Down the Road: The Fall of Austin

by Bowie Ibarra

  “This one’s dedicated to veterans of the Civil War,” Sgt. Nickson stated.

  Both Spc. Goodson and Spc. Rodriguez stopped in their tracks and looked toward the monument.

  “What side was Texas on, anyway?” Rodriguez asked, gently unhitching a grenade from his utility belt.

  “Pretty sure they were with the Confederates,” Garrison said, egging on his friend, sensing his next move.

  Spc. Rodriguez pointed the light on his rifle at the monument. Etched in stone on the top part of the monument was a Confederate flag.

  But creeping out from around the bottom of the statue was a man in a suit, who took the two leaders, Arnold and Nickson, by surprise. They raised their weapons at the man.

  “Easy now, sir,” Sgt. Nickson stated. “We’re here to help.”

  The man covered his eyes from the blinding light, revealing bloodstained hands. Arnold thought he heard the man snarl, which sent a bolt of fear through him. What the hell is this? Wild kingdom? As the man stepped more and more into the light, blood was becoming evident across his entire suit.

  “Wait a minute,” Sgt. Arnold said. “He might be a Viral.”

  As the man was still covering his face from the blinding light, Sgt. Arnold took the opportunity to circle him and check to see where he rose from. On the ground by the statue was a human body. The shirt had been ripped off. Flesh from its face, arms, and chest had been removed. A massive gaping hole in his stomach revealed missing vital organs.

  “Yep, he’s a Viral,” Sgt. Arnold said.

  “I got him,” Spc. Rodriguez said, taking advantage of the situation and tossing a grenade. “Fire in the hole!”

  “Shit!” Sgt. Arnold yelled, dashing from the creature. Sgt. Nickson fled the other way as the grenade clicked across the sidewalk and landed in the grass by the monument.

  With the bright lights of the weapons out of its eyes, the Viral took a short moment and recovered its sight. It focused on the grenade that had clicked its way across the sidewalk like a tap-dancing baby turtle. The Viral reached down toward the device, but only got halfway when the grenade exploded.

  The blast took a large chunk of marble off the statue and immediately stained the lower portion in black. Long black spikes jutted across the statue from the blast point. Two large cracks cut the Confederate flag in three sections.

  The Viral was in worse shape than the statue, as it had been torn to pieces. The flesh from its face was torn off as its eyes burst into hot jelly. Its brain compressed against the back of its skull before exiting out of what was left of its ears. Shrapnel stabbed its body, violently tearing through the soft tissue. The force jettisoned the hands, fingers, and arms from the body, sending globs of flesh and bone flying onto the sidewalk. Though the head miraculously remained attached to the body as it landed across the sidewalk near the fireman’s statue, it was nothing but a creamy, chunky mass of flesh, blood, and brain. The suit was torn from the front of the remains and criss-crossed the corpse over a sanguine and tenderized body missing both arms and a segment of leg.

  Sgt. Arnold was pissed. “I want to know what sorry-ass excuse of a soldier threw an unauthorized grenade!” he screamed as he rose to his feet.

  “I threw it,” Spc. Rodriguez said defiantly, puffing out his chest. Then he took the defiance once step further, into impudence. “What the fuck are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to put my boot up your stupid ass, you dumb fucking piece of shit!”

  Spc. Garrison jumped in front of Rodriguez and Sgt. Nickson grabbed Arnold from behind. The two sergeants scuffled yet again before they each pulled out their sidearms. Both stuck their weapons in the other’s face. Both men gently began to tug on the trigger. Anger painted their faces in red and grimacing wrinkles.

  The fireteams stood dumbfounded, knowing one of their leaders was about to murder the other.

  Sgt. Nickson was the first to speak. “Rodriguez is on my fireteam, Arnold. He follows my orders. Any grenade he throws is authorized by me.”

  “He almost killed us, Nickson. He almost killed my men. You better whip his ass, or I’m going to.”

  Both fingers applied more pressure on the triggers.

  “You handle your men your way. I’ll handle my men my way. You got that, Arnold?”

