They have
some
brains.

Ian says to me, “It’s true, Hana. They won’t
stop. We had to beat them into the pavement to get them to
stop.”

Then Isabella chimes in, “I’ve put rounds in
their heads and they keep comin’.”

It’s raining hard. Completely soaked, I start
shivering. Tanis’ hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks five
years younger. His eyes betray how afraid he is. I feel so bad for
him. He’s just a boy, someone’s baby. I put my arm around him.
“Things just got a whole lot worse for us. I’m sorry.”

We are almost to the other side when Rice
screams, “There are more on this side!”

Heads pop up from behind the trees and the
bushes that conceal Roberto Clemente State Park.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Ben yells as he rocks the
boat heavily.

“Sit the fuck down!” Isabella snaps.

“Christ be with us! There are too many to
land here.” Markus presses his forehead to his Bible.

“So we follow the river. Find a different
place to dock,” I reply. The boat turns as we row back to the
middle of the river and head up stream.

“This is technically not a river. It’s more
like a canal. It rises and falls with the tide,” Josh says through
his mask. “We’re going north, so I guess the tide is rising.”

“I can swim faster than this,” Ben
complains.

“No you can’t,” Isabella retorts.

Ben stands. He looks like he is going to
snap, so I stop rowing. “Relax,” I tell him. He sits back down. “No
one can swim this for very long. We don’t even have life
vests.”

From both sides of the river the infected
people leap into the water. Thankfully, they can’t swim. When their
heads drop under the water, they don’t come back up.

“Dock over there,” Markus suggests from
behind me.

There’s a rocky point on the shore where
there are no walkers. Ian and I pull hard on the oars and angle the
boat toward the open spot. When we get close, a walker stumbles
from the bushes and throws itself at us. More of them gather and
rush toward us like an avalanche of gnashing teeth and jagged
broken fingernails. I quickly count over twenty people heading
toward us. A dozen we can handle, but this is a lot. I see more
moving around in the bushes. My heart hurts my chest. I’ve only
experienced this feeling while in a riot a few years back. It got
scary. There was so much energy. We could barely contain the mob,
and we had thirty cops with us.

I recount the walkers. Fifty, at least. And
there are more coming.

“Back, back, back!” Ben yells.

There’s a realization that seems to blow
through all our bodies. Our little trip across the river has
failed. We can’t land because we’re floating slow enough for the
puppets to keep up. They won’t let up. Soon there will be thousands
of them. We’re trapped.

This boat is a tight fit and I want off. I’m
on the edge of losing my composure when I hear Rice sobbing.

I
awaken from a
drug-induced sleep when someone rips the hood off my head. The room
spins and swells. When my vision clears I see that I’m in a shack —
dirt floors, curtain over the door, walls and ceiling made of
corrugated metal. Sunlight shines through the cracks and
imperfections in the slats. They took my jacket and pants, but I am
still wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

A man dressed in a Tunis police uniform steps
into my line of sight. He slaps me across the face. Stinging pain
shoots throughout my skull. The room starts spinning again. I’m hit
again from the other side. Nerves in my face start thumping and
burning like my skin is on fire. I close my eyes, bracing myself
for the next blow. It doesn’t come.

“You have been nosy in our country,” he says
with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My speech is slurred. My
voice sounds deep and hollow. This time I’m hit in the jaw. The
sickening taste of salty blood coats my tongue and slides down my
throat.

“Now, now, Mr. Markus Coburn.”

“What do you want from me? I’m just a
preacher. Born in Alabama. Son of a farmer who was the son of a
slave. Been righteous in the eyes of God. I mean you no harm,
brother.”

The man takes a hammer from a nearby table
and places the end on my knee. Another man behind me holds my
chair. “If you choose to answer my question in any way other than
truth, I shatter your knee. At your age, that might put you in a
walker for life.”

I start shaking. The room seems to shrink.
Pressure grows in my chest. I fear my heart will give out.
“Whatever…whatever you want.”

“Why you ask about the Stone of Allah?”

“I. . . I’m studying the Crusades. The ninth
one,” I say, stammering. “I don’t know anything about any Stone of
Allah.”

“The Catholic Church has all that you need in
their archives. You come to Tunisia for research? Why you ask
Christian about the sickness King die from?”

“I. . . I wanted to know about the plague
that hit Tunis and Caesarea,” I say. “It seemed like a similar
thing. And I heard about a meteor that killed John the Mighty.”

“Now we are getting right to truth,” the man
says. He walks to the man behind me and confers in Arabic. I listen
anyway, trying to hear any word that would tell me of my fate. He
comes back to me, striding casually, like he is enjoying himself.
“Tell me what you know about
Mehdi
.”

“I don’t know anything. I’ve never heard of
that word before.”

WHAM!

I yell out. I thought the hammer had been
brought down on my knee. The two men look away. An explosion goes
off outside the shack. An entire wall falls inward, letting the
bright sunlight in. The two men run to the collapsed wall, drawing
their weapons, but they are too slow. Shots ring out and my captors
fall. I can barely see through the dust cloud. My hands are grabbed
and freed.

“Can you run?” a man asks me in English.

“N. . . no,” I answer. My throat is so dry I
can barely speak. I’m thrown over the man’s shoulder and he hauls
me away. Gunfire goes off all around us. I see bullets hit the dirt
next to the man who’s carrying me. I’m thrown into the back of a
Jeep. I hit my head on the floor, then against the seat, as the
Jeep takes off.

“Turn!” yells another man, riding in the
passenger seat. Just as I pull myself off the floor of the back
seat, an explosion goes off in front of the vehicle. My vision goes
white. I feel the jeep turn over and land on its roll cage. I try
to hold on, but I’m tossed from the Jeep.

I open my eyes. For a moment I see blue sky.
I land hard in water. It floods my mouth. In a panic from the
drowning sensation I push off the sandy bottom and easily sit up.
The river is muddy and shallow. I climb out of the water. In the
distance I see a coal-fired power plant. It has three smoke stacks
that tower high into the sky. They’re spewing out black clouds of
smoke into the noonday sun. I hear shouting, so I run to a nearby
building. The door is locked and there’s nowhere to hide. I run
across a small parking lot and into an ancient neighborhood. There
are rows and rows of mud huts. It’s more than ancient; it’s a slum.
A dog snarls at me as I pass.

I can hardly run any more. Pain spears my
brain, emanating from my ears and eyes. I duck into a small mud
hut. It has a back door that leads to a courtyard. I run through
the courtyard and kick over a bucket of water. My head snags
someone’s clean laundry and rips it down.

At the back of the courtyard I discover
another house. I run into the house. I am being followed. Someone
closes the door behind me.

“Stop!” an American yells.

I stop and turn. I can’t stop looking at his
kind eyes. I instantly feel at ease. I feel I can trust what he
says. The Holy Spirit sets my mind at ease. The man looks out the
crack between the mud hut and wood door that sits poorly on its
frame.