“Then how do you plan on getting in there? Stroll on up and say, hi?” Markus feels like staying put until the job is done. He’s pretty sure the Lord does not want him shot at anymore.
“I have an intimate knowledge of the mosque,” Mitchell answers.
“What’s this intimate knowledge you speak of? Enlighten an ol’ man, please?”
Mitchell clearly doesn’t want to explain, but he does anyway, “The French manufacturer of the vault at Ali Ben Abid Mosque sold the CIA all their product schematics, codes, and keys in order to survive the recession of 2009. Cost us half a billion dollars. Also, I’ve studied satellite images of the area. I know exactly how to get in, so this should be a breeze. Trust me. I’m the one who saved your butt—so you have to trust me.”
“I don’t feel saved yet!” Markus says, only half kidding. He basks in the duality of the moment, angel on one shoulder, devil on the other. He’s at the crossroads. Will I die in a puddle of sweat and blood? Or will I find salvation? Even as blind as I can be, I march on down the foggy road. Is the future unwritten and selfish? Or am I just the tool of the all-knowing light that is God?
Chapter 1.21
Ian
The Political Voice
Ian orders everyone to shuffle in the boat. “This way we’ll have the maximum elbow room.” The boat rocks as they play musical chairs. Tanis grabs the side of the boat and holds on for dear life. When everyone is settled and the packs and weapons are stored properly, he tries to relax. The dark-gray clouds turn to black as the sun sets. Soon the darkness swarms around them.
It’s not looking good. Ian is worried. They don’t have anywhere to go, absolutely nowhere to run. The walkers taunt them from both shores. They’re above, too, which is unnerving. Cliffs have risen from the shoreline the farther north the boat travels. The echoing dead cries down into the canyon, their hollow, shrill voices bouncing off the water, leaping around the little boat. The sound is grating, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Ian remembers he’s got a light in his pack that can be turned into a lantern. He takes Isabella’s staff and sets it on its end. The flashlight’s strap has a clip on it, so he’s able to tighten it to the handle. When he turns it on, the darkness leaps away.
The light has a weird effect. It makes everywhere else darker. No one can see anything, but they can hear movement on the shores.
Ian rows, because he needs something to do. The oar drags through the water, forcing his muscles to remain awake, and it helps to relax him. The oar becomes an extension of himself. Ian won’t part with it for anything. Even his cold, dead fingers will grip it like a vise.
“Where’s the containment line?” Rice asks, feebly.
“There ain’t one,” Isabella snaps.
“Now, we don’t know that,” Markus says. “It simply might be more inland.”
“How are we gonna get off this river?” asks Tanis.
Ian looks at Hana. He can barely see her in the dark, but he can see that she doesn’t know what to tell the boy. He speaks for her. “We row ’til we find somewhere safe. Maybe the Jersey side. Maybe farther south.” It felt natural for Ian to issue orders. He’s been issuing orders for years until Zilla started telling him what to do.
#
Ian remembers the night he found his audience. He’d gone to a midnight rally supporting the democratic candidate for President with his political-science teacher who he knew well. The candidate was Congressman Jones of Iowa. He had the crowd energized. He was ranting about how corrupt the current President was. Someone asked him how he would reduce corruption in the White House, and all they got were ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ followed by some bullshit answer. It was something like, “If you elect me President, I’ll see to it that the little people have a say.”
Ian’s voice leaped from his throat like he was breathing fire, like he was possessed by his mother’s spirit. “The last three Presidents have promised the same crap! How about some real answers with concrete ideas! How will you handle executive abuse and corporate pandering?!”
Congressman Jones had no idea what he’d gotten into. He was booed away, and to his own surprise, Ian stomped on stage. A sea of heavily shadowed faces glared up from below. The crowd was silent. They watched him like a child seeing their parents do something different for a change.
