Forget the Alamo: A Zombie Novella

by R. J. Spears

  Forget the Alamo

  by

  R.J. Spears

  Copyright 2013 R.J. Spears

  This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts or portions of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, be it electronic or mechanical, without the expressed written consent of the author.

  For more information about this author and his other works, visit R.J. Spears website at:

  rjspears.com

  Forget the Alamo: A Zombie Novella

  Forget the Alamo

  A Zombie Novella

  By R.J. Spears

  Copyright 2013 R.J. Spears

  This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts or portions of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, be it electronic or mechanical, without the expressed written consent of the author.

  For more information about this author and his other works, visit R.J. Spears website at:

  rjspears.com

  Dedicated to my wife, Kim.

  Forget the Alamo

  by

  R.J. Spears

  I don’t know why I was laughing, but I was. For all intents and purposes, our situation was lost and we were most likely going to die, but for some implausible reason at that very moment, I found the whole situation completely absurd.

  Who wouldn’t?

  We were at the Alamo, surrounded by, roughly, a thousand flesh eating zombies who wanted nothing more than to devour us whole. Despite all this, our diligent tour guide couldn’t help but draw parallels between our perilous situation and that of the two hundred or so militiamen who died here nearly two centuries ago.

  “Well, I just said at least the zombies don’t have canons like Santa Anna’s men,” said Randell, our effete and only living tour guide left alive. “I don’t see what’s so funny about that.” He still wore his official tour guide vest, but it was torn in several places.

  None of the others in our dwindling group seemed to share my amusement so I tried my best to shut it down. It only took two fizzled attempts to stifle my giggles.

  “They don’t need canons,” I said, still with a sense of mirth in my tone. “They have teeth.” I let that hang there for a moment then added, “And endless patience.”

  “What do you mean?” Jenkins said.

  Mack, a beefy, middle aged tourist from Ohio, moved in on me, his breath almost as bad as the zombies, and asked, “Yeah, what the hell are you talking about Grant?”

  “We’ve been in here, what, five days?” I said, taking in our rag-tag group. “How many people did we lose trying to get what was left in the snack machine in the gift shop? Four of us. And the last Snickers bar will be gone by tomorrow if not sooner. Then what? What makes any of you think the zombies will go away on their own? And what if we’re the only meal left in town? From what I’ve seen of these things, they don’t get tired, don’t sleep, and don’t have enough smarts to know when to go in search of more available food options. And they don’t seem to care if we kill a hundred of their kind even if the one next to them used to be their mother. We are their sole option on the dinner menu and they are locked in.”

  After reciting these sober facts, I had, once again, lost the ability to laugh. Thanks, killjoys.

  “Won’t someone come to help us?” This question came from, Joni, the scrappy mother of three who was now down to two after her oldest boy, a once gutsy teenager, tried to play hero two days ago and made a run for help only to end up as zombie food.

  “Not from what seen. This is a nationwide, no, make that a worldwide disaster. As Randell is so fond of pointing out, commanders James Bowie and William B... B’s right, Randell?” He nodded in the affirmative. “William B. Travis and Bowie called for reinforcements, but none came. They like us, were on their own.”

  “Dios Mios,” an older Hispanic woman, whose name I had forgotten, cried out. “How did we get here?”

  How indeed.

  Eleven days ago, I was airborne from D.C. to San Diego with Sam Jenkins by my side. He was the former accountant to the Giancalini mob and now former key witness to the federal prosecutor’s office. I was getting him set-up in a new life on the west coast. Or so I thought. Instead, we ended up in San Antonio. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Four days after our plane was diverted to land in San Antonio and we were forced to stay at the downtown Hyatt, I pulled myself away from the non-stop CNN coverage of “The Outbreak.” At least, that’s what CNN was calling it. MSNBC called it “The Pandemic.” Fox News was more downbeat, calling it “Armageddon.”

  It was time to get on the move.

  The elevators were death traps in my opinion. They were so packed with people that I was sure a cable would break any second. So, I grabbed Jenkins and my gun, plus all my extra ammo, and we left the room heading for the stairs.

  To say the lobby was bedlam would be an understatement. From our view from the eighth floor down into the atrium of hotel, we could see people mobbing the checkout counter. Some of the people were waiting patiently, trying to maintain semblance of order, but most were shouting and shoving.

  We were ten feet from the door to the stairs when I heard the first scream. It must have been ear splitting for the people down there, because it carried up to us on the eighth floor like the person was standing next to us. The scream fell like a blanket over the crowd as they went quiet.

  I pulled Jenkins over to the railing and looked down. I couldn’t tell who was the source the scream, but the complete attention of the people in the lobby was locked on the rear riverwalk entrance of the hotel. The back entrance was an impressive array of floor-to-ceiling glass giving patrons an enticing view of the riverwalk.

