by Bowie Ibarra
The demon in the distance stopped its laughter, but for how long, Mike had no idea.
“You still live at 2344 1st Street?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mike knew he had to keep his suspect’s mind busy, so if he ever had to recall this incident later on, all the shenanigans going on in the background might not be as memorable. “Charlie, you have any illegal paraphernalia on you tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“No reefer, pot, smack, crack, heroin, coke, smoking or snorting apparatuses, guns, hand grenades or atomic bombs?”
“No, sir,” Charlie blurted.
Mike pursed his lips. Charlie had been too quick to respond—too consumed in introverted contemplation and therefore too quick to deny. An innocent person would more than likely have been more calm and attentive and would have known the last bit was meant as a joke.
“864 to dispatch. I need some numbers run. Over.”
“Go ahead,” came the reply.
“1-niner-3-3-5-niner-niner-0-1.” Taking advantage of the silent moment, Mike proceeded with his questioning. “Charlie, any warrants I need to know about?”
“No, sir.”
Derek was now approaching, walking his scraped and bedraggled suspect with him. The suspect was handcuffed. A loud siren in the distance signaled an ambulance urgently driving down William Cannon.
“I’m going to check your pockets, Charlie. Am I going to find anything inside you should have already told me about?”
“Uh... I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Mike echoed. “Well, you either do or you don’t.”
He stuck his hand into each pocket of Charlie’s Levis, being wary of any possible sharp objects, and found an item of interest. It was a “dugout,” a small wooden container with a carved-out section for weed and another convenient hole for a “pinch hitter,” a small metal pipe used to place small hits of weed at one end. And both holes of the dugout just so happened to be filled with the product they were designed to be filled with. It amounted to roughly a nickle bag.
“I thought you said you weren’t doing drugs tonight?”
“They’re his,” Charlie said, nodding toward the other suspect.
“Man, fuck you, Charlie, you asshole. That shit ain’t mine.”
The CB buzzed. “Dispatch to 864. Suspect Roth, Charles. No outstanding warrants. No priors. Over.”
“Roger,” Mike said into his shoulder CB. “Charlie, you just messed up your perfect record.”
“Just don’t tell my mom.”
“Your mom?” Mike asked. “You’re still living at home?” He then turned his head long enough to acknowledge another police cruiser pulling up next to his and Derek’s cruisers at the end of the alley. “I think your mom’s going to find out. Sorry about your luck. Now, I need you both to get back down on the ground. Mind the litter.”
The suspects slowly went to their knees, trying their best to avoid the small pebbles and bits of glass scattered all around, then lowered themselves onto their bellies.
Mike and Derek walked back to their cars where they were greeted by two mustachioed and buzz-cut colleagues who had stepped out of the new cruiser.
“How’s it hangin’, fellas?”
Mike and Derek greeted the newcomer simultaneously. “Hey, Clark.”
“Hey. We were nearby. Thought ya’ll might need us.”
“Nah,” Derek said. “We just got us a couple of potheads brought their smoking toys out of the house tonight. They should have stayed indoors and saved us the hassle.”
“Aw, come on,” Clark said. He winked. “Pretend you need us anyway.”
Derek chuckled. After a moment he motioned toward the suspects they had down on their bellies, and replied, “Yeah, ya never know. These guys might turn out to be hardened gangbangers or something. Better safe than sorry.”
Clark laughed and patted Derek on the shoulder.
Mike wasn’t paying attention to them. For the second time now he had heard the faint sound of scuffling footsteps and an occasional crunch of gravel. He stepped away from the group and squinted his eyes down the alley while the other three officers continued their banter. Derek took only a passing interest in his departure.
The sounds seemed to emanate from the other end of the alley, near where Derek and his suspect had scuffled. Mike clicked on his flashlight and shone it that direction. The beam wasn’t powerful enough, however, and it was easier to see without it now that Mike’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. He clicked the flashlight off.
