Fools' Apocalypse

by Anderson Atlas

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

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

  Now it’s raining harder. Everyone gets completely soaked. Tanis’s hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks five years younger. His eyes betray how afraid he is. He’s just a boy, someone’s baby. Hana puts her arm around him. “Things just got a whole lot worse for us. I’m sorry.”

  The boat is 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,” Hana reasons. The boat turns as they row back into the middle of the river and head north.

  “The East River rises with the tides, but somehow the Harlem River mostly runs north to the Hudson,” Josh says through his mask.

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

  “No you can’t,” Isabella retorts.

  Ben stands, red flushing his cheeks. He looks like he is going to snap, so Hana stops rowing. “Relax. Please,” she pleads. 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 stumble down the rocks and debris and wade into the water. These walkers are more desperate than the ones at the boathouse. Thankfully, none can’t swim. When their heads drop under the waterline, they don’t come back up.

  “Dock over there,” Markus announces.

  There’s a rocky point on the shore where there are no walkers. Ian, Isabella and Hana drive hard on the oars and angle the boat toward the open spot. When it gets close, a walker stumbles from the bushes and throws itself at them. More gather and rush toward the water; an avalanche of gnashing teeth and worm-filled eye sockets.

  Hana quickly counts over twenty people. A dozen she thinks they can handle, but this is a lot. She sees more moving around in the bushes and the count jumps to fifty, at least. And there are more coming.

  “Back, back, back!” Ben yells.

  A realization blows through everyone on board. Their little trip across the river has failed. They can’t land because they’re floating slow enough for the walkers to keep up. Soon there will be thousands of them, trapping them on the water, in a rowboat, without food or water.

  The boat is a tight fit, and Hana wants off. She’s on the edge of losing her composure when she hears Rice sobbing. They should’ve stayed at the boathouse, barricaded the doors and windows and taken a stand. Now they’re absolutely screwed, unless the river takes them somewhere safe.

  Hana looks at Ian. His face is tight, brow angry. She knows what he’s thinking because she’s thinking it, too. The virus is beyond the Manhattan Island. It’s assaulted the mainland United States.

  Chapter 1.20

  Markus

  Escape from Heathens

  Markus awakes from a drug-induced sleep when someone rips the hood off his head. The room spins and swells as if time and space expand in front of his eyes. He can feel his brain trying to make heads or tails out of his location. But his neurons are slow as molasses. When his vision clears he sees he’s in a shack—dirt floors, curtain over the door, walls and ceiling made of corrugated metal. Sunlight shines through cracks and imperfections in the slats, illuminating the dust hanging in the air.

  They took his jacket and pants, but he’s still wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

  A man wearing a Tunis police uniform steps to Markus and slaps him across the face. Stinging pain shoots throughout his skull and the room starts spinning again. He’s hit again from the other side. Nerves in his face start thumping and burning like his skin is on fire. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the next blow. It doesn’t come.

  The man turns on a light, a single bulb swinging from a cord in the middle of the shack.

  “You have been nosy in our country,” the man says with a thick Middle Eastern accent. He pushes the light so it swings like a pendulum. The shadow of the man moves with the light—back and forth, back and forth.

  “I’m sorry,” Markus says, the movement making him ill. His voice sounds deep and hollow. This time he’s hit in the jaw. The sickening taste of salty blood coats his tongue and slides down his 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 Markus’s knee. Another man behind him holds the 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.”

  Markus shakes violently. The room shrinks as pressure grows in his chest. He fears his heart will give out. “Whatever. . . whatever you want.”

  “Why you ask about Stone of Allah?”

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

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

  “I. . . I wanted to know about the plague that hit Tunis and Caesarea,” Markus says. “It seemed like a similar event. 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 Markus and confers in Arabic. He comes back, 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!

  Markus yells out, thinking the hammer had been brought down on his knee. The two men look to the door as an explosion goes off outside the shack. One entire wall is ripped outward, letting the bright sunlight in. Drawing their weapons, the two men run to the collapsed wall, but they are too slow. Shots ring out and the captors fall. Markus can barely see through the dust cloud, but a figure rushes in and frees his hands and feet.

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

  “N. . . no,” Markus answers, his throat dry and his voice barely audible. The man picks up Markus, and hauls him away.

  Gunfire goes off all around.

  Markus is thrown into the back of a Jeep, hitting his head on the floor, then against the seat, as the Jeep takes off.

  “Turn!” yells an American, riding in the passenger seat.

  Just as Markus manages to sit up, an explosion goes off in front of the vehicle. His vision goes white and he feels the Jeep turn over on its roll cage. He tries to hold on, but he’s tossed away.

