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

Hours go by. No one comes. Why? Nothing is making
sense to me.

I like to think I’m as tough as they come, but I’m
not. I sit with my eyes closed and try to think of other things,
but I can’t seem to relax. I’m shaking. My blood sugar has crashed.
Maybe if I try to eat. I reach for my glove compartment. I have
granola bars in there. Instead of my bars falling out, a red box
falls. I open it. Inside is a red syringe and a note:

‘
Use or die. The New World thanks you. Your
service was indispensable.’

~Zilla.

I
lock the door to
my church and stagger down the steps to the sidewalk. The sun is so
bright it hurts my eyes. Jordan, my secretary, is staring at me.
She’s botherin’ me. I know she cares, maybe too much. I look at
her. “It’s fine, J,” I say.

“We don’t have to cancel Wednesday service
yet. We get the word out to the neighborhood on Sunday, go door to
door again,” she offers, tryin’ to act cheery.

“I can’t pay you. We have no volunteers and
Regional has cut our stipend again.” I follow the sidewalk to the
street then stop and look at Jordan. “I don’t like preachin’ to
empty pews.” I shrug. “I failed.”

“Mrs. Clarady is there. And old man Rinald.”
Jordan’s a young and proud black woman, always wearin’ fashionable
pantsuits to church like she’s a lawyer. Good lookin’, but
naive.

I chuckle weakly and shake my head, “See you
on Sunday.” I start walking home. I take a detour, hoping to get a
muffin at a nearby bakery. I cross the street without looking for
traffic. A car hits its breaks and blares the horn, but it doesn’t
faze me. I haven’t been feeling too good lately. My church sits
empty. Thugs run my neighborhood. I don’t feel God in my life
anymore. Does He even exist, or am I just a stupid old man?
Everywhere I look there’s misery. Even in my own pews there are
those that Jesus hasn’t helped. In the last two years I’d lost over
a hundred parishioners. I’m failing at my job. I’m saving no
one.

I head straight for the coffee shop. I look
forward to drinking coffee with my Muslim friend, one of the few
things I still look forward to these days. It was about a year ago
when I met Ramid.

#

I’d noticed him sitting at a table, drinking
coffee and reading. I walked to him and stared, not really
thinking. I’d had a bad night and no one to talk to. Finally, he
noticed me and turned. His smile was welcoming. As though he could
read my thoughts, he motioned for me to sit across from him at his
table.

“I know the look on your face. I’ve been
there myself.” He sipped his coffee confidently. “You are living
with the suffering of thousands upon your shoulders. It is common
for men like us.”

“I feel,” My head lowered, and I looked at
the passing cars. “God has abandoned me, maybe this town.”

“Have a drink,” he said and waved the waiter
over.

#

Ramid Aheed Mohammed is a portly gentleman,
tall, with a long fuzzy white beard. He has kind eyes and always
wears a white thwab with a flat white cap. A whole year had passed
in a blink of an eye. We’d become good friends, settled into a
routine, having coffee twice a month. He’s the Imam who heads up
the Islamic Center of New York. He’s a proud Muslim, even in New
York, where he gets less than positive attention most of the time.
He’s helped me through my dark times, though I still have not found
peace. I’ve come to accept my empty church, and still fight
harassment from the local thugs. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired
of being the vessel of failure. Ramid, even more so than my wife,
understands my pain. It seems we were cut from the same cloth.

Today, we’re at a cafe in Uptown. I’ve
decided to leave New York and Ramid is talking me through my
decision. I haven’t even told my wife. When I look out at the
streets of New York I see only red, a blur of activity enriched
with the color of blood. There are empty shells walking around
instead of people. They meander about, hollow and godless. They’re
weak like foil figures. I admit it is possible I’m projecting. They
are a mirror into my soul. I haven’t spoken to God in quite some
time.

A minute ago, Ramid had left to answer his
phone in private. The wind picks up, whips open his notebook, and
blows loose papers off the table. I grab the quickly scattering
pages and put them back in the book. I notice a fax labeled
‘URGENT.’ I read it because it’s hard to ignore a thing like that.
It reads:

The Stone of Allah has been written about
three times in the European press this past year. This is
unacceptable. It seems there are records at the Vatican that we
were not aware of. Our budget for this situation has been increased
tenfold. I will be arriving in America on the 10th, 2:00PM, flight
2564. You will pick me up at that time.

~Signed, Aaban Aarif

The Imam returns to the table, somber. He
must have gotten bad news.

“Your papers blew off the table. I collected
them for you. I think I got them all.” I wasn’t sure I should say
anything about the message, but I did anyway. “What is the Stone of
Allah?” I ask.

Ramid’s face is in shadow as he looks down to
me. He scratches his beard then looks down the street like one
would do if they were waiting for the bus. “You were not supposed
to see that.”

“Care to satisfy my curiosity? It will be
between us and God,” I say easily.

