Down the Road: The Fall of Austin

by Bowie Ibarra

  The vehicles in the convoy, including the Hummer, circled around the establishment like a wagon train, creating a perimeter of protection. Any zombie that wasn’t run over and mangled was shot in the head by armed men in the back of the vehicles.

  A second pair of cholos moved with guns and tools to a nearby standalone ATM to liberate it of its contents. With the skillful efficiency of a team that had done this job several times already, the zombies were held at bay until the machine was spitting out nothing but dry heaves. And in a respectable time of two minutes and forty-seven seconds, the duo was finished, returning to their vehicle entirely unscathed.

  Now all they had to do was wait on their tacos and sodas.

  * * *

  Under pressure and exposed, Sgt. Nickson and Spc. Garrison continued securing the costume shop. Nickson knew Sgt. Arnold was close, and was gambling that the very well organized thugs would not notice him and his partner as they went about their own business.

  But then a stray bullet cracked through the shop’s display window and set off an exterior alarm.

  A cry of pain was heard from above.

  Nickson heard it. The alarm had just busted some poor sap’s eardrums.

  He got Garrison’s attention. He put a finger to his lips, then pointed to the roof.

  The alarm sang its chorus of clapping iron as the men continued firing on the final Virals around the building.

  * * *

  The truck from the convoy, with the Mexican flag on the hood, peeled off to investigate the alarm.

  Inside the restaurant, the manager made a gesture suggesting there was someone on the roof. One of the cholos took notice, and since the tacos were going to take a few more minutes, offered to investigate.

  * * *

  The shrill alarm took all auditory perception from Fireteam Arnold. They sat huddled in irritation on the rooftop.

  Sgt. Arnold carefully peered over the side. Nickson and Garrison were now nowhere to be seen in the front parking lot. He didn’t need to look on the side of the building. He knew that was where they were, and they were about to attack.

  He needed to tell his team that they might soon find a grenade lobbed at them, and if they did they needed to pinch that son of a bitch off and toss it back. But there was no way he could give orders over top of the alarm.

  Thankfully his stressed expression was easily interpreted. Knight, Noble and Parcells nodded understandingly.

  They got ready.

  * * *

  Spc. Garrison located the ladder on the side of Bizarro that led to the roof, but a souped-up Mexican mauler was approaching and its passengers were primed to disembark.

  “Goddamn looters got some balls to come after us,” Sgt. Nickson said. He could barely be heard over the alarm.

  Knowing it was going to take some time to negotiate the wall and investigate the roof, he and Garrison backed up and planned their response.

  “We’re in a tight spot, Sarge. Should we let them find Arnold and his men?”

  “They’ll find us before they find Arnold,” Nickson said. “Reload your shit.” Though their magazines were not empty, he wanted them both to have a fresh load for their pre-emptive strike.

  All the men from the vehicle, with the exception of the driver, disembarked and approached the store. They carried assault rifles, firing at nearby zombies who were shuffling to the initial skirmish.

  Nickson gritted, “Oh fuck do they have some firepower.”

  * * *

  Spc. Talltree’s observation of the happenings at the costume store on the other side of the road was interrupted when he heard a metallic clanking sound. He snapped his head around and saw the metal portal that led from the roof to the interior of the building. The noise was coming from there.

  The lock wiggled and the hatch swung open, held upright by a thug in an orange bodysuit. Talltree quietly scampered over on his knees and forearms. He placed his arms at his sides and put his legs together, making himself as narrow as possible. There he lay, barely concealed on the other side of the upright hatch, hatchet in his grip just in case.

  The orange-clad thug climbed a couple more rungs of the ladder until his full torso showed over the rooftop. He squinted his eyes against the sun, probing.

  Talltree visualized dropping the hatchet in the back of the man’s head. His arms tensed. His fingers itched on the handle.

  The thug was all but dead when someone from within the restaurant yelled, “Ducky! Tacos are ready!” He answered back, “Announce it to the whole neighborhood, Mousetrap!”

  He gave up his investigation and went back down the ladder.

  Talltree waited for the lock to slide back into place from the other side before exhaling his minute-old air.

  He crept back to his original observation point on the roof and watched the thug—who had just missed out on having a hatchet planted in the back of his skull Friday the 13th style—jump in the bed of the Zapata war wagon, never even knowing how lucky he was as he contentedly took his first bite of breakfast taco.

  * * *

  Sgt. Nickson and Spc. Garrison dashed into the open from their soon-to-be exposed position on the other side of Bizarro, opening fire and moving parallel with the wall.

  Three of the six looters that had been investigating were immediately hit, dropping to the pavement with mortal wounds. The other three lifted their assault rifles and returned fire, but they were no match for the soldiers’ experience and skill. Soon the other three were dead too.

  The driver of the Mexican flag truck gunned the engine and shifted into reverse before Garrison could requisition it. He fired on the driver, wounding him, as the driver was racing back to the restaurant.

  The remnants of Fireteam Nickson, triumphant, were cut short of their victory celebration as bullets were fired at them from above.