  Sgt. Arnold could visualize himself pulling the trigger. He could see the bullet punching Sgt. Nickson right at the bridge of the nose. He could smell Nickson’s blood. And on his lips he could even taste Nickson’s death.

  “Shoot him, sir,” Spc. Garrison whispered.

  “You shut your fucking trap, Garrison,” Spc. Goodson stated, sternly, instinctively pointing his weapon at his rival specialist.

  “No, you shut the fuck up,” Rodriguez said, looking for a convenient excuse to deliver pain with the SAW, pointing it at Goodson.

  “Fuck you, Rodriguez,” Noble said, training her weapon at Rodriguez. It didn’t take long for the others to find someone to point their guns at as well.

  “You get one, Nickson. And you just spent it,” Sgt. Arnold said.

  “Put your gun down, Arnold,” Sgt. Nickson demanded.

  “You first.”

  Spc. Knight chimed in. “Let’s just take it easy, guys.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Knight!” Garrison shouted.

  The men were close to applying that final amount of pressure; the hammer was on the edge of spanking the firing pin.

  Their charges stood in fearful anticipation, with Spc. Talltree again being the exception, feigning as if he was aiming at someone, when in reality it was nowhere close. Instead, Talltree was silently scanning the yard for more Virals, ignoring the childish dispute while protecting his allies.

  “Let’s lower at the same time,” Sgt. Nickson said. “Would that float your boat?”

  “No,” Arnold said. “You first.”

  Nickson smiled.

  “I’ve outlasted perched snipers, Nickson,” Sgt. Arnold gritted. “So you can bet your ass I can stand here like this all goddamn night. Long after your muscles have cramped up like your grandma’s arthritis, I’ll still be standing here with my gun aimed between your beady little rat eyes.”

  “Oh hell, Arnold, we both know you’re not going to shoot me,” Nickson stated, with the confidence of Titan. He allowed his weapon to drift away from Arnold’s face. “You hate me, but you need me.” He gazed over the barrel of Sgt. Arnold’s pistol and locked eyes with his rival. He slid his pistol to rest in its holster. “We need each other now. None of us know what’s in the building. Correct?”

  Fireteam Nickson and Fireteam Arnold held on to their targets.

  Sgt. Arnold stood silent, near to adding that last bit of pressure to the trigger that would send a bullet flying. He wanted nothing more than to fire a shot through Nickson’s head, to level the arrogant bastard.

  But he gave in to reason.

  Sgt. Arnold took a deep breath and slowly withdrew his weapon, stepping back several paces toward his teammates, effectively disengaging the enemy.

  There was a moment of tension, as if the fireteams were about to watch a quick draw. Both sergeants’ hands were still holding fast to the butts of their holstered pistols, eyes searching through the eyes of their opponent like two big cats meeting by accident in the wild.

  Then, Sgt. Nickson slowly raised his hand, forming a gun shape with his fingers. “Bang!” he said, and started laughing. Rodriguez and Garrison joined in, mocking Sgt. Arnold and his men.

  Sgt. Arnold responded, “Get back to your positions, men.”

  The two factions parted, lined up again, and continued their patrol of the yard in an air thick with unresolved tension.

  * * *

  Once the squad reached the front of the capitol, they broke into their respective fireteams and patrolled the sides of the building. Neither team met resistance and eventually met up again in the back of the capitol. A patrol of the back lawn yielded two Viral neutralizations. The squad regrouped on the capitol steps and wai
ted for the helicopter to arrive.

  The city around the soldiers was falling apart. Screams could be heard on the streets coming from all directions. Traffic traveled erratically in the surrounding area under the black Texas night sky. Horns honked and cars wrecked throughout downtown Austin in a fearful rush for survival. On several occasions citizens ran to the gates and called out to the soldiers for help. Both sergeants commanded their men to ignore their pleas.

  Spc. Noble almost changed her mind when a young mother with her baby begged for assistance.

  “My baby needs food. Please help me.”

  It was hard for Noble to turn away from her, and she found herself staring for several moments. In desperation, the woman turned and ran before Noble could look away. She wiped a tear from her face.

  “Stay focused, team,” Sgt. Arnold said. “We’ve got an objective to achieve and it stands behind these doors.”

