by R. J. Spears
The Dallas reporter stayed around the refugee camp through the rest of the night doing live feeds back to the network. I’m sure her career was going to skyrocket with what she had captured that night. All of their footage was an exclusive.
Troop carriers moved refugees out of the compound at regular intervals, but these were heavily controlled and coordinated to ensure the safety of the refugees and to prevent the spread of the virus. The protocol was a first-in, first-out process with refugees that had been there for days being moved out the soonest. I would imagine that it was another measure employed to make sure that an infected person didn’t slip through all the inspections and get transferred into the safe zone.
I was about to drift off to sleep as the sun peeked over the horizon. My eyes felt like someone had washed them with salt water and rinsed them with gasoline. My muscles ached from head to toe. Just as my mind began to work its way past the horrible events of the last few days and into the land of sleep, a commotion filtered in from just outside the tent.
My body resisted any attempt to rise, but knowing I had better get up, I called upon my last reserves. When I pushed past the tent flap, I saw Randell standing in front of the reporter and her cameraman standing just a few feet away. The light on top of the camera caused Randell’s eyes to blink repeatedly from its intensity, making him look like a hamster. A long cable led out the back of the camera and trailed off into the distance, presumably to some sort of satellite uplink.
Something in Randell swelled forth. “Yes, our group was in San Antonio when the bombs were dropped,” he said.
“And how did that make you feel?” The reporter asked pouring out all the fake empathy she could muster. “I mean, seeing those bombs dropping while you were still there. It had to be a frightening experience.”
“Well, yes. We were quite scared. But we had already spent five days trapped in the Alamo surrounded by zombies.”
“You were at the Alamo? Tell me about that,” she said working herself in a Pulitzer lather.
Randell equaled her enthusiasm and started, “Well. One hundred and seventy six years ago, over two hundred brave souls made a final stand at the Alamo, ready to defend the freedom of their people against an invading force. How did they do that?”
I wondered if he had this speech memorized.
He continued, “Courage. Courage to fight and defend what they thought was right. Their courage and example is what made this country great. They still inspire people everywhere to make a stand. And that’s what we need to do. We could live on our knees or we could die on our feet. I called upon the people trapped with me to tap into that spirit and to recall the rallying cry for Americans everywhere, “Remember the Alamo.”
I could swear the reporter just about swooned. This was beyond Pulitzer. Did they give a Nobel prize for reporting?
“We tapped into their spirits and found their courage within us as we fought our way out of the Alamo to safety.”
“Oh my,” she said, almost speechless. Now, that’s some fine reporting.
She recovered. “What was the situation like?”
“We were surrounded by a thousand zombies and our situation was hopeless. But we used our hearts and our minds to come up with a plan.” He stopped and looked back at the tent, and a broad smile came across his face. “It was this man’s plan and his courage that led us out of certain death. His name is Grant.”
The reporter took the cue and tugged at her cameraman’s sleeve, pulling him over to me. The light shone brightly in my eyes, causing them to water.
“Mr. Grant is it?” She asked.
“Grant will do,” I said.
“Mr. Duncan tells me that you were the mastermind of an escape plan to lead a group of survivors out of the Alamo. How did you feel inspired by the Alamo’s rich history of courage and bravery?”
I took a few seconds to collect myself. If I had any sleep or time to collect my wits, I’m sure I would have been more eloquent, but at that point in time, my cognitive abilities and higher level thinking skills were running on empty. And frankly, I didn’t give a shit. “The courage of the Alamo, huh. I’d have to say fuck the Alamo. You can forget that place. It’s dust. We found the courage in ourselves, not a bunch of dead guys from a couple decades ago. So, that place can go screw itself as far as I’m concerned.” I backed up under the flap and went back to my cot where I went promptly to sleep.
My speech only made it on the air once in that live feed. My sentiments were later revised for PG audience to “Forget the Alamo.” Not really a rallying call, but I didn’t care.
Two days later, troop transports carried us north, and out of the infected zone.
A Note from the Author:
First, let me express my gratitude to you for reading my book. Writing is a long journey that ends with you as the reader. It is my deepest hope that you enjoyed this journey. I only ask that you consider writing a review of the book. As an independent author, reviews are the lifeblood of my future success
Also, if you liked Forget the Alamo, you should download its sequel Forget Texas.
