Forget the Alamo: A Zombie Novella

by R. J. Spears

  “You must have a big pair,” the voice said but this time with no amplification. “Walk slowly up to the barrier.”

  I made the short walk to the barrier and once I made it past the intense beams of the spotlights could see around thirty soldiers, all with their guns trained on me. I also saw the two Humvees equipped with .30 caliber machines guns, again targeting me. There was also an MAV with its cannon aimed at yours truly. I was quite popular at the moment.

  The roadblock consisted of two sets of concrete barriers with sandbags stacked two layers deep topped with vicious looking razor wire. These barriers were staggered about twenty feet apart so that anyone approaching wouldn’t be able to navigate through them without drastically slowing down. Makeshift wooden fences wrapped in barbed wire stretched off the side of the road for about fifty yards off each side of the roadblock. You might make it around the barrier in an ATV or a dirt bike, but a conventional vehicle would get caught up on the loose dirt and scrubby underbrush.

  A man in a crisp olive drab uniform stepped up to the front corner of the first set of sandbags. I would put him in his late 50’s. His hair was gray along with his well-groomed moustache. He put on the air of being vibrant and alert, but the bags under his eyes told me that he hadn’t had much sleep in the last week. He had a sidearm, but it was holstered making me feel cheated since everyone else there was pointing their weapons at me.

  “So, how do we play this, Colonel?” I asked.

  “First, and this is important, I need to know if any of your people are infected,” he asked getting right down to it.

  “No. No one in our party is infected,” I replied.

  “How did you avoid that?”

  “We didn’t.”

  His eyebrows arched up.

  “We took care of anyone that got bitten.”

  The eyebrows went down and a melancholy cloud passed over his face. I would imagine that he and his soldiers had had to deal with a lot of bite victims this past week. From only having to deal with it in the past 24 hours, I could relate on a very small scale. It was of very little solace, though, probably for either of us.

  “Okay,” he said. “I need your people to get off the bus and come down the center of the road, single file. We’ll need to inspect them individually.”

  I started to object, but he raised his hand, his index finger pointed into the air and said, “Trust, but verify.”

  I’d do the same thing in his shoes. I excused myself and walked back to the bus. My explanation went well with most of the crew with a couple exceptions. Of course, consistent with his nature, Mack bristled at having to be inspected.

  “They’re not inspecting me without a warrant. This was still America, isn’t it? He asked, indignation in his tone.

  “Give that a try out there and see if you don’t get shot,” I said. He shut up.

  “I don’t think we need inspected,” Bill Meeks said. “We weren’t in San Antonio.”

  “But you still faced zombies,” I said, getting tired of the protests.

  “We’re clean,” he said.

  “Then you’ll pass the inspection.”

  “It’s been a long night. Certainly, they can check us in the morning.”

  “Listen Bill, this isn’t my game, it’s the Colonels. It’s his way or the highway.”

  He exchanged a nervous look with Freda, and said, “Okay, I guess.”

  The march to the barrier was mercifully quick, but the soldiers made our group stop and separated out the lead person, which happened to be me. A soldier with latex gloves and a sidearm did a thorough head to toes inspection. I hadn’t had this thorough attention since my doctor did my last physical.

  When they finished, I said, “What? No cavity search?”

  They were humorless and urged me forward past the barrier to another group of waiting soldiers. Mack was next and he grunted and groaned his displeasure, grousing that he was an American and he shouldn’t be treated this way. They were as dismissive of his complaints as they were humorless with my joke. He sighed loudly as they patted him down, checking for wounds. He got the all clear and joined me behind the barrier.

  Joni stepped up next and came across clean and was then followed by her two kids. Both cleared the inspection. The process moved along like this in workmanlike fashion for over twenty minutes as the soldier inspected our party one at a time. After they finished with each person, they were told to stand in between the two barriers until the whole party was cleared. Things went along quite smoothly. That’s until the wheels came off.