  Markus opens his eyes. For a moment he sees blue sky then lands hard in water. It floods his mouth. In a panic from a drowning sensation, he pushes off the sandy bottom and easily sits up. Thank God the river is shallow.

  Markus climbs out of the water. In the distance he sees a coal-fired power plant. It has three smoke stacks that reach high into the sky. They’re spewing out black clouds of smoke into the noonday sun. Someone approaches, shouting, so he runs to a nearby building. The door is locked, and there’s nowhere to hide so he runs 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 and women duck into their homes.

  Markus can hardly run any more. Pain spears his brain, emanating from his ears and eyes. He ducks into a mud hut. It has a back door that leads to a small courtyard. Markus runs through the courtyard and kicks over a bucket of wate
r. His head snags someone’s clean laundry and rips it down.

  At the back of the courtyard there is another house. He runs into it, realizing he’s being followed. Someone closes the door behind them.

  “Stop! We need to be quiet,” the American yells.

  Markus stops and turns. Bracing the door is a man with a beard, blue eyes, and a white head wrap. He’s wearing a simple, ragged t-shirt and jeans. His eyes are kind, and Markus instantly feels at ease. The Holy Spirit tells him he is safe. The man looks out the crack between the mud hut and wood door that sits poorly on its frame.

  “I don’t think they saw where we went,” he says. “We have a few minutes before we have to find somewhere safer.”

  “Who are you?” Markus asks taking heaving breaths.

  “Call me Mitchell. I’m with the CIA.”

  “What on God’s green Earth led you to me?” Markus finally sits, the world spinning around and around.

  “What matters is that you’re safe. They were going to kill you, you know,” Mitchell says plainly. “They don’t want anyone poking around asking the questions you are asking.”

  “About the Stone of Allah?”

  “Yeah. Whatever that stone is, it’s being protected by Saudi Arabian money and some hard-core believers. They don’t want anyone to know about that thing.” Mitchell pulls out a pistol, opens it by sliding the top piece back, and cleans dust off the sides. “We’ve been trying to find out what is so special about that stone for years.”

  “It’s a religious artifact. A treasure to them.”

  Mitchell rolls his eyes. “Right. But the part that confuses me is that the stone should have been a bad omen. It killed the entire population of their city after a weak last minute victory, then came on the crown of an invader followed by another plague.”

  “Caesarea and Tunisia.”

  “You’ve been doing your research.”

  “I thought I was the only one.”

  “Good one. And you’re the only one smart enough to end up in Tunisia,” Mitchell says sarcastically. He grabs Markus’s arm and pulls him off the floor. “Time to go.”

  They run as fast as his old bones can go, down a narrow alley between mud huts that are just taller than him by inches. They pass a dog in the alley—skinny, beaten. It doesn’t even bark. They pass another cluster of homes. The neighborhood looks abandoned. Beyond the glassless windows are empty, dark spaces lacking décor.

  “Where is everyone?” Markus asks as his body struggles to breathe.

  “Prayers. We need to find a hideout until night fall.”

  After a few short blocks they find a small, tin shack hut that looks abandoned. The front door is missing so they duck inside. No clothing, cookware, or other personal items. The wall frames are rotten, eaten through by termites, and the roof sags in the corner. There is a back door, its weathered and split wood hanging from rusted hinges.

  Markus didn’t notice at the time, but his CIA friend had snatched some material from a hut they’d passed. He hangs the fabric in the doorway.

  “There,” Mitchell says, finishing the drapery. “That should hide us. If they find us, we go out the back door and find somewhere else.” He takes off his white head wrap and uses his sleeve to mop the sweat off his head.

  Markus is exhausted, and prays that God will not let them be found. If they do, he will reassess the situation as it pertains to God’s master plan.

  There are voices, many voices. Markus sits in the corner and prays. No one comes. The residents seem to think everything is normal. Night arrives, and only some of the heat drains out of the shack. They sleep on the floor of the hut, still sweating.

  Mitchell planned on leaving that first night, but he couldn’t risk it. Night after night passes. Markus never leaves. Mitchell steals food and clothing during prayers and snoops around at night.

  It’s three o’clock in the morning and he heads out. When he returns he’s in good spirits.

  “There are eight roads leading out of town all guarded by over five hundred soldiers, a handful of A1-Abrams Tanks, a small helicopter field, a temporary command unit, and lots of cameras.”

  That sounded bad to Markus. “How do they have our tanks?”

  “The U.S. sold Saudi Arabia hundreds of tanks in an arms deal that kept the king on our side during the Middle East peace talks.”

  Markus huffs. “We prop up a country that is diabolically opposed to our Christian values and way of life. Seems kind of odd to me. I guess it’s true. The enemy of my enemy is truly my friend. Until they aren’t.”

  “That’s the way all governments work. The world is not black and white.”

