by Bowie Ibarra
“You four couldn’t secure a pair of Depends for your mothers,” said Spc. Noble, defending her fireteam leader, Sgt. Arnold. Her childlike face cracked a smile, but her dark eyes were piercing and somehow instantly gave her credibility.
“Fuck you, Noble, you little bitch,” said Spc. Rodriguez, a hulking black man as thick as a redwood tree, the “fire” man of the team. “I’ll fuck your mother in the ass, then make her suck the shit off my dick.”
“He’ll do it, too,” said Rodriguez’s partner, Spc. Garrison, the “assist” for Nickson’s team. He was a much smaller man than Rodriguez in more ways than one. Gray-haired with a goatee just as gray, Garrison was Rodriguez’s hanger-on, more for the fact that Rodriguez would stand up for him not necessarily as a friend, but as an excuse to lash out and bully anyone he could.
“How can you fuck Noble’s mom when Garrison always has your dick in his mouth?” asked Spc. Goodson, smirking. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, he looked more like a model than a soldier. The cowardly Garrison unconsciously shifted in his seat in defense.
“At least I have a dick, you faggot,” Rodriguez said before Sgt. Arnold broke up the festivities.
“All you dumb fucks need to shut the fuck up!” Sgt. Arnold barked.
“Neither I or Sgt. Nickson have been told by command what’s going on, specifically. All we know is we are to secure the Texas state capitol by 0600 hours. What that means, I don’t know. But we’re not going to do it if we don’t work together. The fact that they’ve equipped us with some really good shit—” Sgt. Arnold indicated the Heckler & Koch HK416s instead of the standard outdated M4 Carbines, “—says a lot to me. So quit this dumb shit and shut the fuck up!”
Sgt. Nickson smirked, and so did his men. The tension between the two rival fireteams was as palatable as drinking a bowl of Tabasco sauce.
There was, however, one exception. On Nickson’s side, sitting stoically, was Specialist Daniel Talltree. His long black hair was tied in two braids behind his head. Being Native American, he was allowed to keep his hair long. His dark hands held fast to his HK416, though a sniper rifle was held in its case, disassembled, on his gear. His dark brown facial features were strong and severe, clearly indicating his ancestors did not come over on the Mayflower. Gazing into an upper corner of the vehicle, he concentrated on ignoring his partners and focusing his energy on the approaching mission.
CHAPTER SEVEN
12:14 AM
APD Cruiser 864 en route to downtown hospital
The plague, having exposed itself to Officers Mike Runyard and Derek Tucker, was stabbing the officers in the heart like a jagged knife of fear. It was clear to them this problem was spreading and no one was telling them what they needed to do.
“Clark, how’s Roland?” Mike asked over the CB.
“He’s not looking so good,” came the reply.
“Just keep talking to him. Keep him concentrating on something.”
Pot smoke wafted into the front of the car again as Charlie exhaled. Charlie and the girl were relaxing, shoulder to shoulder, in the back seat. The weed diluted their pain with waves of Caribbean ease and a reggae beat.
“I guess ya’ll are doing just fine,” Derek commented. The second hand smoke was taking an effect on him as well, tempering his fear with a dash of paranoia. There was a time when they would have never tolerated smoke from the back seat. Tonight saw that stern guideline tossed to the wayside. Besides, the passengers were placated by the cosmic bud, despite their intense pain.
“Things are very good, sire,” came the reply from the girl.
“Sire?” Charlie chuckled. “Sir.” They both laughed. “What are we, serfs on the fife?” The laughter continued, a gentle melody in the growing chaos outside the car.
“A fife’s a flute.”
“No, it’s not.”
Laughter.
As the potheads laughed it up, Mike and Derek observed the outside world on William Cannon. It was a bizarre combination of regular life and intense chaos.
On one city block, people waited for the arrival of a late night Capitol Metro bus. On another corner, the fire department was handling a situation at a gas station. Further up the road at another bus stop, a fight was underway between homeless people. At the Whataburger by the highway, a large crowd had gathered around the restaurant, looking inside.