Ian tried to clear his throat. When that didn’t work, he chugged his beer then blurted out. “Who the fuck am I?” The crowd was still. “I’ve got two eyes, two ears, and a brain like everyone here!” The crowd shifted simultaneously. They were waiting, poised, and Ian leaped. After all, he was drunk, mad, and could put two words together. “The whole damn system is fucked!” A roar as loud as stampeding elephants thundered throughout the small space. “Some democrat comes up here thinking he could dance and we’d let him lead. I can see through it! He says the same bull crap we’ve been hearing for decades. Who the fuck am I? I’m a pissed American, that’s who.” Stomping feet and clapping drowned out his voice. Ian waited until it subsided. “Who was responsible for the housing bubble? Wall Street was responsible. Who went to war illegally with Iraq, Libya, then Pakistan? The government did. Who colludes to keep tax loopholes and pharmaceuticals overloading our shelves with poison? And who contributes to the military industrial complex? Government and lobbyists!” More applause and stomping. “I say we take this to the street. I say we set up a protest that clogs the entire city!”
The crowd’s immense cheers hurt his ears. His throat was dry, but a rush of energy filled his body and burst out his pores.
Ian found his political voice. Now he had a fire under his feet that kept him going–and Dad’s monthly checks, of course. If his mother could teeter on the socialist cliff, he was gonna jump off it.
One night, his buddy Reese and five other guys set out to do some guerrilla protesting. That’s what he called it. The endgame was to embarrass a law office that protected crooked CEOs. They had to be sneaky about it. Good thing he was excellent at being sneaky.
Ian and his friends put on black suits and headed to club Tangle, which was next to the corporate law offices of Sim and Mayers. The Law Offices of Sim and Mayers defended corporations, enabling them to oppress and betray workers.
While at the club, Ian and the others whispered to people that something big was going to happen next door at the law offices. The word spread. People knew he was serious. They bit on the rumor and followed the carrot into the street like sheep. Tweets and blogs got passed around like a blazing joint, and everyone started showing up. Traffic came to a grinding halt.
Ian snuck away from the growing crowd, slipping on his black ski mask and leather gloves and retrieved a backpack he hid behind a dumpster. Inside the bag were rolled banners, which he handed to each of the guys. They ran down the alley and into the underground parking lot, hitting the camera lenses with sticky balls while a guy went into the front lobby to distract the guards.
Reese, a jack-of-all-trades, picked the lock to the lower security elevator door using some card clone device. The group rode the elevator up in silence, listening to the hum of the motors and the wheels.
Once on the third floor, they ran to the windows. The timer was set for ten minutes. Ian ran to the corner office and opened the window facing the street. He could hear the ruckus growing below. The cops had probably been called so they had to hurry.
Ian attached the top of the roll to the outer windowsill with a lot of duct tape but kept the banner rolled up with a paperclip. He knew that making a statement was more complicated than simply showing people proof. It had to be unveiled.
Ian took a two-hundred-foot spool of string and tied the end to the paperclip. When the others finished attaching their rolls to the windowsills, Ian connected the string to each poster and looped it around the paperclip then lowered the spool out the last window to the street. He was very careful not to let the string pull the paperclips out and unveil the posters too early.
Time was up. Ian could see the reflections of police lights d
ance into the building from the street below. The cops were early. Ian and the others hit the stairwell and practically flew down the steps. At street level was the emergency exit. Ian bashed through the door like a sledgehammer. The alarm rang, but it didn’t matter. They’d done their jobs. The crowd had successfully blocked the alley, and the activists were absorbed into the masses.
Ian pushed his way to the front of the crowd where the police were holding the line. He pressed his back to the barricade and was handed a bullhorn. “Sometimes we have to follow the money!” Ian yelled. The bullhorn added the necessary element of authority to his voice.
“We see wrongs happening and we see corruption. Today we’re highlighting the very law offices that keep corrupt men from going to jail!” Hands went up in the crowd. Glowing screens from cell phones lit up the night. Their cameras were rolling. Ian and his friends ducked under the barricades, slipping past the few cops. They ran up the steps of the building and turned. Ian held the bullhorn up, “Today we show you what the media is too lazy or corrupt to tell you! We advocate for the Forgotten Man!” The crowd surged, forcing the cops to remain at the barricades.
