by Bowie Ibarra
“Sergeant,” the young gatekeeper said, “I haven’t been given authorization for this yet.”
Sgt. Arnold groaned. His fireteam sat silent, letting their leader work his magic. “Soldier, you think I want to take my team out in that shit? I would love to have an excuse for us all to just go back to bed. But if we get delayed because you were napping while my superior was radioing over the clearance, which I’m certain he has—”
“Sir, I have not been napping at my post.”
“Because of you we are already thirty—” Arnold glanced at his watch. “—Make that thirty-five seconds behind schedule. You can call Cpt. Barrigan and wake him from his beauty sleep after we’ve departed. But right now I’m ordering you to open the gate and allow us to pass.”
The private submitted to the chain of command. “Yes, Sergeant.” He prepped the gate security team. Once they were in position, he blew a whistle that had the men open the gate. It opened just enough to let Arnold’s fireteam slip through, then quickly shut again. There were no immediate threats, but not all Virals in the area had been neutralized.
The fireteam immediately began jogging down Congress.
“Well, we’re out,” Sgt. Arnold said. “If either of you has ever doubted my bullshitting capabilities, now is the appropriate time for you to bow down in awe.”
“Never doubted your ability to B.S. for even a second, Sarge,” Noble replied.
Behind a vehicle just yards away from the exit, Sgt. Nickson had seen everything. He approached the gatekeeper.
“Private. What just happened here?”
Fearing a reprimand, the soldier nervously reported the incident. “Sgt. Arnold had been assigned by Cpt. Barrigan to do some reconnaissance, Sergeant.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And they allowed a low-ranking private to know the nature of their mission?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“No, you mean ‘doubtful, Sergeant.’ A truthful man would have never bothered explaining himself to you.”
Sgt. Nickson walked in a fast stride to Cpt. Barrigan’s immense tent and approached the guard on duty. “I need to speak to Cpt. Barrigan.”
“The captain left strict orders not to bother him for anything while he sleeps.”
Gritting his teeth, Sgt. Nickson put a hand on the guard’s shoulder and forcibly moved him aside. Then he yelled into the tent, “I have to report that Sgt. Arnold and his men have gone AWOL, sir!”
A silence ensued, making Sgt. Nickson gulp. Despite the tent being very dark, his imagination drew a picture of the Captain rolling from his cot and pointing a gun at him. Military justice and all that.
“Goddammit, Nickson,” came the barely concerned muttered reply. “You and your men can go after them at daybreak. Now go away and let me sleep, you bastard.”
Nickson smiled. “Yes, sir.”
But he had his own ideas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thursday, April 15th
12:01 AM
12th Street and IH-35
“I could use some sleep.”
“Parcells, you can sleep when you’re dead.”
The military Hummer turned off of south IH-35 onto the access road near the capitol, maneuvering through a sea of stalled cars. Most were wrecked, while others had been lost to bumber-to-bumper gridlock and simply abandoned. Some engines still sputtered.
The four soldiers were delivering a special cargo to the state capitol, a final piece of the TxRP. The failsafe, the Plan B of the TxRP, was nestled in a steel briefcase in a hidden compartment in the rear of the vehicle, directly behind Specialist John Parcells. John was as green as a soldier could be, and never heard the end of it from the two lifers in the front seats. They had been in for almost nine years. John had enlisted only months before in an effort to get scholarship money for college. But he knew he was never going to go to college. Not now, and probably not then, either.
The problem was this fireteam had no plan B; no contingency plan if trouble came along. They were told to drive to the capitol from Fort Hood, given clear instructions what to do, and directions on how to neutralize Virals. They were ready for civilians and the Virals. They were not ready for the two armor-piercing bullets that popped through the bullet-proof glass and punched holes in the faces of the driver and the soldier riding shotgun. Almost nine years of service snuffed out in the blink of an eye. The vehicle jumped the curb, the accelerator still pressed to the floor by the weight of the dead driver’s foot, engine roaring, and crashed into a concrete wall surrounding the parking lot of Brackenridge Hospital.
Specialist John Parcells screamed like an elementary schoolgirl, unprepared for the surprise attack and subsequent wreck. However, the uninjured soldier next to him kept his wits and grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him out of the back of the vehicle. He shouted, “Take cover and return fire, Parcells!”
John the Greenhorn fell face-first on the pavement. He looked up to see his partner ventilated by a series of gunshots that toppled him over right in front of him.
The man turned to him, and in his final breath changed the orders, mouthing two words: “Run, dipshit.”
Rule Change.
John knew running would be a clear violation of their objective, which was to deliver the cargo. He quickly deduced, however, that dying while defending the cargo and not warning the officials of the situation would have more dire consequences.
Gunfire clapped in the night and whizzed past John’s head like angry bees. He had enough sense to maintain possession of his M4. He scampered away from the ambush, lost in every way, not knowing what direction he was running, but knowing he needed to run. His desperation was fueled by his need to survive.
Specialist John Parcells was one of the four soldiers in charge of delivering the crucial piece of a two-piece puzzle—a puzzle that, when linked together, was plan B of the Texas Reclamation Plan.