  The refugee family were at the the end of the line and seemed as nervous as long tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs. Bill cleared and his wife came up and hugged him. The soldiers untangled them and then checked Freda. She was cleared but when the soldier doing the inspection came to the bandage on the son’s leg, he insisted that it be removed so that the wound could be inspected.

  “I told you, he just cut it on our basement window when we escaped our house,” Bill said, his voice rising.

  “Then you should have no objections if I check it,” the soldier said.

  “You’ll just open the wound up and risk a real infection,” the mother said.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am, we can have our medic re-dress it,” the soldier reassured her.

  “It’s just not necessary,” the father said.

  “Yes, it is,” Colonel Watson said. “This isn’t open to discussion. We can see the wound or we can shoot him.” This was no empty threat.

  Bill and Freda relented and no sooner did the soldier get the bandage off than he jumped back and pulled his pistol free from its holster, aiming at the boy.

  “He’s got a bite,” the soldier yelled.

  The boy crumpled to the pavement and the daughter stepped away from him. Freda broke from the cleared group and started pleading, “Don’t shoot my boy. You don’t have to do it!”

  Two soldiers holding M-16’s stepped in her way, but she tried an end-around. The soldiers intercepted her and shoved her back. She stumbled, lost her balance, and fell to the pavement.

  “Mr. Grant,” the Colonel said, “you assured me that none of your people were infected!”

  “We just picked them up on our way out of town,” I said.

  “Did you inspect them?” He asked.

  “No, but they said it was just a cut,” I said.

  “Then, you’re a fool,” Watson said and moved up to the first barrier. “Inspect the girl but keep the boy where he is.”

  Two soldiers, rifles at the ready, came up and watched the boy as the other soldier did a thorough search of the girl. And he wasn’t very gentle about it.

  “Take it easy on her,” Freda shouted as she stood up. “She’s not infected.”

  “That’s what you said about your son,” Colonel Watson said.

  Bill stood behind Freda, a tense look on his face, his hands in his pockets.

  After about two minutes the soldier shouted, “She’s clean.”

  “Get her with the rest of them,” Watson said. There was a coldness in his tone, but I would imagine that he had to make these same cold equation decisions many time over the past few days. The soldiers moved the girl to her parents and the boy was left by himself.

  Eric Meeks sat silently on the pavement, his head down, knowing that his life expectancy was measured in minutes. Maybe seconds. My gut twisted and turned. Joni was crying as she hugged her kids. Mack was uncustomarily quiet. The rest of our people stood silent too, acting like they didn’t know what was about to happen.

  “Okay, he was bitten,” the father said. “It’s not a serious wound. Colonel Watson, can’t we just wait and see if the infection progresses?”

  “No one has survived a bite,” Watson said. “We can’t risk any spread of the infection.” Watson stepped toward the two soldiers that were guarding Eric Meeks. “Take him to the field.”

  Bill surged past his wife and the rest of the people in our group, pulled a small revolver
out of his jacket pocket and aimed it at Colonel Watson. “You’re not killing my boy.”

  There was an almost instantaneous response from the soldiers as they raised their weapons and aimed them at Bill Meeks. Our people were out in the open just behind Bill. I could feel the fear pass through them like a wave as they tightened ranks, squeezing in closer together. If shooting erupted, there was a better than even chance that Bill wouldn’t be the only one taking a bullet.

  “Bill,” I said, “there’s nothing that can be done.”

  “There’s got to be,” he said, now crying.

  “We’ve been where you are. We’ve had friends get bitten and we’ve had to make the hard choice.”

  “Was any one of them one of your kids?!?” He shouted, spittle flying from his lips.

  That was a hard question to answer, but I tried. “No, but we did what we had to do. It was the right thing for us and for them.”

  I watched as a couple of the soldiers started subtle movements to position themselves to take the best shot at Bill. This was going to end badly and there was a good chance that the soldiers, hopped up on anger and frustration, wouldn’t stop with Bill.

