by Bowie Ibarra
“You hear that?” Goodson asked, ever the boy scout. They both trained their weapons toward an office door they had assumed was empty because the door was locked. But it appeared their initial assumption was wrong.
“What do you think?” Garrison asked, playing his hand deceitfully.
“This building needs to be secure,” Goodson stated matter-of-factly.
Respecting the antiquity of the door, Goodson took out his lockpick tools and silently went about picking the lock. He wasn’t as talented as Knight, but it wasn’t too difficult to make the lock click open. Goodson stood up, leaving his toolkit on the floor. He put his finger to his lips. Garrison shouldered his weapon.
Goodson twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. Garrison quickly entered. Goodson followed.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the large office. But a stack of discarded clothes quickly raised suspicion. Both men could see the hint of a head behind the congressman’s desk. They both advanced on the desk, with Goodson taking the lead.
Goodson jumped when he saw what was behind the desk. Kneeling on the floor in a pair of designer heels and thigh-highs was a woman. He could only see her back and rear end resting on her heels. Had the naked and mangled corpse in front of her not been there, it might have been slightly arousing. But the situation was clear.
“She’s a Viral,” Goodson said softly.
The creature slowly turned her head to the men. Her body was very pale.
Goodson shouldered his weapon. “Good grief. They must have been fucking when she turned.”
She let go of the gore in her hands and rose on her high heels. She was gorgeous and very shapely, but quite infected. Blood dripped from her lips onto her perfect breasts like a Luciferian blood-moneyshot. She opened her mouth, exposing blood she had yet to swallow, spilling it onto her body and the floor.
Both soldiers took a step back.
“Looks like she wants you,” Garrison whispered, his heart beating in his chest, his crotch twitching with arousal. He aimed at the creature. But something within himself motivated him to shift his aim toward Goodson. His soul twisted within his spiritual self, challenged by the malevolent decision he was moments from making.
“Huh?” Goodson asked.
The next second felt like an eternity to Garrison. He knew what he was about to do, and his mind was sending chemical messages to his hands to do it. But his scarred soul was pleading with his cruel mind to stop. In defense of his choice, his mind took him back in a flash to his childhood. He was four and nothing but happy while visiting a family friend. The family had three children, Billy and Darla, who were Garrison’s age. They also had a stepson named Rudolfo who was ten. The young kids had been playing by the backyard swimming pool when the ball they were playing with rolled into the water. It gently bounced and floated slowly out of reach. The three young children stood at the edge, looking into the pool.
“Aw,” the three kids groaned.
Garrison never had the notion that anyone could be so cruel and so never expected Rudolfo to push him into the pool.
“Go get it,” the cruel ten year old had said to him. Garrison did not even hear the last syllables of the tease, as he began to sink in the deep end. Panicking, he knew enough to hold his breath as he flailed to reach the surface.
But before he could get there, another body splashed into the pool and fell on top of him, sending him back down. His air supply was quickly depleting as he struggled to recover. He somehow recalled the arcade game Jungle Hunt. The explorer in the video game would jump into the water, and a long red bar signifying how much air he had was at the top left side of the screen just below his score. The explorer needed to put his head above water every so often or he would die. Garrison felt like he was very close to having his red bar move all the way down to empty, and he was about to die.
His head pierced through the top of the water and his lungs demanded air. Flailing, he took a deep breath.
Fill the red bar!
His ears had a chance to start taking in sound and it picked up a very audible scream. His eyes opened just in time to see Rudolfo tossing his little stepsister into the pool on top of him. He remembered his face, filled with a sadistic joy, a cruel braces-filled smile, as the helpless little girl hit him in the water. Her weight dunked him back in the pool to fight to the surface again.
Billy was already swimming to the edge when Garrison resurfaced, choking on water. He flailed and splashed his way to the edge with Billy. Darla was also right behind him.