  Goddamn you, Arnold!

  Nickson and Garrison scrambled to take cover behind an overturned Jeep Liberty. Its exposed undercarriage bellowed smoke.

  They were panicking as they checked the wounds they received. Nickson’s calf muscle was busted. Garrison was struck in the hand, and everything from the second knuckle up on his index and middle finger was missing. Only bloody stumps remained.

  “We... we gotta... watch for Virals,” Nickson hissed through painful intakes of air.

  “Not Virals, Sarge,” Garrison corrected.

  Nickson looked up. Though he and Garrison were protected from Fireteam Arnold’s gunfire by the metal husk of the Jeep Liberty, there was nothing obstructing them from the gang of looters.

  Trucks revved and grumbled like demonic minions. They were on their way back.

  “They’re going to kill us,” Garrison whimpered.

  “Put your gun down and raise your hands,” Nickson said.

  “What?!”

  “We’re no good to anyone dead. That’s an order.”

  The two men resigned themselves to surrender.

  The trucks pulled up and the looters zapped nearby zombies before training their guns on the soldiers. One yelled something at Nickson that Nickson could not understand. He assumed it had something to do with their dead friends, but didn’t answer. The man pointed to two men in the bed of one of the trucks, giving a command in Spanish. Two thugs with duct tape exited the vehicle and proceeded to wrap Nickson and Garrison’s wrists behind their backs, then their ankles.

  “Ay mas?” a looter asked.

  “More of you?” asked another, who could speak English.

  Nickson smirked, but had to restrain himself from laughing openly. He nodded his head and indicated the roof of the costume store.

  A man then slapped a strip of duct tape over Nickson’s mouth, then Garrison’s.

  Two thugs were sent around the side of the building while another two men ran into the store.

  The two in the back found the locked ladder. Both were wily enough from their lives of crime and athletic enough from vast amounts of prison exercise that they bypassed the locked ladde
r and headed to the roof.

  They found smoldering empty bullet casings. But that was it.

  * * *

  Sgt. Arnold and his team took a deep breath. They were hidden in the brush, and were banking on the thugs giving up the search. But each one of them saw what they had started their morning looking for. Gazing from the brush to the restaurant up ahead, they saw the Hummer.

  “That’s the one,” Spc. Parcells said.

  Nearby, a ghoul groaned.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  9:20 AM

  Texas State Capitol

  Captain Barrigan was sorting through briefs in the communication tent once again, scanning for any more messages or codes that would indicate what Fort Hood knew about the missing Hummer. A knot had been twisting in his gut since the first message. He assured himself, though, that everything would be all right, but regretted not providing Nickson and his team with communication devices.

  At the time he hadn’t wanted to know what they were up to.

  One of the communication officers turned to Barrigan and handed him another note.

  The desk is in the center.

  Barrigan shredded the note with his hands.

  There would be no more orders coming through. Fort Hood had been compromised.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  12:05 PM

  South Point Apartments

  Keri Lawrence spent most of the morning re-outfitting herself. None of the sneakers in the apartment would fit her small feet, so she knew she was stuck with what she had: her completely unsuitable charcoal-colored Skechers-brand designer cuffed knee-high boots with suede texture that cost her a hundred and thirty-nine dollars of a teacher’s pitiful salary on sale.

  Why did I wear these, she asked herself.

  —Oh yeah. ‘Cause Chris dumped me. I had to go and want to feel all sexy to avoid post-breakup depression. Fish for compliments like a troll.

  It had taken a lot of self-cajoling before finally being able to slice off a portion of the heels to make them more suitable for the conditions she currently found herself in. She paced around in them for a while in the living room to get accustomed to the new feel.

  Though the rightful tenant wasn’t a very large man, all his clothes were very big on her. The best she could find was an Old Navy button-up shirt in the closet. It was light, but the material seemed tough. It could probably withstand tearing if one of those walking corpses latched onto her.

  Lastly she found a pair of brown cargo shorts—shorts to the rightful owner, anyway. On her they reached all the way down to the middle of her calves. And she had had to carve a new notch in a belt just to keep them up on her waist.

  But it was after finding the belt that she had discovered something that completely unhinged her.

  All morning she tried not to let Mike notice her apprehension.

  After showering, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and brushed her teeth. Knowing what she now knew, she didn’t feel so strange using the rightful tenant’s toothbrush.

  Mike stood behind her, leaning against the wall, dabbing a new dose of hydrogen peroxide over the scrapes on his arms. She watched him in the mirror, and though he was mostly focused on his arms, she occasionally caught his eyes wandering over to her posterior. How it looked appealing at all in baggy cargos, she didn’t know.

  She sighed and said, “Just do it and get it over with, Mike Runyard. A couple of wayward students have done it before, so why should I care if you do?”

  He looked up and met her gaze in the mirror. He said, “Do what?”

  “Grab my ass.”

  He chuckled awkwardly. After several seconds, during which she didn’t drop her glare, he said uneasily, “I—I can never tell when you’re joking or when you’re being serious.”