A clearly Mexican grito resonated as the team of ambushers, a small cadre of troublemakers from the encampment of escaped prisoners blocks away at Lopez Auto Repair and Custom Cars, took possession of the Hummer and all its contents, including the crucial piece of Plan B of the TxRP.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
12:10 AM
Cesar Chavez and Congress Street Bridge
Fireteam Arnold, though gloriously AWOL, did not allow their adrenaline to overwhelm them. They had dealt with their impromptu scramble with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Advancing up the sidewalk one by one and head-shotting Virals as soon as they appeared, leaving grossly disfigured faces in their wake, it was no time at all before the team was at the mouth of the Congress bridge.
“Do we keep moving, Sarge?” Spc. Knight asked, in reference to the severely limited avenues of retreat the bridge presented.
“We keep moving, soldier,” Sgt. Arnold said. “Let’s see what we can see on the other side.”
The Congress bridge had turned into a deathtrap for the citizens of Austin very early in the outbreak. It took only one stalled car to prompt the chaos. After that, panicked drivers smashed into each other, and in the congestion it took only one Viral to set off a chain reaction of carnage. What Fireteam Arnold was looking at now, under the scant moonlight, was a maze with narrow passages beset with protruding, twisted shards of sharp metal. Several ambling Virals roamed the makeshift corridors between wrecked cars like the ghosts in Pac-Man.
“Christ, what a mess,” Spc. Noble said, wrinkling her nose at several dead bodies near an overturned Ford Tempo.
“Keep a sharp eye on the Virals, ya’ll,” Sgt. Arnold said.
The team began to advance through the mess, quietly and strategically.
“Should we check the cars for survivors?” Knight asked.
“Negative, Knight. Too dangerous.”
And it’s doubtful anyone survived this, he thought.
* * *
Sgt. Nickson scaled the last rung and set foot on the scaffolding at the very top
of the lookout tower—technically designated Tower B—that had been erected at the edge of the camp.
The young guard on duty had heard him coming, and eyed him curiously as at first his head appeared, then the rest of him. Recognizing him as a superior, the guard stood at attention.
“Sergeant.”
“At ease, son,” Sgt. Nickson said. “I’m just out for some air.”
“Very good, Sergeant.” The guard sat back down on his stool.
Nickson stood next to the soldier, put his hands on the railing, and allowed his eyes to play over the landscape. It was too dark to make out many details.
“Much activity?” he asked.
“Some, Sergeant,” the guard replied. “But nothing to raise the alarm about.”
“Stand up, son. I want to see for myself.”
“Sergeant?”
“Stand up.”
The guard quickly hopped to his feet and stood aside. Sgt. Nickson requisitioned his seat and swung the butt of the rifle steadied on the railing against his shoulder. He peered through the scope.
It took much effort and much teeth gritting to finally locate Fireteam Arnold. He found them on Congress Street Bridge, stealthily scampering one by one past car after car in standard small squad formation, a zig-zag pattern that covered all angles. They were coolly and expertly popping Virals in the foreheads as they advanced, each member taking turns covering the others’ rears. None of the Virals were able to even get close.
The young soldier tried to brown-nose. “Anything I can help you with, Sergeant?”
“Don’t ask me any questions, boy,” Sgt. Nickson growled, focusing the telescopic scope. “Well, well, well. I see you have allowed Virals to roam unchecked. You were ordered to keep clear a wide perimeter.”
“Sergeant, I—”
“Shut your trap,” Nickson said, steadying the crosshairs. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”
He adjusted his breathing.
* * *
“Over here! Over here!” yelled a man from his car, opening the door with his hands raised to the advancing fireteam. He stepped out and cautiously stepped forward.
Sgt. Arnold scanned him for trouble, then approached him with his gun lowered. His charges stood guard around him.
“Thank God. Thank God you guys are here,” the man said. He was tall, freckle-faced and had red hair. “I thought I was going to die in that car. There was no way I was getting out on my own. Whew!”
“I’d like to tell you you’re safe, sir, but the shit’s pretty deep right now. You have a weapon?”
“No.”
Sgt. Arnold pulled out his sidearm. “You know how to use this?”
The man gawked at the gun, looking stunned. “Heck no. I’ve never fired a gun before in my life.”
“Well, shit, man. What good are you?” Sgt. Arnold chuckled.
Spc. Noble put down a Viral several cars down as the men talked. Knight put down another.
“Would you stab a guy if it meant your life or his?” Sgt. Arnold asked.
“Sure, I guess,” the man said.
“Well, here.” Arnold re-holstered his sidearm and bent over to pull a combat knife from his boot.
The bullet intended for him missed. It shot by and punched through the skull of the nameless redheaded man. Sgt. Arnold was sprinkled with blood as he and his soldiers took cover.
“Holy shit!” Knight shouted. “What was that?!”
“Everybody just sit tight,” Arnold said. “Just breathe, ya’ll. Chill is the word of the day.”
* * *
Sgt. Nickson released the spent bullet from the bolt-action rifle. The hot empty casing tapped the young watchman on his exposed arm.
