by Bowie Ibarra
“Exactly,” Sgt. Arnold said, lacing the reply with a dash of sarcasm. “Let’s do it.”
The sergeants communicated their plans to their charges and immediately went to work. They moved cautiously around the rotunda and advanced down the stairs to the first floor. Two Virals climbing the stairs were quickly put down by the team. Reaching the first floor, the temporary squad quickly advanced to the locked senate chamber doors. Spc. Knight went to work with his lockpicking kit, and in seconds the door was open.
Specialists Noble and Talltree moved into the chamber, followed by Rodriguez and Knight, who were followed by Garrison and Goodson, and finally Sgt. Arnold and Sgt. Nickson.
Sgt. Nickson, in an attempt to take control, offered a plan. “Let’s lock those doors and hole up in here.”
“Negative,” Sgt. Arnold replied. “We would lose all tactical advantage in here. We need to have more of a capacity for tactical offensives if necessary.”
Sgt. Nickson scowled.
Sgt. Arnold continued, “Let’s have three men stationed under the rotunda on the state seal, one in the hallway to the chambers, and the remaining men in the chamber.”
“All right,” Nickson agreed. He didn’t see any need to argue over such a simple plan.
The men communicated their plan to their charges. Garrison, Rodriguez and Goodson were stationed on the seal. Talltree was put in the hallway, while the rest were to stay in the chamber.
It was 0300 hours. The National Guard would arrive soon. But with the way the world was shaping, they weren’t totally sure it was going to happen.
CHAPTER NINE
4:30 AM
Texas Capitol Rotunda
The senate chamber had been secured and its inhabitants calmed down to the point of sleep. The senators and their pages positioned themselves as comfortably as possible on the floor. Most drifted off. Several could not relax and gathered in a corner of the room to smoke. One senator had recovered his secret stash: a bottle of L’Amour Whiskey. He even had shotglasses, and shared with his colleagues. Some mixed it with their coffee, while others just drank from the mug.
With his charges under the rotunda, Sgt. Nickson had worked his way to the drinkers and smokers, while Sgt. Arnold, Knight, and Noble were spread out among the napping senators.
Knight had bathroom duty, and was escorting small groups of senators to relieve themselves. The men’s bathrooms were secure, and the erratic trips were a welcome break from the monotony of standing and keeping watch over the sleeping congressmen.
Sgt. Arnold had time to think as he stood around. A career soldier, Martin Arnold was the youngest of three brothers. Among his blood brothers in his hometown of San Uvalde, he stood out as the loudest and most charismatic. He was practical and had a common sense that accentuated his sense of humor. From stout stock, he had a barrel chest and a round face. He had gone through several cigarettes since securing the chamber, and was working on yet another, puffing away like a train in a John Wayne western.
Spc. Noble had been given the okay to have a chance for some shuteye. She needed it, too.
Raised in a family with a rich military history that provided a participant in every major war dating back to the second World War, Elizabeth Noble knew in her youth that she wanted to be like her mother and father. Both of her parents were officers in the military (mom in the Navy and dad in the Marines,) and her goal was to someday lead a unit like her father did during the first Gulf War. Growing up with four brothers (all in the military as well,) she passed up a college scholarship to play volleyball in her home state of Washington so she could be a permanent addition to the proud Noble family tradition of serving her nation, wherever it may lead, even all the way south to Texas. Plus, having been called “Liz” or “Beth” alternately depending on which family member addressed her, she found the stability of being called “Noble” to be a welcome change. Pretty for a tomboy, she kept her black hair cut to shoulder length, making her small frame somewhat more noticeable. But when wearing her uniform, her dark, haunting eyes over porcelain skin—and a perfect smile—were the only indications of her femininity, a gothic appearance she never intended to have or could readily alter.