  The next night Mitchell goes out late again. He returns with blood all over his arms. He doesn’t say why, and Markus doesn’t ask. Their lives are at risk. One bad move and they’re finished.

  Markus gets bored. He recites his scriptures and thinks of Marian. His body lets him sleep—a lot—which he’s glad for, because when he’s awake he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his head.

  It’s late and the oil lamp is getting low on fuel. If it goes out, he’ll be wide awake in the pitch black, which he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like all this waiting. It’s like he’s on death row and Satan is negotiating his surrender. Nervously, Markus paces. The dust keeps getting into his mouth, so he drinks, eventually running out of water.

  There’s a crack on the far wall. It is roughly an oval. Markus gets closer. The crack circles around dark smudges. It looks like the face of Christ! He stares. He’s there! Smiling at him. The more he looks the more he can see the savior’s eyes, nose. He’s telling him it’s okay, that he should be brave, God still favors him so he falls to his knees and cries.

  An hour later, Mitchell comes back. He always slips in so quietly. It’s impressive. “Hey,” he whispers.

  “Uh.” Markus keeps the image of Christ to himself.

  “Tomorrow night we go.”

  “Now, why is that?” He sits on a blanket and rubs the sore part of his back. His fingers ball up bits of grime on his skin. He’s never been so dirty.

  Mitchell tosses a small loaf of olive oil bread in Markus’s lap and slips into his makeshift bed of stolen blankets. Markus tears into the food. The bread here is the best he’s ever had. Or maybe it’s just that he’s a starved old man.

  Mitchell starts talking while Markus stuffs his face like a schoolboy after a fast. “I’ve been monitoring their movements. Tomorrow there will be a big celebration at the outdoor stadium in the south. There’s a big speech by a top scholar. The troops will be re-stationed then and only then. This leaves maybe five to eight troops covering the Ali Ben Abid Mosque and maybe a single unit covering the south road.”

  “Oh, Lord. Five to eight is no big deal. Just five to eight,” Markus whines with his mouth full. He lies back down. With food in his stomach, his body instantly relaxes.

  “You know,” Mitchell starts. “I heard one of them talking about a big secret in the local mosque. The guy spoke about normally being stationed at the Ali Ben Abid Mosque protecting Mohammed’s biggest secret, which I believe has something to do with the meteor that killed John the Mighty.”

  “I’m glad you can understand them,” Markus says.

  “You know we’re in Medenine, right?”

  “As you’ve told me.”

  “Anyway, it’s considered a holy city. Has been for centuries. That’s the official reason there’s so much Saudi money here. Since becoming interested in this secret, the CIA has been trying to get a guy on the inside for decades now. We’ve failed. We watch and listen at a distance and decipher mumbles and half sentences. We can’t officially get involved, unless there is a wayward American who is in way over his head.” Mitchell smiles. “Yes, your government sent me here to rescue you from yourself.”

  “I’m glad to see big brother is watching.”

  “I was chosen because I’m very well informed about this area—studied Tunisia in the CIA for years.” Mitchell fluf
fs his stolen pillow and settles in. “Mohammed’s biggest secret is here, and we want to find it.”

  “We?”

  “That was my partner in the Jeep.”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  Mitchell shakes his head. “No. But he was the fanatic. He knew we were finally getting close.”

  “After all these years of looking, why now?”

  “Something’s changing. I’ve never heard anyone talking about the secret until lately. I think it is the reason for the troop increase. They’re doubling the garrison. There are more and more people privy to the secret, so that increases the odds of it getting out.”

  “Naturally.” Markus’ scratches his beard.

  “I’m so close now. Closer than ever.” Mitchell’s brow is tight, but his eyes are radiant.

  “This all sounds like a job you can return to after getting me home to my church and my foam mattress.” Markus is tired of being inside all the time, tired of feeling worried when he hears voices or someone passes the front door.

  “You lost your curiosity, huh?”

  Markus thinks about his personal quest. He had a fire under his feet. Was it still there? Cinders in the back of his mind? Could it be rekindled with some fuel? He’s not altogether miserable. He has shelter and food. It’s like fasting in a sense, fasting from modern comforts. He’s closer to God in this space, even seeing signs in the smudges in the wall! Now, with this new information, he feels a growing desire to find the Stone of Allah. “Are you planning on stopping by this mosque before we leave town? Can we do it and not get killed?”

  “Hell yeah! They don’t even know we’re here anymore. They think we’ve left town.” Mitchell has a smile across his face.

  “Mohammed’s biggest secret and they keep it in a dusty mosque? Why not keep the thing in Mecca or Cairo or something? I don’t quite understand.”

  “The mosque is heavily fortified. Plus, you don’t keep Mohammed’s biggest secret in a museum. You keep it hidden.”