“It is a personal matter. I’m sorry, but the
only thing I can tell you is that the Stone of Allah is worthless
to Christians.” He excuses himself for one more minute and gets on
his cell.

Finally, he returns to the table. His
demeanor has changed again. “Markus, will you come to my car with
me? I think I can tell you something about this stone.”

“Certainly.” My interest is reinforced. I pay
the bill then follow the Imam around to the alley. “You risk
parking here?” I say stunned. The ticket is hefty.

There’s a black sedan in front of me, slick
black, with dark windows. Strange, I’ve never seen the Imam in this
vehicle. As we approach the sedan, two gentlemen step out. They
have dark olive skin, dark hair, and dressed in black suits.
They’re wearing heavy jewelry. One has a necklace, the other a
thick diamond bracelet and a huge gold ring. They approach and grab
me suddenly.

“What are you doing? What is this!?” I cry
out.

They force me into the back of the sedan and
drive to a nearby parking structure. I plead for an explanation,
but they say nothing. At the top level they stop. I’m dragged to
the edge of the building. Ramid is a community leader. He’s a saint
— was a saint. He was my friend. Now his slick smile and flaccid
gestures seem like nothing more than insults.

Ramid’s eyes are strained. “You should not
have seen that,” he repeats. He lowers his head and looks away.
“This is partly my fault. I’ve become too casual with you.”

The two hold me over the edge of the parking
structure. A pistol is pushed into my forehead. I see the road many
levels below. Traffic is moving slowly. People are going about
their day.
God, please let someone see me.

“The information you have seen has led to
your death,” Ramid says. “I’m sorry, friend. This is bigger than
me. This is a war, and I am loyal to my side.”

“No!” I plead. “I saw nothing. Please, I have
a family. I have a church. I’ll forget what I saw.”

I’m pulled back onto the roof. The pistol is
brought down on my back, hard. My kidney feels like it explodes.
Pain fills my head. I’m released, and I drop to the ground.

Ramid pats me on the head. “Time to leave
town. This is not your home anymore. You were going to do this
anyway so this is no great hardship.”

“I promise,” I say cringing in pain. “I’ll
leave.”

“Keep your word and you will live to see the
rest of your days. Stay or seek out more information and you will
lose everything. Go to the police and we will find you or someone
you care for and exact revenge. I will give you this one chance
because we are friends. And we will be watching you to make sure
you keep your word. The war has found your shores, my friend. We’ll
be watching.” The Imam and his thugs leave me and drive off.

I sit and hold my side. I wait for the pain
to subside. Anger fills my soul, bringing thoughts of evil. I’ve
dealt with thugs before. Neighborhood dealers and thieves. This is
different. This is a man of God! Threatening me! I’ve never felt so
violated and upset in my entire life. I pray that the anger that
wells up in my soul will not swallow me whole. My cell is smashed,
but still works. I call a cab. Moments later a sedan marked in
familiar yellow pulls up next to me. I practically throw my ole’
bones in the back seat.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

I give him my church’s address.

As the cab enters my street I see crowds
gathering and pointing. The cab pushes through them and approaches
my church. It’s ablaze. Towers of flame crawl up the steeple. Black
smoke pours from broken windows. The cab stops to allow a fire
truck to pass.

“Can’t go further, sir,” the cabbie says.
“Sir?”

I can’t move. I can’t look away.

“Twelve fifty, sir,” the cabbie says
impatiently. Eventually he speaks again, “The meter is still
running, sir,” he says. I make no movement or sound.

“Take me home, please,” I mutter, then give
him the address.

“Ah, finally, he speaks!”

The night comes. I’m still in my home office.
Strangely, I don’t feel any sadness. I’m angry. I uncork a small
bottle of vodka hidden in my desk and take a swig. The warmth in my
throat distracts me. It was Benjamin Franklin that once said, “Beer
is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Or something
like that. He should have included vodka. I take another swig. I
know the reason God lets evil exist. I know He wants us to choose,
to earn our seats in Heaven. But I wonder if there might be another
way for us to earn our stripes. I’d build a pyramid, or a city of
gold for you, God. If only you’d deliver me from pain and
sadness.

The next day I take my wife and seek refuge
at my cousin’s house in Birmingham, Alabama. I choose to not tell
anyone about Ramid or his secret war. I didn’t know exactly what he
was speaking of anyway, but I think of little else.

Weeks go by. Marian, my lovely wife, eases my
anger with her touch and kindness. My old parishioners do a fine
job cheering me up. I get handfuls of letters. The insurance will
pay to rebuild the church. I haven’t told my wife that I cannot
return to New York. I don’t even know if I’ll be a preacher
anymore. It’s so hard to keep going. It’s hard to think about
anything else but my hate for Ramid. It burns my soul. I can’t
sleep at night. I feel the devil at my doorstep.