by Bowie Ibarra
Movement at the mouth of the bridge where the team was approaching caught Arnold’s eye. Without hesitation, he fired off a shot that put down a Viral.
“C’mon, people. Let’s keep moving,” he said, waking up.
* * *
Talltree heard the shot. It was not like the sporadic gunfire he heard all around the neighborhoods along Riverside. This one had been measured, controlled. He guessed it to originate eight blocks down the road. He knew Sgt. Nickson was hot on his tail, but his intuition told him it was not him.
He dashed to the closest building, a restaurant called Taqueria Vallarta #3. The front door was locked. He peered through the tinted window and could discern movement in the kitchen. The restaurant was habitated—but by who or what, he didn’t know.
He moved around the side of the building. The edges at the corners were constructed so that the bricks jutted out at regular intervals. It was not meant to be scaled and, in reality, offered very little foot and finger space to use for climbing. But the little that was provided was more than Talltree needed.
Still cloaked in the filth of their gore, he ignored the few Virals that watched him with curiosity. All eventally turned away, distance being the obstacle to confirming their suspicions.
Once on the roof of the building, Talltree found a very secure hiding spot, and waited.
* * *
On the grounds of the Texas State Capitol, Captain Barrigan was scrutinizing intelligence reports in the communications tent. Computers hummed as men analyzed on-screen data and sorted verbal information filtering in through their large headsets.
One man flicked off his headset and turned to the Captain. “Sir, a special message has been sent to you from Fort Hood. They say they’ve lost contact with Regal Beagle. They asked me to write down the following message and give it to you.” The man handed the captain a slip of paper.
Barrigan read it.
The doll is in the toybox.
It was a code he did not want to receive.
It meant Plan B was missing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
7:30 AM
Lopez Auto Repair and Custom Cars
“What did I say to you, huh?! What did I say to everyone, huh?!”
Sleepy held one of the ex-cons face down on the greasy concrete with one hand while his other hand pressed a gun to the back of the ex-con’s head, burying the barrel deep.
The man replied, “Respect his shit. That’s what you said, Sleepy. You said respect his shit.”
“That’s right. I said respect his shit. So I hope you enjoyed your Coke, pendejo, because breaking his machine just cost you your life.”
The man had no time to respond before Sleepy put a bullet in his head. His body twitched once, then was motionless.
The entire camp watched in respectful awe. Justice was served. The crime: breaking into one of the Coke machines and stealing a can of soda. The penalty: death.
Sleepy walked toward the group that had assembled to travel to Nick’s apartment complex and help him find his wife and daughter. The vehicles they chose were four jacked-up and customized Ford Heavy-Duties, waiting near the gated exit. Nick stood nearby—honored, but scared. Considering what Sleepy had just done, he did not want to make a wrong move or say the wrong thing.
“Ay, you be careful out there, okay?” Sleepy told him. “My thoughts and prayers are going out to your family, okay?”
“Gracias, Sleepy,” Nick said.
The other members of the expedition packed into the vehicles. Nick rode in the truck that would bring up the rear, jacked-up and strong. Emblazoned on the hood was a custom painting of La Virgen de Guadalupe. The middle truck had a brown image of Emiliano Zapata on the hood. Painted near Zapata were two buxom bandana-wearing cholas, holding the same lever-action rifle as he, as well as matching bandoleros. The other middle vehicle had a giant Mexican flag painted across the hood. Each vehicle had massive grill guards. The only one not airbrushed was the military Hummer that was captured that morning. It would be the lead vehicle that would crush anything that stood in their way, if needed.
Two people sat in the cabs of each vehicle, and five more sat in the beds. All were armed to the gills. Glasspack muffler systems rattled as the drivers revved the engines, psyching themselves up for the mandated mission to rescue Nick’s family, as assigned by their general, Hector ‘Sleepy’ Arana.
The gates were opened. The gate guards poured hot lead from their guns on the zombies outside, and the mini Mexican army was on their way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
7:47 AM
Living Room of a Murdered Family
Specialist Leo Garrison had a good way of denying his faults: Lie.
Lie to yourself. Lie to others.
What happened in the house was not murder, followed by rape.
No.
It was a rescue operation where the hostages turned hostile. Restraint was out of the question—they were already shooting. In fact, they shot first. In doing so they killed a loyal American soldier. So they had to be neutralized. Moreover, they had died essentially quick and painless. That was a lot more than most people could ask for, even dying a natural death.
And as for the girl—Andi, her name was—hell, him and Sgt. Nickson had cut her a break. A lot of times lawbreakers are given a choice by the judge or magistrate: jail time or community service. And the girl performed community service—she serviced soldiers during wartime; there was honor in that. She had done wrong and she needed disciplined for it. But he and Sgt. Nickson had let her off easy. They allowed her to exploit her natural assets
(the tight young pussy of quintessential White America and the audibly gratifying whimpering moans of a likely virgin)
as a service to the nation instead of capital punishment. Who else could have assaulted a United States soldier and got off with the equivalent of a slap on the wrist?