With his naked eyes, he could see shadowy silhouettes in the distance. Three of them.
“They didn’t see anything,” Derek said softly, almost in a growl, close to Mike’s ear.
Mike asked, “Huh?”
“They didn’t see anything,” Derek repeated. “The vagrants over there. They didn’t see a thing. So stop your worrying. All right?”
“Were they there when you were subduing your pothead?”
“They were just waking up out of their cardboard boxes. Goddamn bums. They didn’t see anything. Give it a rest, Mr. Paranoia.”
Mike started to say, “I’m not—” but Derek had rejoined the other two officers before they could get too curious about Mike and Derek’s private conversation.
“Hey Roland, how’s Meredith?” Derek asked. He opened the door to the driver’s seat of his cruiser and sat down. The other two officers followed him, which had probably been his intention—to lead them away and distract them.
Mike sat down in his own cruiser. He plucked up the clipboard on the passenger seat, clicked his pen into the writing position, and began the process of filling out some of the basic paperwork. He peered over the dashboard to make sure the two suspects were staying put.
“Oh, Meredith is veeeeery good—” Roland started to say, but after a groan was heard, he and Officer Clark focused their attention down the alleyway. Mike looked up as well.
The three vagrants Mike had noticed before had advanced several feet closer. They seemed to be heading for the two downed suspects.
Clark raised his palm to them and said sternly, “Gentlemen. Police business. Go back the way you came.”
The vagrants continued moving forward, totally ignoring the command. They hadn’t even hesitated at all to consider it.
All eyes turned on the figures. Officer Clark stepped forward, and Officer Roland quickly got in stride with his partner. With a growl of annoyance, Derek rose from his seat and stepped out of his cruiser to join them. All three men pulled out their SL-20 flashlights and aimed the white beams at the three interlopers.
Mike stayed in his seat, but flashed a couple of glances up from his paperwork to make sure his colleagues had everything under control.
“Folks, you need to stop and turn around now,” Derek said. “You hear me?”
They didn’t comply.
“You need to stop and turn around now,” Derek said again. “Last time I’m going to tell you.”
Mike then decided it was best to step out of the cruiser and give the situation his full attention.
The vagrants drifted under an overhead night light on the side of the building, and their sunken faces and cloudy eyes were revealed.
Mike shivered to the bone in fear and recognition. He had seen faces exactly like those only hours earlier, at the disturbance call at Riverside Apartments. The mother in particular flashed across his memory. He remembered her face. Her tears. His tears. Goosebumps rose on his arms.
Derek recognized the faces as well. They matched the one the crazed boy had worn. He had had to taze that crazy bastard multiple times.
Mike’s lips stuttered, shocked into inaction as he recalled the moment from earlier that day. Thankfully Derek was quick to send out a warning to their fellow officers.
“Guys!” Derek yelled. “Clark! Roland! Stop! Get back!”
“What?” Clark asked, perturbed.
“Just get back and draw your tazers! I’m thinking this might
get ugly!”
Derek remembered how ineffective his tazer was earlier that day, but he dared not suggest the men draw their sidearms—not yet. He knew they would be discharged, probably several times, and he was not going to be part of another A.P.D. investigation into the shooting death of a suspect.
“What are you talking about?” Officer Roland asked, clueless to Derek’s subtext. He probably hadn’t heard about the Building H incident.
In the confusion, Mike and Derek left their suspects vulnerable, something neither of them would have let happen otherwise. Lying bound on the ground between the police and the three approaching cloudy-eyed vagrants, they craned their heads around so they could see what the commotion was all about.
Charlie yelled, “Oh, shit!” Helpless on the ground, he was the first to be attacked. His friend screamed, first from the fearful shock of watching his pot superstar friend have a chunk of flesh taken out of his shoulder, then from having a matching chunk taken out of his. The third vagrant attacked his exposed lily-white legs.