It was becoming perfectly clear to the two officers that the world had been flipped head over heels into the l9th ring of hell, and it was only going to get crazier.
The girl, who no one cared to ask her proper name, took a long final hit off the jay. She exhaled slowly, the smoke gently drifting out of her mouth and nose.
Charlie reached for the joint, still stuck between her fingers. As he picked it up, he paid no mind to how cold her hand was. His own body was becoming pretty cold as well, despite the peaceful warmth the happy tobbaccy was bringing to his dying soul.
Hypnotized by the world around them, Mike and Derek’s minds did not register the snarling growl and crunch of tissue and tendon until Charlie screeched.
“Oh, shit!” Mike yelled, turning around and catching sight of the carnage behind the cage’s wire mesh. He swerved, sideswiping an adjacent vehicle before regaining control. Also turning to look, Derek watched the girl with no name biting into Charlie’s neck. She had grabbed Charlie by the head in a way that one of her thumbs gouged an eye while the other hand fish-hooked his mouth, held wide open in a cry of death. Swerving and distracted by the murder-in-progress in the back seat of his vehicle, speeding down the highway in excess of sixty miles per hour, Mike tried to keep control.
Charlie’s screams died down as the girl moved to his belly and took a bite. A thick chunk of flesh was removed by her mouth. And as she gnawed on the flesh and blood, her hands tore open at the exposed wound, digging into his stomach cavity and exposing his fluid-soaked innards.
“Jesus H. Christ! Mike, pull over!”
“I’m trying!” Mike yelled. He was in the center lane and traffic was slowing to a crawl.
“Put the lights on,” Derek said.
Mike flipped the switch, and the blue and red lights began to dance on the passing cars like ghosts tripping on Ecstasy under the dark night.
“Oh, Jesus,” Derek said, who probably shouldn’t have looked into the back seat again, but did anyway. The girl was yanking out cords of intestine and various organs and their subsequent wastes and fluids. Blood splashed on all the windows, and even dripped from the cage. Had Mike and Derek paid attention, they might have noticed little bits of red on them, making small spots on their midnight blue shirts. A steady haze of pot smoke still gave Mike hope it was all just a dream, and that he would wake up in his bed for another day at work.
As the lights touched the cars around the cruiser, the vehicles began to make room for it to pass. Some even pulled over in submission, thinking they were being ticketed. The cruiser edged to the side of the road. Once the vehicle reached a complete stop and Mike put the car in park, the cops jumped out like frightened kids running from a carnival funhouse.
“What do we do?!” Mike exclaimed. “We can’t open the back door!”
“We have to shoot them.”
Mike flinched. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He had only ever drawn his weapon but a few times, and had never had cause to neutralize a perp. Even the tazer was a weapon he had only used twice before until the incident at Riverside Apartments yesterday.
“No, we can’t,” he pleaded.
“Mike, something bad is going on and it’s spreading. HQ isn’t answering. And this is the second time this has happened to us today. I don’t want a third.”
“Me neither.”
Derek did not hesitate. He opened the door. Charlie’s body tumbled backward, stretching his already open stomach cavity wide, like the mouth of a giant beast, or the silly stomachs with painted faces singing Soul Man that seemed to always find their way onto America’s Funniest Home Videos. Entrails hung from the cavity like
a tongue, spilling all over the pavement. The illusion of a face disappeared as the girl fell on the body as well, head first into the gore of Charlie’s exposed chest cavity. Still partially in the car, she looked like a cat stuck in a cereal box, trying to wiggle out of his bloody torso.
Mike ran to the front of the cruiser and threw up on the front tire as Derek opened fire on Charlie’s chest where the girl’s head was stuck. He unloaded his pistol on the bodies to ensure the girl was dead. Both corpses sat motionless, the girl’s head still stuck deep in Charlie’s bullet-ridden chest. Moments ago, they were just pot superstars sharing a joint. Now, they were just a pile of gore entangled in entrails and flesh on the side of IH-35 north.
Mike recovered as best he could as Derek walked up to him. “You all right?”