We weren’t that rough with her at all, really, he thought. Its doubtful anybody would even remotely construe it as rape.
So, everything was justified, and the incident would never have to be mulled over in his mind ever again.
Thinking back on other events, though, he saw a trend.
He did not acquire his position in the military without screwing over others in his platoon that were better, more talented, and in truth, a better all-around human being than he was. By his philosophy, you did not get anywhere in life by being nice. And the easiest way to get what you wanted was by being nice not out of sincerity, but solely to secure allies. For when the day comes when someone sniffs you out for being the lying bastard you are, you call forth the people you have brought to your side to defend you against your enemy. The only way to succeed was not by talent or skill, but to crush your opposition. Once powerful men are aligned with you, the ultimate foundation of the alliance is the same:
Lies.
This was probably the reason Sgt. Nickson liked Spc. Garrison so much. He knew he was full of shit the first time they met. No favors were ever granted to him. On the contrary, Garrison wanted so much to be liked by Nickson—to be “friends,” have a “friendship”—that he did anything for him. Nickson owned Garrison.
It was now a very appropriate union. With Rodriguez dead and Talltree AWOL, the only person he could latch on to was Nickson. And now, in this changing world, they both needed each other.
“Damn injun. I swear I’m going to gut that goddamn redskin piece of shit.”
“So... what do we do now?” Garrison asked.
“I know he’s going after Arnold without us. I just know it. So it’s easy:
We keep following the trail of dead.”
Garrison sensed potential trouble in the plan. “You don’t think he’ll set traps for us?”
“Maybe. But we still have a job to do. We just need to be careful. The longer we wait, the more those things grow in number. We need to move fast.”
“Right,” Garrison gulped.
The rotting bodies outside of the
house were getting very funky and the stench was drifting inside. Nickson and Garrison held their breath as much as they could as they prepared their gear.
Nickson dropped his HK416 and commandeered Rodriguez’s SAW, hefting it up, getting accustomed to its weight. It was a heavy son of a bitch—he couldn’t imagine a solid wooden log being heavier—and he wondered if he could carry it far.
They stood by the front door. After a nod from Nickson, Garrison opened it and both men exited, guns raised and ready. They sprayed bullets into the heads of four Virals loitering on the front lawn.
Watching from the bedroom window and seeing that her attackers were gone from her home and on the opposite sidewalk, Andi dashed to the front door and frantically slammed and locked it.
Get over yourself, Nickson thought, rolling his eyes. You weren’t that good that we’d go back for more. And you couldn’t stop us if we wanted to.
Fireteam Arnold’s trail was obvious; it didn’t take long at all to rediscover. What did they ever need Hiawatha for anyway?
“Wait a second,” Sgt. Nickson said, moving to one of the bodies.
“What is it?”
“I just want to check something out.”
Garrison supplied cover fire. Though his skill and firepower was neutralizing the ghouls with ease, it was evident their numbers had grown. At this pace there simply wasn’t going to be enough bullets for them all.
Was he actually going to have to ration ammo?
Sgt. Nickson rolled the body over.
Its head was split open.
“That’s how he got by without drawing attention to himself with gunfire: split their heads with a blade. I like this guy.” He rose to his feet. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m still going to kill him, but I like his style.”
Nickson and Garrison began moving to the intersection of Riverside and IH-35, blasting any ghoul in their way. The line of bodies they followed continued down Riverside, moving across the bridge and to the east.
In fact, the soldiers were enjoying themselves, almost comparable to ecstasy. Here were walking corpses, the living dead who offered less than fearsome resistance when scattered and unconcentrated. Here was their chance to kill a mob of walking dead—humans who could do no more than walk toward them and eat lead. They felt unstoppable, like Greek gods unleashing lightning bolts of death. The bodies that were stacking up by their holy hands piled on top of bodies that already littered the highway by way of Fireteam Arnold.
Basking in a kind of orgasmic glory of unbridled carnage, the men had no idea what lay ahead of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY
7:59 AM
East Riverside Drive
Talltree overlooked Riverside Drive from the safety of the taco house rooftop. The spring sun had already warmed the paved Texas landscape and the black, tarry roof surface was probably doubly hot. It would be unbearable to stay here much longer, but he couldn’t leave yet. Fortunately the people in the restaurant below were making no effort to smoke him out.
The sounds of gunfire were getting closer, and Talltree could make out the movements of the fireteam. To his surprise, he discerned four distinct figures carrying weapons and wearing military fatigues. It confused him. Had Cpt. Barrigan sent out another team? Talltree knew Sgt. Nickson was down to two, (Rodriquez dead and himself deserted,) and Sgt. Arnold was down to three, (Goodson dead.)
So who were these four that approached?
He would know soon enough.
* * *
“Stop just a minute,” Sgt. Arnold said.
“Something up, Sergeant?”