Garrison was struggling to keep his head above water when Rudolfo stomped on Billy’s fingers. Billy pulled his hands away and started crying. Fearful, Garrison and Darla began to tread water, suspending themselves in the water in a state of terminal desperation.
Rudolfo’s laughter was cut short when his biological father exited the back door after hearing the cries of the kids.
“Goddammit, Rudy! Get over here!”
Rudy began to cower and make excuses, turning his back on the kids in the pool. They immediately took the opportunity to race to the edge.
As the three children whimpered in fear on the side of the pool, Rudolfo’s dad whipped him with his belt across the rear five times before scolding him in front of the children.
Garrison’s mother helped pull the kids out of the pool. As Rudolfo cowered in front of his father, the seeds of hateful anger had been sown.
The bitter hatred and humiliated anger of that day (and several subsequent moments of bullied humiliation by Rudolfo) had been significant factors—in Garrison’s estimation—of why he himself had turned into a spiteful bully. He never wanted to be hurt that way again, and immediately went about physically abusing those who were weaker than him. He trusted only his mother and father from that day forward. Everyone was looked upon with a wary eye. The violation of trust cut him to the core, and he was never the same.
As he stood behind Goodson, with the viral woman preparing to pounce, Garrison would not be violated again. No. He would not be put down by Goodson ever again—that pansy pretty boy.
Garrison committed to his choice.
It was his turn to be the bully.
“Go get her,” he muttered, like Rudolfo had said so many years ago, shoving the larger Goodson toward the Viral.
The woman grabbed him and quickly used her still very healthy teeth to bite his neck.
Goodson threw her off with ease and sent her careening into a bookshelf. Heavy tomes fell across her like a paper landslide, burying her to the point of immobility.
Part of Goodson’s throat dangled from her lips. As she chewed, warm blood dripped again on her body.
Goodson stumbled back, dropping his weapon and gripping his neck
with both hands.
“Shoot her, man,” he said helplessly, weakly.
“Fuck you, Goodson,” Garrison growled.
He lifted his weapon and fired two rounds into Goodson’s face. Goodson twitched violently as he collapsed to the floor. Garrison quickly ran to him and hovered over him, getting in his face with ecstatic glee. “Who’s the dumb fuck now?!” he asked.
Goodson expelled his final breath.
The Viral woman rose to her feet again. Books fell all around her. She moved toward the fresh stack of flesh and blood in the body of Garrison.
Garrison slung his light machine gun on his shoulder and pulled out his sidearm. When the woman was close enough, he grabbed her by the throat with his left hand and pointed the gun at her with the other. Goodson’s blood bathed his hand in warmth. He pushed her up against the desk and tightened his grip as he shoved her on her back on the desk. Her legs flailed around his waist, and though her crotch was cold and hard, it somehow aroused him.
The woman coughed and snarled, her mouth open in hopes of an opportunity to bite. Garrison grinned with pleasure, a sense of power dripping on him like a blessing directly from the devil. He pushed the pistol between her lips like a cold, black phallis, tapping her teeth, bef
ore sticking the barrel fully into her mouth. He pulled the trigger, sending the lead load down her throat. Blood, spinal fluid and bone spit from the back of her neck and through the desk. Her legs shook, then fell along the edge
of the desk.
Garrison removed his hand from her neck, sliding it down her chest and to her breasts. They were cold and lifeless. Blood smeared across her bosom.
“Garrison,” Rodriguez blurted from the doorway, startling him. “Cut your shit—they’re coming.”
Garrison pulled away and walked to the door when Sgt. Arnold and Sgt. Nickson arrived.
The two team leaders looked into the room in shock.
“What... in the hell... happened?” Sgt. Arnold asked, dismayed, as he made his way to Goodson’s body.
“He was bit by the Viral,” Garrison said, the lie inadequately covered by his inflection.
Sgt. Arnold saw the bite on Goodson’s neck, but could not ignore the wounds that put him down. He became filled with anger. He turned around and faced the men. “How did this happen?!”
