6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 by Anderson Atlas

been a neighbor, but I’ve never met
him. Sucks to be you, dude. The hallway is so dark I can’t
see my own hands. Someone upstairs screams. I just want to get to
my apartment, to crawl into my bed and wake from this. It seems
like a dream, a really bad dream.
    I stumble to the stairway and start to climb.
I feel like one of the Ghostbusters climbing to the top of Central
Park West. I keep my hand on the railing while trying to keep my
feet from missing a step. Three flights up I have to step over
another body.
     
     

    I pull my shirt collar over my nose, trying
to cover a rank smell that fills the stairwell. That fails because
all I smell is piss. I forgot I pissed myself. I find my apartment
and lock myself inside.
    The morning comes. I leave my apartment only
because I need food. I drank and ate everything in my house and
smoked all of my weed. I’m hungry, and getting hungrier by the
second. Doritos just don’t fill the stomach like a fat burrito
does. I’m also going stir crazy. My DVD player don’t work, and
there’s no TV, running water, or lights.
    Outside my door there’s a package I hadn’t
noticed in the pitch black. It has a bright red label on the front
and the words ‘URGENT’ stamped all over the box. I rip the
tape off and open it. Inside is a red syringe suspended in a
plastic package. High tech lookin’, straight from the corporate
machine. I pick up a note tucked beside the syringe. It says:
    ‘ Inject into your arm or die with the rest
of them.
    ~Zilla.’
     
    I plunge the syringe into my arm. So it was
me that dropped the ultimate bomb on this city. I didn’t just make
people sick, I killed them all. Shit. I kinda freeze for a minute,
then I chuck the empty syringe down the stairwell. I watch it fly
down the first flight, careen off the railing, and shatter on the
opposite wall. It’s oddly beautiful. It holds me in its echo for a
moment. I’m safe, right? That was my get-out-of-death-free card,
right? I continue down the stairs, light on my feet.
    Outside the air is sweltering. It’s frickin’
Hades out here. There are dark clouds overhead. Smoke fills the
sky, staining the clouds yellow. Cars and bodies litter the streets
and sidewalks. Trash and debris are everywhere. It’s like the
aftermath of a big outdoor concert — except for the dead
bodies.
    After looking around I decide to go somewhere
familiar. I walk up town a handful of blocks to Francisco’s Big
Bellies, my favorite breakfast burrito place. If they’re deserted
like everywhere else, I might find some leftovers. I round the
corner. I can see Francisco’s front windows. Big brightly painted
letters advertise the Big Red Chick Pig Burro. I like that one.
Lots of eggs and red sauce and sausage. The front door opens
easily. A bell chimes. Rick ain’t here. Neither is Juanita. She’s a
cutie, well, was a cutie. Maybe she survived. Maybe she and I. . .
never mind.
    I walk past my favorite seat and go behind
the counter. Chairs are knocked over. Half-filled cups of coffee
still sit on the tables along with half-eaten burritos and
empanadas. The muffins behind the glass display still look good. I
grab one and cram it down my throat and stick one in my pocket for
later.
    “You guys take an IOU?!” I yell with my mouth
full. I find a cooler in the back with precooked food still lookin’
good. The power has only been out for, what, two days max? There
are no eggs, but I find a tub of potatoes and a package of
precooked bacon. I wrap them up in Francisco’s famous huge
tortillas. I return to my favorite seat at the far end of the
counter. I clear the counter with a wide swipe of my arm. I look at
my cold breakfast burrito. My head feels heavy for a minute, so I
just stare at it. This will be the last time I eat here. When the
feeling passes, I hold the burrito into the air, “Frankie should
have gotten a red syringe!” I shout. Then I tear into the burrito.
So good.
    After breakfast I decide to look around
outside. I