  Something needed to happen, but I wasn’t sure what I could do. I had seconds to make some sort of move, but fatigue and fear muddled my thought process. The choices just weren’t coming to me.

  Then something changed the whole scenario.

  In the distance, the whoop-whooping sound of helicopter blades could be heard, quickly approaching. All my people looked up to the sky along with a few of the soldiers. Still, a core of the soldiers maintained their laser focus on Bill. I was able to use the distraction to separate myself from the group and start advancing towards Bill whose focus was divided between me, Watson, and the soldiers with occasional peeks toward the source of the noise.

  The helicopter got closer and I heard Watson ask, “That’s not one of ours, is it?”

  One of the soldiers said, “No, sir. Ours are down near Corpus Christi and the border. They aren’t due back for hours.”

  “Then who is it?” Watson asked.

  “Probably civilian,” the soldier responded.

  Watson face tightened. There was nothing to do but wait as the helicopter approached.

  It only took another thirty seconds for the helicopter to fly over our location and then swing about, probably attracted by all the lights. In the dark, we could only make out a black shape with lights flitting about in the sky. It circled our site several times, settling into a hover. Its rotors sent shafts of wind down onto us, bringing up debris, and forcing us to cover our eyes.

  “Get a light up on it,” Watson shouted. A couple seconds later, one of the large spotlights shot skyward, searching the sky for the helicopter.

  All the while, I was closing the gap between me and Bill. He swiveled around jerkily like a marionette, switching his aim from Watson to soldiers and even up in the air at the helicopter. The soldiers were so focused on Bill that they didn’t pay attention to my movements. I glanced up to the helicopter momentarily.

  Its purpose became clear as soon as they spotlight locked in on it. Watson exhaled out loudly and said, “Shit. It’s the media.”

  I took a quick look up and saw the call letters from a TV station out of Dallas on the side of the copter.

  New questions came to the fore. Could they shoot down this one kid and risk it being broadcast around the world? Could they terminate a lone and frightened boy on camera, even if he were infected? Would Watson order his men to fire on the helicopter?

  These questions had to be running through Watson’s and Bill’s minds. I continued to use the lack of focus on me to make my way to Bill. I had cut the distance down to less than ten feet, but it still seemed like a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon.

  Something had to break, and I feared it would be one of Watson’s soldiers. One of them would surely get a clear shot on Bill and take the initiative any second now. Or Bill would see the hopelessness of his situation and start firing. Desperation will make you do crazy things.

  But it didn’t come to that. A new sound broke onto the scene. Honking. Repeated honking. This was followed by two piercing beams coming up fast on the back of the bus. The beams disappeared behind the bus and then shot around its side. It was a white van complete with a small antenna and a news logo with call letters KXAS. The media were on the ground and ready for a “live and late breaking” story.

  The van driver bore down on us and the soldiers had another thing to aim at. Bill had yet another thing to distract him. At the last possible moment, the van screeched to a stop twenty feet from where Eric Meeks sat on the pavement. The van’s door slid open and a videographer popped out the side followed by a female reporter. He already had his camera recording and she had a microphone in hand.

  This was just the distraction I needed and I lunged forward, colliding with Bill, knocking him to the ground. He rolled with the impact, but I ended up on top. He pushed with all his might to bring the gun around to aim at me. From my angle, the barrel looked like a giant cannon moving into firing position. I shot out my left arm and blocked the swing of his arm as it moved up, pushing it down to the ground. He punched out with his left fist and got me with a glancing blow off the side of my head, setting off a small display of fireworks. I kept his gun arm pinned to the ground and waited for reinforcements, but with the helicopter and the van, the soldiers were slow to react.

  “Get off me!” Bill said through gritted teeth and tried buck me off, but I had him by at least 50 pounds.

  “It’s over Bill,” I said, lowering my head to speak into his ear.