Specialist Hageshiro Knight was the only child of two computer programmers who fell in love in college during the late ‘80s. His mother was from Tokyo, Japan. His father was from Laredo, Texas. The parents latched on to the company that would change the face of computers in the ‘90s: Apple. Sharp as a knife like his parents, Hageshiro chose the military over college. Most of his motivation to join came from the chance to express the anger he had built up from being called zipperhead, chink, and many other racial slurs due to his half-Asian background. His mother was fullblooded Japanese, and if it wasn’t for his mastery of the English language, he could easily pass as an Asian immigrant, even though he was a fullblooded American.
Spc. Rodriguez had infiltrated the group of senators and was holding the bottle of L’Amour Whiskey hostage like a bully holding candy from a small child. A tattoo of a goat head sat on his right forearm, stretching down to his wrist. A black-robed wraith with a scythe stretched down his left forearm. He always kept his sleeve rolled up to proudly display his satanic ink. Many also felt it was his true spiritual allegiance. A trim moustache sat on his thick lips below his bulbous nose. A unibrow stood thick over his dark eyes. A perpetual bully, Rodriguez was enjoying his time intimidating the senators. He was intimidating enough even without flaunting it. He had obviously found ways to receive and use steroids, though no one really cared as long as he was on their team. Born in Panama but raised in the U.S., Rodriguez was a standout defensive lineman from Skyline High School in Houston, Texas. His grades and bad attitude during his school years were more fitting for the military than college. His large trapezeous muscles gave the illusion he had no neck. The ink on his arms were on proud display, though nondescript from a distance against his dark black skin.
Spc. Daniel Talltree, standing in the hallway between the two secured sections, took in the social dynamics of both sections. Talltree was a proud Mohawk Indian, which his family thought would exclude him from service in the military. The Mohawk Warrior Society, a strong militant segment of the Mohawk nation, had gained a bad reputation in Canada, forcing the northern nation to label the society a terrorist organization. The Oka Crisis, as it became known, found Mohawks taking on the town of Oka, Quebec, Canada, in a fight to recover their native land. It was particularly important to the natives, as the sacred pines and land the city planned to tear down in order to build a golf course was home to a sacred Mohawk burial ground. The Mohawks fought the system with numbers and tenacity. And though the land moved into the hands of another governmental force that promised to protect the land, the Mohawks became a force to be reckoned with. Despite the reputation the militant segment of the Mohawk nation gained after the incident, and the fact some of Talltree’s family members participated in the event, Talltree was allowed to enlist.
The recruiter saw something special in Talltree, something that could be used to the Army’s advantage. The recruiter who signed him up by ignoring his tribal affiliation was already experiencing it. It was a kind of ESP, a spiritual infiltration that bordered on the psychic, but was somehow instinctual. Talltree had a way to connect so strongly to a person he could know exactly where they were when they were not around. It was an ability he knew he had, as well as his family. But it was their secret. Having been around his fireteam members long enough to connect to their spiritual energies of hate and anger, they were forever bound to him, and would never be lost while he was around.
Spc. Knight approached Talltree from the senate chambers, escorting two women to the restroom. Talltree nodded subtly to the group as they passed.
The trio passed the three guards under the rotunda.
“Hey,” Knight said.
“Don’t squeeze the Charmin, Knight,” Rodriguez chuckled, eyeing the well-dressed female senators as they passed.
As the
trio walked further away, Rodriguez leaned toward Garrison and whispered, “I’d fuck them.” A smile spread across his lips. “And if they didn’t want to fuck, I’d fuck them anyway.” Garrison and Rodriguez shared a laugh.
It was hard to like anything about Spc. Garrison. It wasn’t that he was overtly mean or cruel like his fireteam compatriots. It was more the fact that he was simply a no talent kiss-ass. He was smart enough to establish himself as a confidante to the well-positioned within any establishment or league he was working with. Using that influence, he would reposition himself within the organization and have his opposition dismissed by the powers that be—even opposition that had earned the role.
Spc. Rodriguez was a force within fireteam Nickson, and it was important to Garrison to maintain his trust.