The cops were yelling at Ian to back away from the building, but he ignored them. He only had a few minutes before back up came.
Ian snatched the spool of string he’d lowered from the window and pulled. Banners unfurled from each window. They were images of everyday people. Across their faces the word ‘FIRED’ was written across their blacked out eyes. Below their mugs were various reasons. They included: for being gay, for being democrat, for being overweight, for missing too much work because of a sick child, for getting pregnant. Ian pointed to the posters, “Each of these people took their cases to court, and each case was thrown out. By who?! By corrupt judges and these guys. The lawyers that work in this very building!” The crowd booed. Their faces were a sea of anger and excitement. Their eyes reflected their humanity. The desire to be right and to feel a true sense of morality was as strong as beating hearts.
“But the government makes the laws!” yells a man in the crowd. “Isn’t government responsible, too? How do you fix that by giving politicians more power?”
Ian didn’t know how to answer him because Ian’s mind was made up. Even if the government was part of the problem, it had to be the solution, right?
Ian threw the remainder of the pamphlets into the air and ran. The propaganda confetti fluttered into the hands of the people. The crowd exploded, dispersing from the cops like a flood.
Ian and his friends took those cops on a wild goose chase that night. He felt like he was bulletproof, like he was as strong as titanium. It was a night he never forgot.
Eventually he was arrested along with fifty others.
Unfortunately, his dad didn’t let him spend the night in jail. Afraid of the negative publicity his company would reap in the press, he bailed Ian out and covered up his involvement. Ian hadn’t spoken to him since, other than a few texts at thanksgiving and Christmas.
Ian’s organization grew after proving they could get shit done—The Red Stars they called themselves. Eventually he was able to get over fifty thousand people to march on Wall Street. They protested the corruption of the banks and the system itself. They camped out for days. Hundreds of supporters followed. One week turned into five. Fifty thousand turned into a half a million across the US. Ian felt like a god, like he could do no wrong. The energy that flowed through his thoughts kept him up at night. He walked the streets, filled book after book with thoughts, opinions, and articles. Everyone knew Ian Gladstone. Either you hated him or you loved him.
The night it all fell apart Ian was halfway through a fifth of vodka. He was drinking and toasting their success, still faithfully camped on the National Mall.
At first the protest got a lot of attention. They were making people think. Then the media stepped in. They distorted the message and made the protestors look like crazy people. Some were crazy. The camp attracted homeless people, ex-cons, and messed up fools. Who else could take off work and sit around protesting and camping in a park for five weeks? Anyway, shit started going down. A guy in Orange County raped a woman. The cops tear-gassed the park and robberies made everyone afraid at night. Eventually, everyone went home. New York protestors jumped a couple of aggressive cops and bashed their heads in. They got shut down. Houston had a counter protest next door, and eventually they started throwing punches.
To top it off, every time the cameras were pointed at a protestor, they couldn’t answer a damn question. Of course the media latched on to the really stupid answers, and the YouTube whores went viral with it. The longer they stayed there the loonier they seemed. It imploded. The protestors were ineffectual. That’s why Ian hooked up with Zilla. He promised action, effectiveness, and money.
#
Ian wants to scream out and hit something until the bones in his fists break. The memory of who he was still haunts him. Ian used to write about the evilness of the rich. But he’s evil. He took everything away from everyone, including himself. Now he’s surrounded by the shit storm he caused. Fucking poetic.
The rain eventually stops.
Rice whimpers to herself for over an hour. She’s not even trying to keep herself quiet. Just after two in the morning, Josh falls asleep from exhaustion. Tanis sleeps, too. Ben passes out. He’d been drinking the entire time, little sips here and there. Ian’s hoping he’ll be more pleasant when he’s sober. Isabella keeps her eyes wide open. She chews on a sucker Tanis gave her, who, not surprisingly, has a stockpile of candy in his pack. Markus doesn’t sleep either. He uses the light to read passages from his Bible. Ian and Hana keep the boat in the middle of the river by taking turns rowing. They try to row as little as they can, to make as less noise and motion as possible. Andy sleeps as well, but he’s moaning like he’s got a fever.