  “No,” he said and redoubled his efforts to get free, but I moved my right forearm against his neck, putting my weight into it.

  “They’ll shoot you and that’ll leave your wife a widow and your daughter without a father.”

  “But Eric...” he said, his voice breaking.

  “He’s lost.”

  The strength left his body and he relaxed his grip on the gun. Unbeknownst to either of us, the soldiers had finally decided to act. Four of them moved up and now circled us, aiming their rifles down at my back. If Bill’s gun looked like a cannon, these rifles looked like ballistic missiles looming over us.

  One of the soldiers broke from the group and kicked the gun out of Bill’s hand. It skittered across the pavement and another soldier reached down and retrieved it.

  “Move back!” Watson shouted. “This area is under military control.”

  “Commander, what is going on with that boy?” It was the female reporter. She had dark flowing hair and a feisty demeanor. I liked her instantly.

  “Bill, can I trust you to move back to your family?” I asked.

  He nodded as tears streamed down his face.

  “I’m going to let you up now,” I said, as I pushed off of him and stood up.

  “This is none of your business,” Watson shouted to the reporter. “Turn off your camera and get back in your van.”

  “Yes, it is,” she shouted back. “Keep rolling, Tony.”

  “I’m giving you ten second to leave this scene.” Watson said.

  “Or what?” She asked. “The copter is broadcasting live back to our station and our feed is going live back to the network.” Watson knew what this meant. No one had to be happy about the firebombing of stranded civilians, even if it was the right thing to do. People don’t like no-option, no-win scenarios and were always ready to play armchair quarterback with any decision, necessary or not.

  What happened here and now was very tiny in scale with what had happened when the cities were bombed, but as small it was, it could be a symbol. A symbol of oppression run rampantly out of control. That would put Watson in the crosshairs. What he decided to do right now could sway public opinion one way or the other.

  “Run, Eric, run,” Bill shouted.

  Shit. Like we didn’t have enough to deal with.

  Eric looked to his dad and then at the rest of the scen
e.

  “Run!” Bill’s shout was throaty and desperate.

  Eric got to his feet and started backing up.

  “Now son, you don’t want to do that,” Watson said turning his attention to the boy. The cameraman did likewise.

  “We need you to stay with us. You’ve been bitten,” Watson said moving away from his soldiers, his hands out, palms up, imploring Eric to stay at the scene.

  “You need to run, now,” Bill shouted again.

  Watson made a flick of his hand toward Bill and a soldier moved up behind him. Bill opened his mouth to shout again. The soldier smacked the butt of his rifle into Bill’s head. He went down like a sack of potatoes. Freda let out a startled scream and ran to his side.

  Eric took the momentary distraction as his cue to run.

  A part of me didn’t want to see what was going to happen next, but I couldn’t turn away. Watson did another flick, this time towards Eric and a shot rang out. Eric’s body flew forward, propelled by the bullet, skidded down the pavement and ended up on a heap. He didn’t move again.

  Freda screamed again, but this was one of deep anguish. Carla passed out, collapsing in a heap next to her mother.

  The reporter turned to her cameraman and asked, “Did you get that?” Any feelings of warmth I had for her faded.

  Watson turned away from us and said, “Get these people to the safety of the tents.”

  We were hustled off to a field with large tents spread across it as far as the eye could see. Army cots were arranged in neat rows across each one of the tents. Each one was packed with refugees. The compound was surrounded with a makeshift barbed wire fence. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter in jeeps every five minutes. I stayed awake to watch our ass because I didn’t trust the army any further than I could throw them. Watson stayed out of view, probably due to the reporter’s presence.

  We learned that only a few of the refugees were from San Antonio, with most of those escaping well before the bombs fell. Our group was the only one to make it out of the city afterwards.

  It was confirmed that we were behind “enemy lines.” The military had stopped the spread of the infection somewhere between Austin and Dallas, although the lines were shifting each day with each skirmish with the zombies.