A short man, Garrison had a chubby face like a three year old who eats too much junk food. An unsanctioned graying goatee fell from his chin that made him look just that much more foolish.
Spc. Goodson, the only fireteam Arnold member placed with Garrison and Rodriguez under the rotunda, grimaced in disgust at the antics of his teammates. “Give it a rest, guys. You don’t have to talk like that.”
“Goodson, you little bitch, shut the fuck up,” Garrison sneered. “If you’re going to act like a pussy, do it somewhere else.”
From day one, Goodson had wanted to punch Garrison in the face. It was one of those feelings of instant repulsion, like the nauseating feeling of stepping in a pile of dog shit in your Sunday best.
A man of significant size and muscle mass as well, Spc. Goodson was a powerful man, but significantly shorter than Rodriguez. With GQ cover good looks and an Aryan appearance that would have made Hitler proud, Goodson was far from being a fascist and had a more reasonable disposition that rarely exploited his size and strength.
Today, however, he wished Rodriguez wasn’t around. He wanted nothing more than to crush the little bastard Garrison.
“Garrison, seriously, you need to be real careful what you say to people. Especially these people. Who knows how many of them might have pull with our higher-ups.”
Garrison, once again, unconsciously stepped toward Rodriguez like a small child steps toward his parent for protection. “So fucking what, Goodson?”
Goodson shook his head in repressed anger.
Talltree watched silently, estimating the level of the rising tensions and recording the moment in his mind.
* * *
Down the hallway from the State Seal, Spc. Knight was leading the women to the restroom. Conversation was uneasy.
“So, why were ya’ll here so late?” Knight asked.
“We were working on passing legislation that would allow the state of Texas to turn all major highways into toll roads.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Knight asked, lacing the question with sarcasm.
The female senators were no fools, and picked up on the subtext as Knight reached the restroom. “Next time you travel on a Texas Highway, just remember how it was paid for.”
“I’m from Kansas,” Knight lied, motioning the women to stop and wait. No females had needed to use the restroom, and the women’s facilities had not been secured yet. “Thanks for the roads.”
He slowly pushed open the door and was hit in the face with a funk that was clearly not just the foul odor of excrement. The lights were off. The illumination from the hallway revealed the light switch by the door. Knight flicked the switch upwards. It clicked into place.
No lights.
Two more flicks proved the lights were not working.
Knight clicked on the light secured to his weapon. He realized that he could have just taken the ladies to the men’s room. But if a Viral was in here, he needed to neutralize it anyway so it wouldn’t surprise them later.
“Those things take shits?” he asked himself, watching the white beam of light from the flashlight cut through the darkness like an angelic sword. The head of the beam hit the floor, revealing footprints splattered in blood. Something strange in the neighborhood, he thought, as Ray Parker, Jr. sang the old ‘80s hit in his head. The light followed the trail past the stalls and sinks toward the wall, focusing on a body.
Knight gasped. The body had been torn to pieces. An entire leg was exposed to the bone. The crotch and all subsequent female genitalia had been ripped from the body, exposing the hipbone. Internal organs of the region had been gnawed upon, and the belly was torn open.
A movement to the left of the mutilated corpse caused Knight to adjust the light to focus on the body right next to it. Sitting against the wall, a female Viral opened its eyes and immediately covered them with her hands. She had long black hair and massive breasts hiding behind an ivory blouse and gray business dress suit. She was missing one shoe, revealing manicured toes.
The discovery was bizarre. The only hypothesis Knight could figure was that the Viral had caught the woman in the restroom and was feasting on her body as the lights went out. Enclosed in darkness, the Viral could not enjoy the feast entirely or find its way out. So it sat and rested.
But that was all blind speculation.
The creature was rising despite the bright light shining in her pale dead face. Knight couldn’t help but marvel at her voluptuous body, and fancied her a hottie in her previous life. It was too bad she was a Viral now, with only one solution to her crisis.
