6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (10 page)

I look out the window and down to the street,
which is over twenty stories below. “Please, God. I don’t want to
go to jail,” I whimper out loud. The lights go out. I’m scared
shitless. Emergency lights fling red over everything. The intensity
of the red competes with the daylight coming through the window.
Shit! I need to get out of here. I’d rather go on the run than go
to jail. Maybe Zilla can give me a place to stay until this thing
blows over. Shit. I should’ve thought about this.

I run to the door. I can’t unlock it. This
totally sucks. My chest gets tight. I put my ear to the door. Some
guy is yelling so loudly that I can hear what he’s saying.

“The Constellation is down, sir. Every
satellite! Not just the North American Constellation, but the
European Constellation too. A virus has taken over the bios, wiping
out our onboard memory and erasing our protocols. I can’t
communicate at all. Internet servers are going down all over the
planet. We’re sitting ducks.”

Someone else yells, “Level ten has shut down
the building, sir. Our contamination alarms have gone off. There’s
a virus in the building.”

“What are you talking about?” yells some
other dude. “A computer virus is in our satellites
and
on
level ten?”

“Sir, an unknown substance is setting off
alarms on level ten. The whole building is being locked down.”

“What substance?”

“Not sure. But the system didn’t like
something in our ventilation ducts!”

I’m sweating and I feel like a caged rat. Was
this my fault? I’m fifteen. Can they try me as an adult? Shit!
There’s nowhere to go. Then I see the vent. It’s big enough for me.
It’s my only option. I grab my backpack, pull out my Swiss Army
knife, then run to the vent by the desk. I unscrew the plate and
worm my way into the vent. The next office over shouldn’t be
locked, so if I can crawl a few feet to that vent I’ll be free. I
squirm my way down the shaft a ways. I’m getting close to the next
office vent. That’s when two metal doors close, one in front of me,
the other behind.
Shit!
I scream in my head. The building
shuts off the ventilation system. My asthma kicks in full gear and
I can’t breathe! I reach behind me, pull my inhaler from my
backpack and suck on it twice, three times. It doesn’t help.
I
need out!

I pass out like someone pulled my power
cord.

A
s I wait for my
credentials to be verified, I’m sweating like Niagara Falls under
my coveralls. Why haven’t they come back? Did Zilla screw up my
ID?

Eight months ago I’d felt like a different
man. I was on a mission. I’d been in contact with a man who called
himself Zilla. He despised, as I did, the tyranny of our capitalist
leaders. Those leaders corrupted the entire U.S. system, which led
to currency manipulation, shadow courts, and wars for oil. Zilla
wanted to see the power given back to the ninety-nine percent.
The forgotten man.

The whole global system was taken over by
secret groups of the super-rich, and was redesigned to keep the
power in the West and suppress growth in the rest of the world.
It’s not cat and mouse; it’s checkmate. The rich and powerful need
to be taken down. Billions of dollars are spent on guns and bombs
and stupid political campaigns while people starve. Jesus, I sound
like my mother.

She and I believed that weakening the
capitalists was the only way to bring a sense of balance back to
the earth. My mother fought the system from the inside. I fought on
the outside. When socialism reigns the globe over, things will be
better. Decisions will be based on what is good for the planet and
humanity. Nationalism will finally be nailed in its coffin and put
six feet under. The American dream is dead, having almost killed
the world along with it. The future is globalism, environmentalism,
and fairness.

#

This Zilla guy could say it better than me,
which was rare. I spoke with him for hours sometimes. We saw
eye-to-eye on almost every political issue. He was one smart bird.
One day he told me about his plan. I can still remember what he
said to this day, “The poverty of man and his reign on this Earth
is over. American wealth is holding back global change. The puppet
masters are too powerful. To create a unified and fair global
government, the U.S. must be weakened.”

“Are you talking about the Bilderberg group?
The G8? Illumiati? How do we even know which one controls our
government?”

“That’s what we need to know!” Zilla blurted
out. “There is an Achilles’ heel to America’s power. The media is
still private, and always looking to take someone down. So we need
to find the corruption wherever it hides. We become the computer
worm and spy on the pawns. Then we follow the money and see who the
knights and bishops are. They will eventually lead us to the Kings
and Queens.”