“Stop them!” Derek yelled, dashing forward and tazing one of the vagrants. Officer Clark zapped another. Since the attackers were still on top of the potheads, the electrical charge was also sent through the victims like a live-wire chain, and all five rattled in an electro-shock dance.
Roland dove and tackled one of the crazed vagrants, removing him violently from his victim and forcing him to the ground. He whipped out his pepper spray and squirted a sharp stream straight to the eyes. The vagrant wasn’t fazed, however, and grabbed Roland’s arm and bit down.
Roland screamed and yanked his arm away. He viciously punched the man three times in the face, breaking a cheekbone, before twisting the man’s arms behind his back and cuffing the wrists together with the skill of a seasoned veteran.
Mike kicked the other two away from the potheads so the unfortunate men wouldn’t be electrocuted further. Charlie and his friend were crying in pain, helpless in their handcuffs.
Mike switched on the CB. “864 to dispatch. We need an ambulance at 1837 South William Cannon and Congress intersection, behind Quates Liquor. Over.” Static buzzed as he turned to Derek and Clark and advised, “We don’t want to kill them, guys! Keep those tazers going on and off at
intervals! Short bursts!”
However, Mike knew a single burst alone should be sufficient to take most anybody down. Nobody he had heard of had ever been able to take more than two before giving up.
Are these wacked-out side effects of some new street drug? he wondered. Or some sort of human fucking rabies? Or is this shit just pure insanity?
Whatever it was, it was definitely contagious.
Roland had stood and was inspecting his wound. Mike called over to him, “You’re not done, man. Stay on your perp. I’ll get you some leg shackles.”
Mike was right. The perp was attempting to stand, rolling up on his own face and rising ass first. Had the situation not been so intense, Roland might have laughed. Instead, he rolled the perp back on his belly with a well-placed boot.
The CB buzzed. “Dispatch to 864. All ambulances are on calls. No one can get there for another thirty minutes. Over.”
Mike’s face turned sour. What the hell are we going to do for thirty minutes?
He knew they certainly could not continue tazing the madmen for thirty minutes. They would die. At least they should, if nature held its rational course.
But the world was somehow becoming quite irrational. It had somehow escaped his perception since the situation at the apartment, and had been growing ever since. Multiplying exponentially. Nature was altering, twisting. Wading in the chaos, Mike had a moment outside of the skirmish that was unfolding in front of him to listen to the city. Gauging its heartbeat. Feeling its sleepless and relentless energy.
The crackling of the tazers faded, and Officer Mike Runyard’s aural perception began to focus on the sounds all around him.
Distant screaming.
Eight gunshots from somewhere south.
A car wrecking in the distance.
Townies yelling and running on the sidewalks.
Help needed all around him.
Two arms grabbed him by the shirt, shaking him from his global focus. He yelped in fear as he looked at the face of a young woman.
“Please, help me,” she cried. “My boyfriend wants to kill me.”
Mike quickly noticed the large bite on her arm and a missing ear dripping blood on her neck and shoulder as she pointed in the opposite direction. Mike turned and saw her boyfriend in hot pursuit. Mike recognized the face—not by name—but by the symptoms.
“Get in the vehicle,” Mike said, opening the back door of his cruiser and tossing the girl inside.
He turned to his fellow officers. He knew he needed to try to take control of this bizarre situation.
“Roland, protect the suspects and get them to the car!”
Roland soccer-kicked the cuffed madman in front of him, and he momentarily lay prone.
“What about us?” Derek asked, still firing his tazer.
“Wait until we clear the suspects.”
Roland assisted Charlie in standing up and he came to his feet without too much effort. But Charlie’s friend was like a sand bag. “Shit,” Roland said, dropping the perp. “Mike! I think we lost one!”
Mike knew only very basic CPR. Knowing the girl was secured in his vehicle, he ran to help. He leaned in and placed his ear by the mouth of the motionless man. No breathing. Mike used his fingers to estimate where to position his hands on the ribcage and began pumping on the chest. After a few times, he stopped, then leaned in and placed his ear by the man’s mouth again. He repeated the process.