Garrison was put on the spot again. He gulped visibly before starting. “We heard a noise, came down to investigate, and when he opened the door, the Viral was waiting.”
“So you’re saying upon entry, this bitch was not detected by Goodson?”
Garrison was under pressure. “Yes.”
“Bullshit,” Sgt. Arnold huffed. “He could not have moved to the front of the room and not seen that bitch.”
“Listen, Arnold,” Sgt. Nickson said, coming to Garrison’s defense, “Goodson’s dead. There’s no use playing the blame game. Our first priority is protecting the senators. We can address Goodson’s body accordingly sometime soon. Let’s get back to our mission now.”
Sgt. Arnold was not buying Nickson’s high road posturing. He considered the numbers in the room. Nickson, Rodriguez and Garrison could quickly overtake him and there was not one person from his own fireteam to bear witness to another accident.
Wisely, Sgt. Arnold decided to leave the room posthaste.
Three of the four Fireteam Nickson members stood in the doorway. The energy of anger and fear resonated heavily. Those energy waves were clashing as Sgt. Arnold advanced on the rival team. Their hearts pounded. Their minds raced.
Sgt. Arnold shoved his way through. The wave of energy was enormous, and it punched everyone in their spiritual centers. Rodriguez took offense to Sgt. Arnold laying a hand on him and took a swipe at him. Arnold, an amateur boxer before joining the armed services, decked Rodriguez with three quick, hard punches to the body and face. The third punch connected squarely with Rodriguez’s chin, and dropped the big man to the floor like a bag of rocks.
Sgt. Nickson tried to attack Arnold as the fight spilled into the hallway. Arnold caught the advancing Nickson with a jab/cross combination that stunned the fireteam leader. Before Arnold could pounce and do some real damage, Garrison tackled him.
By the time Arnold could shrug him off, both Nickson and Rodriguez had recovered. Arnold took several steps back so all three opponents were in view. He did not want to give them a chance to surround him like the pack of wolves they were.
“Need you and two of your boys to take me, huh?!” he shouted at his rival sergeant. “I swear when this shit is done with, I’m going to kick your fuckin’ ass! All of you! One at a time or all at once—I don’t give a fuck!”
“Fuck you, Arnold!” Sgt. Nickson fired back.
“You listen to me, you dumb fuck,” Arnold gritted. “The National Guard is minutes away. All this other shit is on hold. For now.”
“Fine with me.”
In the distant rotunda, Talltree stood silent. Watching. Measuring. Learning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
8:31 AM
Silver Creek Apartments, South Manchaca Road
Drops of water echoed in a dark, dank hallway as they splashed into puddles below. In a distant and non-visible location, a red light bathed the soft, smoky mist with a ray of evil. It cast just enough light on either end of the hallway to illuminate each entrance to the steamy hall, but left the middle of the long stretch of floor cloaked in darkness.
Officer Mike Runyard stepped into the mouth of the hallway. He looked into the darkness. He could not tell for sure if something was moving around in the black void, if water filled the void, or if there was even a place to stand in the middle of the hallway. Fear pierced his heart and his breathing became tense.
An energy compelled him into the dark mystery of the hallway. Water dripped on him as he advanced, hitting his neck like the cold kiss of a mythical frost princess. As he moved forward, the ground became soft and the frosty kisses began to fall on his head, neck, and shoulders with greater frequency. Mike could feel a muddy grass under his feet in the darkness despite seeing the solid metal floor of the hallway yards away, bathed in red light and mist.
As he took more steps forward, he noticed himself sinking into the ground. The floor was becoming bog-like. The grassy vines were grabbing at his feet and legs, wrapping around his limbs like tentacles, pulling him into the ground. The cold mist became a steady, icy rainfall.
He looked to the ground and watched his feet slowly sink, pulled in by the green arms of the alien weeds in the grass. He tried to move to avoid being consumed.