Zilla continued, “We need to know how far
down the feed trough goes. This is where you come in. I’ve got bugs
on the President, the Vice President, and in many offices in
Washington. But there are police, National Guard, and defense
contractors that need to be bugged.”

His request hit me like a sledgehammer to the
groin. “You want me to bug all those organizations?” I asked.

“Yes. With undetectable cameras and Wi-Fi
data interceptors, we can tie down the conspirators, who they
employ, and how they communicate. The corrupt are in control. So we
need to take them down in order to destroy capitalism.”

I loved the idea. It was a “gotcha” move that
wouldn’t hurt anyone, only reveal hidden pyramids. So I signed up.
The package was left for me in the dive bar stall. Inside were very
specific instructions on how to get the cameras into the air
conditioning ductwork for all the targets. I began the work in
earnest. A dozen different ID’s and logos passed over my coveralls.
It got easier and easier.

#

Now, as I stare at the camera mounted to the
corner ceiling of a little room, all I can think about is spending
the next ten to twenty years in a federal prison. This job is
different than all the other jobs I’ve done. This one messes with
the FEDs. I think about running. That’s a bad idea. They’d plaster
my face over the six o’clock news and my life will be over.
What
the fuck am I doing?

The far door opens and a security officer
enters. He’s in all-black fatigues and has a machine gun slung
around his shoulder. He moves to the corner and instantly morphs
into a statue. His rich, square eyes look at me, and they are cold
as ice. I’m a rabbit among wolves. My eyes start watering.
Blink, Damn it!

Just before I start screaming, the door opens
again and a portly man steps through it. He hands my ID back. I
take a deep breath.

“New with the company?” he asks. His face is
wrinkled from decades of stress.

“Yes, sir.” I respond. “I’ve taken over
Central.”

He finally smiles, drawing his lips off his
whitened teeth. “Good. Redmond was always late.”

Redmond is the tech I replaced. I wonder for
a moment where he is. Is it his day off? How did Zilla get me into
this company anyway?

The portly pug man waves to the security guy.
He steps up to me and reaches out for my toolbox. My heart thumps
loudly in my chest. I hand over the tools. He rifles through the
box then sets it aside. He then pats me down, thoroughly.

The portly man hands me a paper. “Now then.
You’ve got some serious duct cleaning ahead of you. Here’s where
our system shuts down the intake. Get in, clean out the stink, then
get this paper back to Muriel. You are familiar with our ACL
response ventilation system?”

I nod, but I am not. I have no clue what he
is talking about.

“Good. Muriel’s the older woman at the desk
on level 10. She’ll call an escort to lead you out of the building
when you’re finished.” The man turns without another word and
leaves.

The security guy hands me my toolbox and
takes me to the elevators. He escorts me up to the tenth floor
where I get a whiff of the nasty smell wafting from the vents. The
guard leaves and I start to pull bolt after bolt off the duct vent.
I unclip a sensor panel attached by wires to the metal grate. There
is some serious tech here. I’d memorized how to open the grate,
white clip first. That is the power. Then the colored clip is next.
I type in a code on the control box situated inside the duct, then
crawl inside. There is a lot of space, but I still have to wriggle
on my belly. Fifty feet into the duct I start to feel
claustrophobic. Finally, around the bend is a small bloated corpse.
Maybe a mouse, maybe a pigeon. I crawl closer. Nope. It is a fat,
greasy rat. I wonder how it got in here. There is a bald spot on
its head where a wire sticks out of its skull like an antenna.
Robot rat? Who is this Zilla? If he is this sophisticated, why does
he need me?

#

A year ago I was at a meeting in an apartment
on thirty-sixth. We were the Red Stars. The core organizers. We
rallied the crowd, set up the email lists, and the secret chat
rooms. The apartment was dark and smoky and the beer flowed
heavily. But we weren’t there to party.