“No. Pretty fucking far from all right.”
“Mike, don’t be a pussy. Things are fucked up right now. You need to get your shit together.”
“Goddamn you, Derek,” Mike said with resentment, angry that he could not save the two people from their cruel fate of nestling in each other’s gore.
“What?”
The two stood silent for several seconds, taking in the new world forming around them. Both heard the same screams, the same sirens, the same gunshots. They never imagined the end of the world would sound anything like this.
“Take me home,” Mike said.
“You’re going to need to help me get that out of the car first,” Derek said, pointing to the two bodies merged in their final mortal moments on earth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1:15 AM
Texas State Capitol
The two Army fireteam leaders led their men to the gates of the Texas state capitol. Securing the capitol was the first step in securing several surrounding blocks so the military could set up its command center for the state of Texas. National Guard troops would arrive to barricade the capitol, then secure the buildings within the barricaded city blocks. Scurrying from the APC amidst the chaos of downtown to a heavily sandbagged staging area, the men received their orders.
“Morning, ladies,” said a stern man in the digital themed fatigues of the urban warrior, his wrinkled face a portrait of restrained aggression. “I’m Captain Barrigan. You and your men will secure this building this morning. The state legislature was in session today and many legislators stuck around before we had a chance to secure it. We have confirmed several viral enemies within the building.”
The men grimaced in surprised confusion at the mention of viral enemies.
“You need to clear the building of the Virals and rescue any of the state legislature who are still in the building. Are these orders clear?”
All responded, “Yes, sir.”
“National Guard will be arriving at 0600 hours. Your work needs to be completed by then. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Captain took a long swig from a large cup of Starbucks coffee, smacked his lips, and said, “Questions?”
Sgt. Arnold was the first to raise his hand. “What are viral enemies, sir?”
“Viral enemies are humans exhibiting what we can only describe as hyper-crazed behavior, including severe violence and tendencies to bite. The reason we refer to them as Virals is that sources close to the US military believe the sickness is possibly viral. Avoid bites at all costs, or contact with blood or saliva from these combatants.”
“What happens if we do, sir?” asked Spc. Goodson.
Cpt. Barrigan told a bold-faced lie. “We don’t know for sure.” The subtext was clear, though.
“How do we take them down, sir?” asked Sgt. Nickson.
“Intelligence gathered confirm a traditional shot to the head terminates the combatants. Any other questions?”
“Why is this happening?” asked Sgt. Arnold.
“We don’t know.”
The men stood silent.
Cpt. Barrigan moved away from the iron gates of the capitol. On the sidewalk just several feet away from the men lay three dead bodies. As the men peered through the bars across the lawn of the antique building, shadowy figures walked in the distance. They seemed human, but now they weren’t so sure.
“All right. Get your gear ready,” Cpt. Barrigan stated.
The fireteams gathered while their leaders conferred over a map of the capitol with Cpt. Barrigan.
“Men, here’s the building’s floorplan. How do you think you want to do it?”
“Drop us on the roof and work our way down,” Sgt. Nickson said.
“We need to secure the lawn first,” Sgt. Arnold added. “Then, perhaps, we can be dropped on the roof. Are the other gates around the capitol secured, sir?”
“Affirmative. This is currently the only approved entrance and exit to the capitol.”
“Then our choice is easy,” Sgt. Nickson said, butting in to subtly take credit for the decision. “We secure the yard around the capitol, then get an airlift to the roof.”
“Sounds like a good plan, Sgt. Nickson,” Cpt. Barrigan said, patting him on the shoulder.
Sgt. Arnold shot Nickson a severe look of disdain. Nickson just smiled back.
The fireteams were just in earshot. Both sized each other up, brandishing their weapons with testosterone-fueled pride.
“We’re sending you to get it done in five minutes, men. Set up your teams. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sgt. Arnold returned to his team. Spc. Noble approached him first and made an observation. “Woman’s intuition, but why do I get the distinct feeling Nickson and his goons wish we were dead?”
Sgt. Arnold shouldered his grenade launcher and checked the submachine gun he was going to have to use in and around the building.