  The familiar beating of the rotors of a low-budget Huey could be heard making its approach.

  “We’re going to secure this building floor by floor, ladies, starting with the top floor. Listen to our commands,” Sgt. Nickson instructed.

  “There’s a series of rooms down this hallway,” Sgt. Arnold added. “Fireteam Nickson will take the left side. My fireteam will take the right. Ignore all locked doors for the time being. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” everyone chimed.

  The men dashed to the Huey that had landed in the back of the capitol building. Both teams entered the chopper and it swiftly rose off the ground. In moments, it was hovering over the Texas capitol.

  The sergeants secured the rappelling ropes the team would be using. The “ready” members, Talltree and Noble, went down first, followed by the “fire” men, Rodriguez and Knight. The “assist” men, Garrison and Goodson, followed. Finally, the two hateful sergeants joined their charges. A helicopter crewman pulled up the ropes as the chopper returned to where it came.

  In standard tactical fashion, the men filed down the roof entrance and into the capitol building itself, the two sergeants issuing hand signals in lieu of verbal comm. Fireteam Nickson was to secure the northern portions of the floors, while Fireteam Arnold was to secure the southern.

  There was no resistance on the fourth floor, but the level was nowhere as vast as the bottom three. After having raced past the antique portraits of the Texas governors on the fourth floor, the teams moved down the stairs to the third floor.

  Both teams secured various administrative rooms before waiting by the balcony entrance to the large chambers where the Texas senators and House of Representatives met. Fireteam Nickson was standing by the balcony doors of the House chambers, while Fireteam Arnold was standing near the locked balcony doors of the senate chambers. There had been no resistance thus far. The team leaders felt peculiar standing near the locked balcony door.

  “Senate security room clear,” Spc. Goodson said, walking from the small office near the balcony door entrance.

  “House security room locked,” Spc. Rodriguez said.

  Both fireteam leaders ordered their lockpicking specialists, Knight and Garrison, to pick the locks of the antique balcony doors. They were hoping to get a glimpse of any trouble that might be within.

  Both lock experts opened the antique locks with ease, and both teams entered the rooms.

  On the House side, Fireteam Nickson spread out across the balcony and looked over the railing to the House chambers below. They saw no threats, Viral or otherwise, in the balcony or the chambers.

  “House chamber clear,” Sgt. Nickson stated.

  “Nickson!” came an urgent call from Sgt. Arnold. “We need you guys over here on the double!”

  The Nickson fireteam heard the message and moved to the senate chambers. Passing the portraits of governors on the third floor rotunda, they moved tactically into the hallway, taking up positions as they scrambled to the wide open senate balcony doors.

  Spc. Talltree, the point man, observed things were all clear and motioned for his comrades to advance into the balcony of the senate chambers. They moved in, peering over the edge.

  A small group of senators had barricaded themselves on the podium. Stacks of chairs and tables—as well as senators brandishing large pieces of wood—were defending the hold. Several bodies lay strewn on portions of the barricade, their heads bashed in and turned to mush.

  Along the senate floor, three separate groups of Virals were kneeling on the floor. The Virals were tearing the bodies at their knees to pieces and eating them in an orgy of blood-spattered gore. Pools of blood and mounds of flesh, tissue, and sanguine organs were scattered all around them, as if they were picking out pieces and hoarding them for later. The fiends were slowly dining on every inch of the bodies. Clothing was torn away and blood, flesh, and bone were exposed and being consumed by the monsters, like vultures tearing flesh away from a deer lying bloated on the side of a Texas road, having been hit by a car in the night.

  Spc. Garrison threw up on his combat boots. The horrific image made him think and feel as if the meat the virals were eating was in his own mouth.

  Fireteam Nickson noticed Arnold’s fireteam crouching at different sections of the balcony and picking off the Virals with well-placed bullets. Immediately, Nickson’s team took up positions and began raining bullets indiscriminately on the suspected Virals.

  Still nauseous, Garrison stood and watched by the doorway, protecting the backs of his comrades. It was a convenient way to not look at the disgusting gorefest below.