  San Antonio’s riverwalk is a huge tourist attraction for the people attending conferences or just visiting the city with its boat rides, restaurants, and kitchy t-shirt and trinket shops. The walkways wound for five miles around the city’s downtown, and on most nights the place teemed with people, but during the past few days the place had been uncharastically quiet.

  The scene out of the back windows was like a TV show, or a play, with the glass acting like the fourth wall, keeping reality inside and make believe out. Only this wasn’t acting or make believe. A man was standing at the back entrance, his hands slowly clawing plaintively at the glass. Even from the eighth floor, I could see the blood streaks he left with each movement.

  Jenkins moved up next to me. “Hey Grant, that’s one of the infected,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Isn’t it?”

  I started to answer, but another man appeared on the other side of the glass adding a new character on the stage of our little drama. He walked cautiously towards the man at the window. It must have been one of the city’s maintenance workers because he had a broom in his hands and was wearing a brown uniform.

  For the next twenty seconds, I’m not sure anyone took a breath because the lobby was as soundless as a crypt. The maintenance guy worked his way closer and closer then finally, in a tentative gesture, prodded the man with his broom handle. It took two pokes to get the man’s attention, and he turned toward the maintenance worker. The scene went to slow motion for a second or two, the man facing off the maintenance worker, swaying back and forth unsteadily. Then someone sped up the film as the scene switched to a frightening pace with full technicolor as t
he man launched himself onto the maintenance worker sending both of them to the ground.

  Before the two hundred people in the lobby, the man bore his head into the maintenance worker’s neck and tore into it with his teeth, sending a small geyser of blood into the air. It sprayed onto the windows creating a horrifying Jackson Pollack painting on the glass.

  Any sense of calm ended there as the shrieking started and the people started to do what they do in instances like this -- panic. Most started running with no real thought or plan. Some heading toward the elevators. Some headed toward the front exit. Anywhere but here was their only operating principle. Several people were knocked to the ground and trampled. A large man used his suitcase as a battering ram and surged toward the front entrance, knocking people aside like he was a medieval knight smashing the peasants who blocked his path.

  I grabbed Jenkins and jerked him toward the stairs.

  Two minutes later, we were in the basement, and Jenkins was breathing like we had just ran a marathon. Being a hundred pounds overweight will make you feel that way.

  “Hey, what are we doing down here? That thing is out there,” he said, pointing out the back windows to where the infected man was devouring the maintenance worker, only now he wasn’t alone as there was a woman chewing on the maintenance worker’s leg. Blood was everywhere.

  “If you hadn’t noticed, there was nothing but chaos above us. We’ll head out that way,” I said pointing toward an exit door that led out beneath the front entrance. During our enforced stay in the city, I had done some reconnaissance, noting the hotel’s weaknesses, strengths, and all escape routes. After getting out the door, we followed a small man-made waterway that flowed through the hotel and back into the riverwalk that was below street level. We moved upstream and towards a set of stairs.

  Sounds of utter chaos filtered down to us as we started up a set of stairs. People were shouting and feet pounded the pavement. I heard a car crash and then two gunshots. That increased the chaos by another ten levels.

  The parking garage, where our rental car was parked, was back in the direction of the hotel. Once we got to the top of the stairs I tugged at Jenkins to follow me that way.

  The street was clogged with cars, near bumper-to-bumper, with some cars tighter than that after colliding with each other in desperate attempts to escape. People streamed from the hotel, climbing over the hoods of the gridlocked cars. The suitcase wielding man was back at his antics, smashing his suitcase against the side window of a car, screaming for the woman to let him inside. The driver, a woman in her late fifties, slammed her foot on the gas but only got as far as the bumper of the truck in front of her. The suitcase man started back at the the window again. This time it shattered sending glass fragments into the car.

  “Let me in the damn car!” He shouted.

  The woman started screaming. I reached down to my holster and pulled my Glock.

  “That’s not our fight,” Jenkins said. “You gotta get me to safety.”

  “Shut up and stay put,” I said and started toward suitcase man. I didn’t like this suitcase man. Not at all.

  I had just passed the corner of a building and was four steps from entering the street, when I noticed the crowd started moving frantically in a large billowing ripple away from something in their midst. The epicenter was one of the infected. At least that’s what the people on TV were calling them. It was a young guy in jeans and a blood stained t-shirt. One of his legs was badly mangled, and I thought I saw bone sticking through a bloody tear in his jeans.

  He started toward a small girl who shrieked and fell back. A man wielding a golf club broke from the crowd and swung like he was Tiger Woods. The man’s blow hit the creature in the shoulder and knocked it away from its trajectory towards the little girl, sending it stumbling toward the suitcase man. Off balance, the infected guy slammed into the suitcase man and began grappling with him, knocking him to the ground. The infected man started to descend on the suitcase man when a shot rang out and a plume of blood and brains shot out the back of its head. It toppled over backwards and stopped moving.