“Because they do.”
Spc. Knight moved close. “They’ve been eyeballing us all night, like they’re looking for an excuse to fight us.”
“Look, it doesn’t make a shit right now,” Sgt. Arnold said. “Nickson and his shithead crew might be assholes, but we’ve got to work together with them.”
“I heard that, Arnold,” Sgt. Nickson said as he turned to the rival team, his men looming behind him, armed and ready. Each had an evil sparkle about them, as if they were picking the rival member they wanted to kill.
“If any of you cocksuckers get viral, I promise to put you out of your misery,” promised the cowardly Spc. Garrison, who was unconsciously standing behind the monstrous Spc. Rodriguez.
“No, thanks,” Spc. Goodson said. “I’d be too scared Rodriguez would try to fuck me in the ass when I’m dead like he does you, you nasty faggots.”
Fireteam Arnold chuckled at the open insult.
“Don’t talk shit to Rodriguez,” Garrison said, slapping the stout stack of bricks across the back. “He’ll part you like the Red Sea.” The two smiled, petting Rodriguez’s M249 SAW.
“You mean part our ass like he does your ass, you homos?” Spc. Noble chimed. She knew nobody on Nickson’s team had any respect for her, so she had no problem expressing her distaste for them.
Sgt. Nickson had been brewing like a teapot, and the final crack, made by Noble, a woman—more like a girl not that far separated from boot camp—pushed him to the boiling point. He shoved Sgt. Arnold with both hands, and Sgt. Arnold immediately responded with a right cross that dropped Nickson to one knee. He clinched, and Sgt. Arnold began to work the body with angry uppercuts. Had Cpt. Barrigan not broke them up, their men might have joined in, the stoic Spc. Talltree being an exception.
“Goddammit, you two!” Cpt. Barrigan yelled. “Do you morons understand we’re in the middle of a goddamn global epidemic?! Huh?!”
The men stood ashamed, like school children being reprimanded by their teacher.
“If a group of our nation’s finest soldiers can’t get their shit together, then its all over, boys. All over. Now you’d better get your egos squared away, pronto. Understand?”
A brief silence ensued, broken only by distant wails of terror and angry car h
orns down near 6th Street.
“Arnold, Nickson, get the fucking job done and don’t disgrace the U.S. of A.”
The pride the men held for their country put things back into perspective for them, at least momentarily. Begrudgingly, they took a deep breath. Then, slowly, they moved to the gate and formulated the details of their plan.
“If we spread out along the gate and walk to the back gate, we can secure the yard quick,” Sgt. Nickson said.
“Make it the plan,” Sgt. Arnold agreed.
The teams gathered, but before Cpt. Barrigan’s men were to open the gate, Sgt. Arnold had one more question. “Sir, if this plan doesn’t work, securing the capitol, is there a plan B?”
“Yes, there is. And its on its way.”
The cryptic remark was the last comment made before the men opened the gate and the soldiers entered the viral-infested waters of the Texas capitol grounds. The fireteams swiftly moved in and aligned themselves along the gate. They were a distance apart, but still close enough to communicate to each other with hand signals. Arnold and Nickson stood side by side on the central sidewalk that worked its way to the front doors of the capitol building.
“Spread out, guys,” Sgt. Arnold said.
The men ended up about fifteen to twenty yards between each other before Arnold and Nickson gave them the order to advance. They moved in single-line formation, patrolling so no Viral could pass without being seen and subdued. All the soldiers had placed flashlights on their weapons, illuminating the dimly lit capitol yard.
“This is kind of creepy,” Spc. Garrison murmured.
“Don’t be a pussy,” Spc. Rodriguez said.
The two teams, united as a temporary squad despite their moral division, advanced on the yard. They came upon two very different monuments near the front of the capitol lawn.
“What is it?” Garrison asked, looking at the statue to the left of the sidewalk. Rodriguez and Nickson were closest to the monument.
“It’s a monument to firemen,” Rodriguez answered over his helmet mic. “Fallen firemen in Texas.”