Ian can’t tell how close they are to the shore. But every now and again he sees them, eyeless faces moving along the shadows like jackals working out how to attack them most efficiently, stalking them like wounded antelope.
“Shit!” Ian realizes they’re too close the shore. Adrenaline floods his system. He turns the boat with one oar and then rows with both until the shore fades from view. One of those walkers leaps into the water. Its twisted, screeching face fades to black.
After reaching the Hudson, they float south toward the Atlantic Ocean. Ian doesn’t want to get pushed out to sea in a rowboat, but the receding tide gives them little choice. He’s worried, but says nothing.
“Those walkers must be able to hear us,” Hana whispers. “They don’t have eyes anymore. I don’t see any other way for them to track us.”
Isabella speaks up, “Does it matter? They want us. We have to find a way to burn them all.”
“Yes, it matters,” Hana replies. “It matters to me.”
“I think you’re right,” Ian cuts in. “They sense us differently now. They aren’t human anymore. They must be hearing us. . . or seeing our heat. Maybe they have sonar, like a bat.”
Markus chimes in with his calm and reassuring voice. “Peter tells us about the apocalypse. ‘The day of the Lord will come like a thief’—”
“Thanks for that,” Isabella mumbles.
Markus continues unabated, “—‘the heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything in it will be laid bare.’ In Thessalonians, the passage says, ‘While people are saying, “Peace and safety,” destruction will come on them suddenly, as labor pains on a pregnant woman, and they will not escape.’”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Markus,” Hana mumbles.
“But we have, all of us here, have passed through the fire. We are to become the righteous. We will rebuild the world.”
“So you think there’s no quarantine line?” Hana asks. “This virus is crawling across the entire Earth?”
“I don’t know for sure. But these are the end times,” Markus replies. “I know it in my heart. When th
ere’s no more room in hell, the Lord will come, and the dead will walk the Earth.”
Ian pulls his oar slowly through the water, steering them back to the middle of the Hudson. “I have to agree with Markus. If they stopped the spread of the virus, wouldn’t we see planes in the sky? Wouldn’t we see the full force of the U.S. Army by now?”
“They should’ve firebombed the entire area,” Isabella adds.
Rice sits up. Her face has long lines of dark mascara streaking down her cheeks. In the shadows of Ian’s weak lantern her face looks like an 80’s heavy metal rocker. She asks Markus, “Why are we saved? I never spent one hour in church. My parents didn’t believe in God. I never took communion or prayed!”
“God has a plan for all of us. It isn’t quite clear to me yet, but I will see the plan. Stick with me. I’m in God’s favor,” Markus answers with a smile.
“Where do we go if the world has ended?” Rice asks. She wipes her nose on her shoulder and attempts to wipe her tears but only succeeds in smearing her mascara across her face like windblown tracks.
Ian is an empathetic sort of person, and looking at Rice makes the sadness resurface. It comes and goes, like the tides. He guesses it has to, or he wouldn’t be able to fight, to survive. “Let’s first find out if there’s a quarantine line before we lose our minds. If we can find safety, we will,” Ian reassures Rice. She puts her hand on his knee and tries to smile.
“Okay, how do we find out?” Rice sits up and composes herself.
Hana wakes up Tanis. “Hey, did you bring the radio you fixed?”
Tanis nods and hands his backpack to Hana. “Yeah, batteries still work, too.” He lies back down on the floor of the rowboat.
Hana takes out the radio. “Tanis fixed this thing. It’s not digital anymore, but he rigged this pin to scroll through the stations. If the world didn’t end, we should be able to pick up a signal.” She flicks the radio on and slowly scans for stations. Static erupts from the speakers. The noise is like shredded sound, but Ian listens, knowing there might be something faint in the static. Hana moves the makeshift dial slowly.
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