“Maybe,” he replied. He looked around. There were too many Virals that had already been terminated—expertly terminated. It wasn’t too obvious, but the signs were definitely there. “Someone has been this way already. Parcells, you said you were the only one with the code and the GPS, right?”
“Yes, Sergeant. I was the only survivor. But someone from Fort Hood might be able to track it.”
“Nah, nobody could have gotten here that fast,” Arnold noted. He took a moment to contemplate the evidence while his men picked off the ever-encroaching Virals. They were scattered, but stumbled after the humans from all directions. “I’m not sure what’s going on here. Something’s definitely up. Follow me.”
Sgt. Arnold led the team to a small building just off the road, a costume shop called Bizzaro, and circled around to the rear. The store rested against a steep hillside, and since his team was attracting a crowd, they were essentially pinning themselves in behind the store and the hill. Several Virals drifted toward the soldiers’ new position.
Sgt. Arnold gambled that there would be a service ladder at the rear of the building. He was right. But he did not consider that the ladder might be locked with iron grating to prevent unauthorized access. However, he and his crew were athletic enough to scale it anyway, using the device as a foothold.
Up top, the roof at first appeared completely flat, but after they walked on it they realized it was tilted just enough to provide drainage. The exterior was angled, though, and provided a three-foot high rim around the edges that the team could take cover behind and stay out of sight.
“Everyone stay low,” Sgt. Arnold said, pulling out his binoculars. Thankfully there was a lid above the lenses to prevent them from flashing reflected light at distant targets.
He scanned the area.
“Sarge,” Knight said. “What’s going on?”
“The road we were on,” Arnold replied, pausing while he refocused his binoculars, “It felt like a trail. Too many dead in a line.”
“Leftovers of another military op?” Noble asked.
“Maybe,” Arnold said. “Let’s just sit tight for a little while.”
Spc. Parcells took a moment to check out the position of the Hummer again. His eyes widened as he gazed at the LCD display. “Sergeant, it’s the package. It’s moving.”
“What?”
But before anyone had a chance to check out the GPS, gunshots were heard. Some was machine gun fire, but the rest was the rapid fire of what they all recognized as the malicious song of a SAW.
“Son of a bitch,” Arnold muttered. “Of all the people Barrigan could send...”
* * *
“Hey, check it out. Just like at the house,” Spc. Garrison said, pointing at the dozen Virals clawing away at the side of a nearby building. The sign in front read ‘Bizarro’ in gothic lettering. The Virals’ heads were tilted lustfully as they salivated for the fresh meat surely concealed within.
“Looks like Arnold and his men found themselves a place to stay overnight,” Sgt. Nickson said. “And here I thought we’d find them in a hidey-hole like that fucking coward Hussein.” He noticed the black leather lingerie displayed in the window, and smirked. “They’re probably having a circle-jerk right now.”
“Why—they could just gang-bang Noble,” Garrison added, which prompted him to muse, they’re no better than us.
“Too true,” Nickson agreed. “Can you imagine that pale bitch all decked out in those black dominatrix duds?”
Actually, Garrison could imagine it, and he concentrated on the image a little too long.
Nickson chuckled. “Let’s do this.”
They advanced on the store, exterminating every Viral in their path. Even though in most instances only one bullet in the brain stem would terminate a hostile, they were holding their triggers well over a second per target—and Garrison’s HK416 alone fired fourteen rounds a second. Virals’ heads were getting punctuated to the point they would be missing entirely, their bodies quivering underneath, showered in blood and brain matter, dancing the dance of death until they were finally allowed to collapse and cease to exist.
* * *
Gazing intently on the GPS, Spc. Parcells whispered, “Hey, what street is this?”
“Riverside,” Noble whispered back.
Parcells held up the GPS to display to Arnold.
Sgt. Arnold’s eyes widened.
Below
the store, the zombies were being leveled with cruel efficiency by Sgt. Nickson and Spc. Garrison. But a rumbling even louder and more severe was taking over. Noisy Glasspacks could be heard—the urban war cry of vehicles revving coupled with sporadic gunfire.
Sgt. Arnold turned to his crew and asked, “What the fuck is that?”
* * *
Spc. Garrison let off the trigger of his HK416, ears ringing, and turned to Sgt. Nickson. He asked, “What the fuck is that?”
* * *
The people in the restaurant watched the vehicles pull into their parking lot. The manager said, “Que chingados es esto?”
* * *
Spc. Daniel Talltree peered over the edge of the restaurant’s roof. He mumbled, “Naho ki:ken?”
* * *
Like modern day bandidos, the convoy of Mexican insurgents pulled into the Taqueria Vallarta #3. A pair of cholos exited from the bed of one of the trucks and ran to the door, blasting two zombies on the way. One man banged on the door with his open palm, hoping the people would open it for him. The other cholo flashed cash to entice the inhabitants further. The owner of the restaurant, recognizing the thug as a friend and regular customer, allowed him inside. The thug placed two crisp hundreds on the counter and politely said, “Fifty breakfast tacos and sodas, please.”