Knight provided two as a sort of verification of the only answer.
The first bullet punched out her top front teeth, splitting her palette and severing the top of her spine. The second bullet put her out of her twitching misery, busting her left eye and digging through enough brain to end her days as a Viral.
(A hot Viral.)
She fell face first into the bloody and torn crotch of her victim, landing with an audible splat.
Knight slowly backed out of the restroom.
“What happened?” one of the senators asked.
“You ladies are going to have to use the men’s room.”
CHAPTER TEN
5:00 AM
State Capitol Rotunda
The morning had been quiet apart from the gunshots fired in the ladies room earlier by Spc. Knight.
Specialists Rodriguez, Garrison, and Goodson were wandering around near the entrance to the capitol building, taking in the historical monuments close by.
Garrison looked curiously at words on the marble tile floor. “Check out these words,” he said. “Sabine Pass, Palo Alto, Coleto, Bex-ar.”
“Bexar,” Goodson corrected. “Pronounced Bay-har. It’s Spanish.”
“Stupid ass Spanish can’t spell for shit,” Garrison said callously.
“Watch your mouth, Garrison,” Rodriguez grunted.
“What’s that set on the floor near you say?” Garrison asked Goodson, trying to change the subject quickly.
Goodson was looking at another set of words coupled with torches and winding ribbon that looked eerily like snakes.
“San Jacinto, Goliad, Alamo, Gonzales. Shit, I know those names. They were pretty much the most significant battles in the Texas war of independence.” Goodson swelled with pride.
“Garrison, what’s on that side?” Rodriguez asked.
“Galveston, Palmito, Velasco, Anahuac. What the fuck?”
“I’m thinking those must be battles from the Civil War,” Goodson said.
Garrison didn’t like the way Goodson answered him. “Don’t talk to me like that, Goodson.”
Goodson wasn’t sure why he was being attacked, but didn’t like it.
“Then get an education, you dumb fuck.”
“Fuck you,” came the quick reply.
Goodson pounced on the response, “Oh, ‘fuck you’. Nice comeback, you stupid, no talent imbecile piece of shit.”
“Stringing insults together doesn’t count, either, faggot,” Rodriguez chimed in.
Tensions were rising quickly in front of the watchful eyes of statues of Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin. They seemed to look with disap
proval at the men charged with securing the state they fought for over a century before.
Goodson was tired of feeling bullied. He challenged the massive Rodriguez. “Why don’t you let your little bitch fend for himself ?”
The moment was escalating.
“Because I don’t like you either.”
Goodson chuckled, turning his back to the duo. He looked at the painting of Santa Anna’s surrender on the wall.
“What are you laughing at, bitch?” Rodriguez said, angry at the defiant back turn.
“Just wondering if they’re going to make a painting of this crisis someday and hang it on the wall here, too.”
“You’d probably look like this faggot on the wall,” Rodriguez said, pointing at a large painting of Davy Crockett. “Put your leather chaps on and you’d look just like him.”
“Fuck you, Rodriguez. Davy Crockett was not a faggot. And I left my chaps at home.”
Goodson’s attempt at levity was successful. The tension was temporarily broken, and the three rivals began to laugh.
Their laughter was cut short by a muffled crash emanating from the hallway where the fireteams had originally entered the building.
“What was that?” Goodson asked.
“Viral?” Rodriguez guessed.
“Dunno. Let’s go check it out.”
In his enthusiasm, Goodson took the lead. Rodriguez and Garrison looked at each other, sharing a devious glare. “Go with him,” Rodriguez said. “I’ll stay here with Injun Joe.”
Talltree silently and stoically ignored the comment, watching the obvious ambush unfold.
Garrison looked back at Rodriguez. Rodriguez gave him a nod of approval, securing their advance into the hallway filled with locked offices.
Garrison and Goodson strolled halfway through the hallway, guns ready, when another noise made them stop.