Looking forward, he felt something watching him—scrutinizing him. He turned around to see four shadows moving toward the hallway like specters. They quivered and danced against the wall, the red light caressing their darkness.
Mike turned around with the intention to run, but his feet were stuck. He looked down. They were consumed in a soupy mess of mud and grass.
He turned back to the entryway. The black shadows were growing larger. It felt like it would only be moments before they would turn the corner, revealing themselves as help or horrors.
Something cold and hard cut into his shins, dropping him face first into the muddy muck. Rising to his feet was agonizingly slow as he looked to the massive stone monument that tripped him. It was a flat tombstone. A large portion of his flesh was on the stone. He looked at his leg and saw a big section of skin was torn away, like a slice of cheese cut from a block by a knife.
He turned to see the shadows moving closer, looming larger.
Then the lights went out behind him, and the shadows disappeared. Yet he heard their footsteps arrive at the entrance.
The red light in front of him illuminated enough to move forward. But he was stuck again. He looked down.
His feet were in the bloody chest cavity of the girl with no name, the same girl from the police car. She looked up at him and screamed. He whimpered as he realized the entire floor was transformed into her body. He began to sink, stuck in the blood, guts, and filth of the innards of the infinite bodies of the girl with no name. A steady knock resounded around the hallway, as if the shadows were advancing toward him on wooden planks. Their arrival was inevitable.
Mike screamed.
A knock echoed around the hallway, getting louder and louder.
And then he woke up.
The knocking on the front door turned to banging.
Rising from his bed, he moved to his dresser where the belt holding his weapons was situated. He pulled his pistol from the holster and walked into the living room in his boxer briefs. Moving to the door, he wondered if he should look through the peephole. He had been to several crime scenes in his lifetime that started with a victim looking through the peephole only to get shot in the eye and killed.
Despite that fact, he chose to look through the peephole.
Outside the door stood a total stranger, standing impatiently, tapping their foot. Considering the way the world was shifting, Mike thought it might be best not to answer the door.
Paranoia gripped his mind. Would this guy try to kick down the door? Is he a looter? Is he armed?
His questions were answered as the man, in desperation, ran away from the door. Mike let out a long sigh of relief.
But the fear
set in. What was going to happen now?
As a precaution, he moved the couch up against the door. He looked at the spot that was once hidden under the couch. Dust bunnies jumped around the unswept tile like tumbleweed, dancing between Pop-Tart crumbs and pennies exposed to the light.
Pennies. So pointless. Nobody even picks them up anymore. They’re indistinguishable from other trash on sidewalks.
He sat down on the couch. The remote control lay on the cushion next to him, reclining like a German nihilist passed out after drinking a bottle of L’Amour Whiskey. Mike grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television screen, clicking the cathode ray tube generator on. The news was reporting.
“… reports show that the mystery illness that struck New York City one week ago has now spread across the country. The unknown disease has now been reported in all states in the continental United States. The sickness has not been reported as of yet in Alaska and Hawaii. Doris West has more…”
It was all becoming too much for him. An intense feeling of fear and despair was taking over his body, wrapping him in a blanket of anxiety. Gunshots outside were becoming more frequent, accompanied by screams for help.
The house phone rang, making Mike jump in his seat. It was quite a surprise, but he quickly pulled himself together and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Son?”
“Mom,” Mike said, relieved. “How are you—are you all right?”
“We’re fine, son. How are you?”
“Things are going a little crazy here,” he said. “How are things in Three Rivers?”
“The city is doing fine. We’re so far away from the big cities, I don’t think we’ll be having much trouble down here.”
Three Rivers, Texas, was Mike’s hometown. His mother and father were still there, along with his brother, who managed a convenience store.
“I think you might be right, mom. You guys need to sit tight. And make sure you’re armed.”
“Oh, your father has things taken care of, son. We’re going to be fine.”