“Ouch,” the soldier said, flinching and shaking his hand.
Nickson grinned, then looked back through the scope.
* * *
“What’s the plan, Sergeant?” Noble asked. Sgt. Arnold was searching the tops of the buildings around Cesar Chavez for signs of the sniper. The dark night was not helping at all.
“Just sit tight, guys. Just sight tight,” he whispered. He pulled out his binoculars.
His intuition was prompting him to feel anxious, to move. Suddenly feeling exposed, he concentrated intently. He scanned across the street and tried to check each building. His eyes were failing him at the moment, and was hoping that tuning his ears to the world around him would help. The angle the shot had come from was not jiving with him. Something caught his eye as he scanned across the street to another building, skimming past the capitol.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. “The watchtower.”
A bullet flew in a straight and deliberate line toward its target.
Sgt. Arnold ducked, hearing the shot fired, knowing the bullet was faster than the sound. He had milliseconds.
Before he could be totally out of sight, the bullet hit his helmet. It was at such an angle that—combined with Sgt. Arnold’s movement—caused the bullet to ricochet off in another direction. It knocked him on his ass, though. He regained his senses and scampered back to his hiding spot.
“No problem, no problem,” he said, as cool as the Fonz. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Sniper Man is firing from the watchtower at the capitol. That means we got made.”
“Are you okay, Sarge?” Knight asked.
“Oh, I’m just dandy. My helmet on the other hand...” he said, feeling for the dent. “Love your helmets, ya’ll. Love your helmets.”
The group had a chuckle. Even a nearby Viral seemingly groaned in appreciation. But Knight capped it, knocking it to the ground.
“Listen, we’re almost a good klick from the tower and there’s enough cars criss-crossing this damn bridge that we could make it to the other side if we move very low and very carefully to Riverside. You got it?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“All right. Stay close, stay low, watch for Virals, and let’s move.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
12:47 AM
Lopez Auto Repair and Custom Cars
“I swear, Sleepy, I shot the thing five times in the heart, and it did not go
down.”
“I know, compa, I saw you.”
The rogue gallery that now made up the auto repair shop were all sharing their stories with each other. It was very late, and many had already gone to sleep. Others had joined in some late night revelry.
Nick Lopez sat away from the group. Anxious about the safety of his wife and daughter, his stomach churned and twisted in his belly, rattling him like a kid lost in a store. It was the kind of tension that arises when a priority is not met, or a deadline is looming and no work has been done. It was hard to get Sleepy’s attention, as many of the men were looking to the man for leadership, conversation, and guidance. But Nick hung around, waiting for that one opportunity to cash in on his favor.
As the midnight hour ticked away, ready to shift to the second official hour of the new day, Sleepy was ready to turn in. Nick jumped at the chance.
“Hey, Sleepy.”
“Nico. Que paso, buey?”
“Hey. I want to ask for your help.”
“What’s up?”
Nick explained the situation to Sleepy regarding his wife and child, using perfect Tex-Mex: “Mi esposa y mi nina esta en un apartamento en el sur de Austin, cerca de thirty-five.”
“And you want my help?”
“Si, mon.”
Sleepy was quick and decisive. After all, he had a whole sea of minions to choose from. “Ay, I’ll make sure you have some help to get there and back. Muy facil. ’K?”
“’K.”
“Bueno, bye,” Sleepy said. He retired to a prepared dark corner of the garage where dozens of people were already asleep.
Nick smiled. He turned around and, having prepared it earlier in the evening, moved to his own sleeping spot. The blanket was from the prison and was very thin, which was especially noticeable when it was placed on the grimy floor of the garage. The stern scent
of gas and oil filled the room, especially along the floor.
But before Nick and Sleepy could settle in, a crew that had carjacked a military Humvee pulled into the garage with their prize. Frenzied cries of celebration were heard all around.
Standing nearby, Sleepy called to Nick, “There’s your ride and your crew. Hardcore killers, buey. They’ll take care of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1:15 AM
Riverside Drive west of IH-35
The trio that made up Fireteam Arnold, having evaded the sniper, proceeded carefully down Riverside. The streets were dimly lit and ravaged by the anarchy of the day. Every so often a stiff breeze would hit them in the face. Under normal circumstances, an evening Texas breeze was welcome in the early days of spring; a soothing stroke of fresh air, fleeting refreshment from the heat. But with the plague overtaking the city, some of those cool blasts were perfumed with the funk of the dead, the pungent aroma clouding the central Texas landscape.
Virals sprinkled the surroundings, and despite the fireteam effectively using urban hiding spots while blasting ghouls, there was small groups of them constantly in pursuit. For blocks all around, the dead things seemed to know in which direction to congregate. It was as if their hearing was amplified. And, as Fireteam Arnold observed, the Virals acted smarter at night. Wiser. The night was somehow heightening their sense of direction, their greed for flesh, their perception. Perhaps it was the cooler temperature. Or perhaps it was some resident evil in the very nature of darkness itself, a ghostly power that generated some kind of energy for the dead. They stumbled in faster strides, almost walking as a normal human would, at first glance indistinguishable from a living, breathing civvie.