  It was a good thing, too. As his comrades were firing away, leveling Virals with the skill of trained killers, two people turned the corner of the rotunda and headed to Garrison’s position.

  “Stop right there!” Garrison shouted, straining to be heard over the gunfire. None of the advancing people acknowledged the command, and continued drawing closer.

  Virals.

  His automatic weapon joined in the glorious cacophony of gunfire. Their weapons of war were singing like metal demons in a satanic chorus of pain. Metal slugs from Garrison’s weapon busted the skull, face, and chest of the first Viral, punching through the body like a stone through water. The Viral stumbled and fell to the ground face first. Its face, punished by lead, smacked against the floor like a wet towel filled with eggs. Blood splattered in a tribute to Jackson Pollock, spreading brain and bone across the marble floor in an abstract portrait of vengeful misery.

  Before Garrison could train his weapon on the second monster, three more Virals turned the corner. Garrison was filled with an urge to panic, but maintained his control. His own survival instincts were focusing his perception, creating a tunnel vision at the approaching beasts, an intense concentration provided by the body for its survival.

  Garrison shouldered his weapon, aware that prolonged bursts would waste ammunition, and he wasn’t sure he could get to another clip in time. With precision, he began to pick off the advancing ghouls. He hit two, sending them to the ground to contribute to the abstract work on the floor. But his nerves were put to the test as two more Virals turned the corner. After the short blast to the first few Virals, Garrison was unaware of how many rounds were left in his weapon. One more Viral was picked off, then another. A missed bullet flew across the rotunda and cut a portrait of the late Governor Hobby.

  It took two shots to level the next, and two more for the next. Garrison was folding under the pressure and just knew the next round would be his last.

  Three Virals remained and shuffled towards him, stepping over the prone bodies of the fallen. Two wore classy suits soaked with blood. The other wore a security uniform. Garrison aimed, but could feel his body tensing up. His breathing was severely erratic now. He began sobbing. No breath he took, no matter how hard or how fast, seemed to provide enough oxygen. So he breathed harder. And faster. His hands shook and his aim was as untrue as a mainstream news report.

  Garrison put his gun down and tried to steady himself. The Virals advanced closer. He knew he n
eeded to control his breathing—stop the hyperventilating—or face his doom.

  The creatures edged closer as Garrison took a deep breath, feeling his breathing was as under control as it could get at the moment, and shouldered his weapon again. One trigger pull split the skull of the closest beast, spraying the one behind it with blood. That one was put down by another perfectly placed shot to the head. As the third was put in the sights of the weapon, Garrison was greeted by a harsh, yet anticipated reality. A realization he dreaded.

  No bullet was sent forth.

  He was out.

  The Viral was only yards away.

  Garrison had spare mags for his primary weapon, but they were stuck in his backpack. So he fumbled for the pistol in its holster on his hip, and in his panic, it clattered to the floor. The gun clicked across the marble tile like Sammy Davis, Jr. tap dancing on a stage at The Sands. Eventually the weapon came to rest near the feet of the Viral.

  Garrison yelped and took a step backwards. He bumped into someone, flinched in fear, and fell to the floor. With hopelessness overtaking him, he curled up in a defensive position, covering his head, waiting for a hand to grab him or a mouth to bite him.

  A gun blast popped his ears, and he yelped again in fearful surprise.

  He opened his eyes and saw Sgt. Nickson hovering over him. He offered his hand and Garrison accepted, trying to pull himself together for his superior.

  “C’mon, Garrison, you cunt. We need your help.”

  Humiliated, Garrison followed Sgt. Nickson onto the balcony where Sgt. Arnold was communicating with the senators and pages below. “Are there any more of those things down there—where we can’t see?” he asked.

  “We don’t know!” one of the senators yelled back.

  Sgt. Arnold turned to Sgt. Nickson. “We’re going to have to stay in the senate chambers and babysit.”

  “That’ll work,” Sgt. Nickson said, begrudgingly. He still couldn’t get himself to accept taking commands from Sgt. Arnold. He tried to take some credit, though what he wanted to say went without saying. “The National Guard arrives at 0600 hours. We can get them out then.”