Phisto shushed everyone. He brushed his long
curly hair from his face and leaned onto the table. “We’re chasing
our own tails, yo!” Everyone got silent. “We’ve got this next rally
in the bag. What we need to do is spend a minute on our next goal.
We can get the numbers out. We pack the houses, man. Now we need to
get to a politician. Real power doesn’t come from the bottom, up.
We can throw an epic party, but we still don’t have anything to
show for it. Real power comes from the top, down. We need to do
something for someone in power. A favor.”

“What kind of favor?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Maybe organize a
campaign rally that rocks the whole city.”

Bennie spoke up, “How about getting funds to
build a park or an urban garden? We give the publicity to any
senator we choose.”

Phisto nodded, “Yeah. Something like that.
Look, it’s not the act we’ll be doing. That can be anything. The
end game is how we’ll use the payback for something we need done.
It’s called leverage.”

#

I think about what Phisto had said that day
even as I gag on the stench of the rotting rat. This is the first
time Zilla had used anything as sophisticated as a robot rat. If
Zilla has all this spy-tech at his fingertips, then he doesn’t need
me. Is he getting me to do all these jobs as a way of taking
control of me? Am I just a big rat with a wire sticking out of my
head, ready to take all the blame? I’m on multiple cameras now
under multiple identities. I can be exposed at anytime if Zilla so
desires. I am sitting in his lap. Now he has leverage on me.

I reluctantly put the corpse into a bag, seal
it, and scrub the duct with a sharp smelling chemical. I shake off
the negative thoughts because I’ve long since committed. Maybe the
rat was just an extremely complicated excuse to get me up here.
Besides, I know what I’m doing, what I
have been doing.
This
is as much my desire as his. I have power. I am a soldier, and I’ve
been making the first moves. I crawl to the first of five hot spots
I have marked on my map.

I unclip the measuring tape from my belt and
slip off a round device that had been hidden on the side. The round
object is the size of a flattened golf ball. There are four other
devices that are pressed into the measuring tape. It’s a
surveillance-gear Pez dispenser. I stick one to the wall of the
vent, right next to the grate, and push the activation button on
top. It will pick up secure Wi-Fi signals and audio and send the
data to an off-site server that Zilla controls. I crawl to the next
vent and do the same. The other vents are more difficult, but I get
it done. Just like before, easy peasy.

I leave the DOD building with the same
strange high I’ve been feeding off of after every job. I am the
spy. I’ve committing treason, and, if caught, I’ll go to prison.
Didn’t George Washington commit treason? He was a patriot and so am
I. I am a new kind of patriot. A New World Patriot.

I drive the van to a parking garage on 145th,
change into a provided black suit and tie and walk home. It is
fifteen blocks and a beautiful day for a walk. When I get close to
my building a police cruiser flips on its lights. I instinctively
push my back against the building’s wall and look for an escape
route. The cruiser seems to slow as it passes me.
Is that cop
looking at me?
I feel my skin bead with sweat. The cruiser
picks up speed and drives off.

I’m relieved, but jittery. Getting used to
breaking the law isn’t easy. I pass Mochias Cafe’s patio, which is
next to the front door of my building, and stop. I suddenly have a
strange thought. My mother feared prison and took her own life to
avoid it. I look at my reflection in the café window. Will I do the
same if it comes down to it?

Instead of going straight home I stop at the
café. Zilla congratulates me via encrypted email, and tells me my
duty is over. They’re collecting data and will be moving into a
different phase. And that is it. I stare at my email.
What now?
What do I do?

I had planted devices in thirty-six offices
across New York and twenty-five police precincts just on the island
itself. All that work over eight months, done, finished, and I’ve
got no new orders.

I order a latte from a dude with crap tattoos
and Nikes. Dumb ass zombie. As I’m handed the paper cup a lady runs
down the street screaming. It’s unnerving, but only for a moment.
The crowds, including myself, are back to our own thing in
seconds.

A guy runs by me in a tacky plaid shirt and a
flat cap. He yells in his cell phone, “Yeah, right. The military
satellites are down. Trust me. I’ve got a source at the Times. The
government is peeing in their pants.” I stop and watch him. I can
barely hear him say, “Yeah, well if the government satellites are
that vulnerable then this virus will start crawling across the
Internet . . .Yeah, I’d unplug it.”