  “What does my expression say to you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ve been acting really irritated for a while. I know we’ve got a lot to process right now, but—”

  “Are you even really a cop, Mike Runyard?” she blurted.

  He stood aghast. He stuttered, “Yeah, of course I am. I—last night... I thought we came to an understanding—that you trusted me.”

  “How did you really find this apartment?” she asked, turning around to face him fully now. “No more bullshit that you just stumbled here.”

  “I stumbled here—literally—much like you did. Some maniac hit me with his car. I tried to get into other places, but this was the first one I found unlocked. Really, end of story.”

  She shook her head. “Stop it,” she said. “How do you know the guy that owns this place?”

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  Keri lifted the towel off the hamper that concealed what she had found tucked into the Bible on the coffee table earlier. She picked it up and thrust it into Mike’s hands. He accepted it, (though he had no choice,) then looked down to see exactly what it was:

  A 5x7 photograph of a smiling woman with a round face, brown eyes, and long black hair. She was pretty, and seemed like she might be the pleasant, approachable type.

  Mike looked up from the photograph, confused. “I, um, don’t know her.”

  “Her name’s Esparanza,” Keri said. “I know because I met her. She was a co-worker’s fiancée. He brought her to a PTA party one time. She was murdered six months ago.”

  “You can’t possibly think—”

  “No, that’s not what I’m telling you. What I’m telling you is that the man who owns this apartment is named George Zaragosa. I was just with him.”

  “With him?”

  “That’s not the point!”

  This was the first time she had actually raised her voice, but she caught herself. She put her head down, breathed deep. She saw she was pressing her fingernails into her palms.

  She walked out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

  Mike went after her, and spun her around by the shoulder.

  “So you’re saying you’re creeped out?” he asked, trying to understand. “Is that it?”

  She sighed. “I was just with him right before I came here. That’s what I’m saying. How did I end up at his home?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike replied. “But I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never met him. After that car hit me I just happened to wind up here.”

  She looked him in the eyes, searching for even a hint of a lie.

  She couldn’t find one.

  “So I end up here,” she began, looking away, “and I find the first legitimately nice guy I’ve ever met, and he says he just happened to end up here too. And he’s good-looking. And the world’s ending. Brilliant.”

  She walked away and sat down on the sofa. She held her forehead with her palms, loose strands of hair slipping through her fingers.

  “Hey, maybe it’s...” Mike started to say, but didn’t finish.

  He eased himself onto the cushion next to her. He thought about putting his arm around her, but wasn’t sure if she was sobbing and needing comforting. The way she was sitting, she could be sad, or she could still be really irritated. He was never sure about women.

  “Well, how about you tell me something,” he finally said. “How does a girl like you know how to fire a shotgun?”

  She tilted her face over to gawk at him. She said, “Of course I know how to fire a shotgun. I live in Texas, too, you know.”

  * * *

  The swift creation and utilization of South Point Apartments as a FEMA camp had surprised Mike Runyard, considering the bad reputation the government had in regards to getting things done in a timely and efficient manner.

  That most apartment complexes in Austin were gated communities made South Point Apartments one of a set of buildings the city manager had assigned as a location the Federal Emergency Management Agency could exploit. About a year after the debacle of Hurricane Amanda, many advantageous locations in cities across the nation were pre-assigned for use as rescue stations and refugee camps in case something even more terrible came down
the line.

  The zombie apocalypse counted as one of these situations.

  So it was with a swift efficiency that FEMA turned South Point Apartments into a FEMA camp. Blockades, barbed wire, and even four towers at the four corners of the complex had been erected. Fortunately, no one from 1930’s Europe was around to criticize how it appeared eerily similar to internment camps that had dotted the European countryside. At around 1130 hours, soldiers began securing apartments in order to create housing for the refugees being shipped in. Compliant residents were disarmed and ordered to a tent near the rear of the complex where they were photographed and thumb-scanned into a computer and provided an ID card. Non-compliant residents had their doors busted down, were ziptied, and then scanned and ID’d with a red square near their name. This was to identify them as potential terrorists, per the Patriot Act, and enter their name on a list to be disposed of first if the population within the facility became overcrowded. People that were not wearing their badges were reassigned badges with red squares. It was considered civil disobedience whether it was an accident or not.

  A soldier repeated over a loudspeaker near the tent the words, “Attention, attention, attention. FEMA is here to help. Remain calm. We will not tolerate civil disobedience.” The soldier also chanted the rules of the ID badges, like some kind of police-state shaman.

  At half past noon a knock came at the door of Mike and Keri’s apartment, and it was their turn to get tagged. The soldiers were courteous. After asking the duo if either had been bitten, they assisted Mike down the stairs. He was able to walk by himself, albeit with a limp and only for brief jaunts before needing to sit and take the pressure off his ankles again, but with the soldiers being so helpful he didn’t want to risk insulting them by refusing their aid. Keri walked alongside him.