Derek picked up on a pattern. All the people who were acting strange and crazed, from the family at the apartment to the people who started the night’s issue, had one thing in common: They had been bitten.
Mike was about to administer mouth to mouth when Derek screamed, “Mike! Wait! Don’t!”
Mike froze.
“Mike, I think it’s the bites,” Derek said. “The bites are infecting people with something.”
“I knew it,” Mike whispered, pulling away from the dead man.
Roland and Clark looked at each other uneasily. They both then looked at Roland’s bitten arm.
Derek’s theory was confirmed when the body on the ground—the same body Mike was about to provide mouth to mouth—twitched. All four officers turned and watched as the man’s eyes slowly opened. He gagged twice before coughing up blood. He attempted to rise.
“We’ve got to get ya’ll to the hospital,” Mike said. “I’ll take Charlie and the girl.” He then turned to Officer Clark, who was still tazing the creature on the ground. “Clark, you should drive. Roland, no offense meant, but you should ride in the back.”
He scowled, offended anyway. But Mike’s idea was the safest, considering the situation.
“We should go now,” Roland conceded.
They went to their vehicles.
The girl’s boyfriend was attacking Mike’s cruiser, trying to get to her. The boyfriend wasn’t attempting to lift the handle, he was just clawing away at the window as if trying to scrape and peel little bits of glass away to get at his lover. Mike placed a front kick into his chest, knocking the crazed man out of the way.
Mike threw open the door.
“Please uncuff me,” Charlie said.
Mike paused. But as the boyfriend rose from the ground, Mike whipped out his keys and uncuffed Charlie. Charlie clambered into the back seat with the girl. Mike front-kicked the boyfriend again.
“Derek, get in!”
“But I’ve got my—” Derek started to say.
“Leave it, man!” Mike shouted. “This is a fubar situation! I need you with me to keep an eye on these two!”
Derek didn’t protest further. He opened the passenger door and sat down.
Mike started the engine. In front of him, the crazed vagrants—though they had already been thor
oughly roasted by tazers—had risen to their feet. The cruiser’s headlights blinded them temporarily, illuminating them in the darkness. They covered their eyes with their arms and advanced on the cruiser. Mike backed the cruiser out of the mouth of the alley and onto the road. The tires squealed as he shifted out of reverse and into drive and punched the accelerator.
“864 to Dispatch. Returning to base. Over.”
Anticipating a response, but not getting one, Mike repeated himself.
“864 to Dispatch. Returning to base. Over.”
Still no response.
While Mike tried to reach an ominously silent base, Charlie retrieved a crumpled joint and lighter from the nether-reaches of his crotch and sparked up. The unidentified girl next to him eyed the doobie with a sort of sad relief. Charlie took a long hit, savoring every bit of THC the hit offered. In a defiant show, Charlie exhaled, filling the interior of the cruiser with second hand pot smoke. Charlie offered the girl a chance to take a hit, and the girl was more than happy to accept.
Mike said nothing. This was no longer a typical day. Hell, it wasn’t even a typical city anymore—or world. Charlie sparking up was a fitting end to their painful night, and a marker for Officer Mike Runyard of the beginning of the zombie apocalypse in Austin, Texas.
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, April 14th
12:05 AM
In an armored military personnel carrier
on IH-35, just ahead of APD Cruiser 864
“What the hell is going on?” asked a short and slouching soldier of Asian descent in the back of the APC.
“Knight, I already told you,” said his team leader Sgt. Arnold, “We’ve been sent to secure the Texas state capitol.” The stout, round-faced leader leaned back. Dark rimmed, military-issued glasses stood firm on his round nose. The M203 grenade launcher strapped to the top of his gear clicked against the metal wall of the vehicle.
“You mean we have been sent to secure the Texas state capitol,” said Sgt. Arnold’s colleague, Sgt. Nickson, sitting directly across from him. He was indicating the three men that made up his fireteam.