  For the briefest of moments, the shot stunned the crowd into silence. Then they started running again, returning to sheer panic mode. I jerked my head in the direction of where the shot had come from and saw a man in a dark suit standing in a perfect shooter’s stance. I also happened to notice the badge attached to his belt. A cop of some kind. Probably a detective because of the suit.

  “You, with the gun,” he shouted at me. “Stop where you are and slowly drop the gun.”

  Even in panic mode, the crowd gave the two of us a wide berth.

  “I’m a U.S. Marshall,” I shouted back.

  “I don’t care what you are,” he said. “Drop the gun.”

  While there was no sense of menace in the man, there also seemed to be no sense of hesitancy. Even from a distance of twenty feet, I could see his eyes were red and weary.

  I pinched my fingers around the trigger guard of my Glock and slowly bent over, setting the gun on the pavement.

  The cop eased in on me, two steps at a time, his gun still aimed at me.

  “Can I reach inside my jacket and pull my credentials?” I asked when he got ten feet away. He was a handsome guy with dark hair, graying at the temples. He had one of those open faces that projected friendliness despite the circumstance.

  “Yes, but we’ll take this out of the street,” he said. Whatever sway his gun had over the crowd was starting to wane as the panicked people jostled into us.

  I did as he said and slowly moved out of street and into an alcove of a building. He quickly moved up, straddled my gun, and even with the torrent of people surging past him, he kept his entire focus on me. Once he had my gun in hand, he made his way to me, but still maintained a safe distance.

  As he closed on me, I reached inside my jacket pocket and retrieved my federal ID, opening it to allow him read it. “I’m a federal agent in the witness protection program. I’m transporting that man,” I pointed to Jenkins who had snuggled up against the side of the building just a few feet away. The cop gave Jenkins the briefest of glances. “Our destination is California.”

  “So Mr. Grant, you were on your way to the west coast, but you were forced to land here due to the quarantine,” the cop said, lowering his gun a few inches.

  “Yes. Four days ago,” I said.

  “Let me get a closer look at that ID?”

  I tossed it at his feet where he retrieved it, never taking his eyes off me. He inspected it for a couple seconds and then he holstered his gun and the tension level fell a few degrees. He handed my gun over and it felt good to have it back.

  “Jenkins, get over here,” I said. Jenkins complied willingly, like a small puppy. I holstered my gun and put my ID back in my pocket.

  During our entire encounter, the suitcase man laid prone on the street, but now he started to stir.

  “That man was trying to get into that woman’s car,” I said pointing to the suitcase man. The cops face hardened and he turned to the suitcase man.

  “We are this close,” the cop turned to the suitcase man said putting his hand in the air and brought his index finger and thumb close together but not letting them touch, “to Martial law. That means I could shoot you with no real reason other than I didn’t like you very much.”

  The suitcase man blinked a couple times, rolled to his knees, and struggled to get up.

  “Now, get the hell out of here,” the cop shouted.

  The suitcase man stumbled for a few feet then ran down the street, looking over his shoulder and then disappeared around a corner.

  “You picked a bad time to be in Texas,” the cop said.

  “Didn’t have a lot of choice.”

  “I know. The government grounded all flights hoping to stop the infection.”

  “I need to either get my man to California or back to D.C. Any chance I can do that?”

  “Probably not. Even with your credentials. They’re not allow
ing any interstate movement now.”

  “That’s not on the news,” I said.

  “They didn’t want to start a panic.”

  “I can see that, but it seems a little late to stop that.” I waved a hand at the mob running this way and that in the street.

  “Where we supposed to go?” Jenkins said, in a near whine, nudging his way into the conversation.

  “Hell if I know,” the cop said, shrugging. “This is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. If it does get better.”

  “It’s that bad?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Never in my life had one word meant so much.

  “What are you not saying?”

  “It’s all over the south of the state and moving fast,” he said and his face fell for a second, but he rallied. “This thing’s spreading faster than anyone expected. We were keeping ahead of it but now... It’s running wild. The governor’s just waiting for the okay from the government to call in the National Guard.”

  “But where are WE supposed to go?” Jenkins asked again, only this time he sounded like a ten year old girl his voice was so high.

  “I’m not sure,” the cop said. “I just know I can’t stand around and talk anymore because I’ve got a job to do.” He turned to me. “If I were you, I’d cut this guy loose and come with me. We could use some more hands and this guy’s not going anywhere.” He pointed to Jenkins.

  “You can’t leave me,” Jenkins said now, nearly ready to cry.

  “No, I can’t,” I said.

  The cop shrugged. “I’ve got to go.” He started to turn.

  “Officer, if I change my mind and need to find you, where will you be?” I asked.

  “The name’s McKinney. For now, I’m going to be at the police station on Delorosa. I’ve really got to go. You may want to try the mall,” he said pointing eastward. “I’ve heard they’ve set-up a half-assed refugee center there for out-of-towners. That’s the best I can do.” He turned and walked away into the chaos and we headed to the garage for our car only find that it was a lost cause. The garage was snarled with cars slammed together like a demolition derby.