by Bowie Ibarra
A dark red hole popped open through the front of the girl’s head. Parcells felt the zipping hum of a projectile zip past his face, sounding like a dragonfly playing with a human and challenging him to swat. Knight felt it zip just by his face, too.
But Sgt. Arnold felt it even more.
His head popped back.
He fell to the floor.
“Holy fuck!” Knight screamed.
Realizing they had somehow exposed themselves to the sniper, his legs froze while he tried to decide which way to take cover. An instant later he grabbed Sgt. Arnold’s wrists and dragged him with a yank to the emergency door. He pushed the door open with his butt and continued shuffling backwards.
The resulting alarm was loud and obnoxious.
He felt two more bullets whiz by.
Once they were all outside, Parcells slammed the door shut behind them. He blurted in a panic, “Sniper’s in the goddamn store! He knew we came down from the roof!”
Ghouls in the employee parking lot slowly turned toward the men like the animatronic children stuck on spinning posts on the It’s A Small World ride at Disneyworld. Recognition lit up in their faces. They started to approach. They were fifty strong, at least.
“Put me down,” Sgt. Arnold grumbled.
“Oh, shit,” Knight said. “You’re alive.”
He stood and flexed his legs. “Of course I’m alive. Now you know why I always give you guys shit about keeping your helmets on.”
Parcells looked at Sgt. Arnold’s helmet and saw the bump where the bullet had ricocheted. It was right next to another, similar indention. He realized then he had certainly lucked upon the right man to tag along with. Moreover, he was exhilarated he hadn’t been left leaderless.
“Wow, that’s some Saving Private Ryan shit there, Sergeant,” he said.
“Good movie,” Arnold replied.
Knight opened up his HK416 on the closest Virals. But from somewhere else, another HK416 was heard.
“It’s Noble,” Arnold said. “She’s coming. Careful with your shots.”
The team quickly followed the order, falling to a knee and cautiously shooting into the ever encroaching Austin dusk as they anticipated Noble’s arrival. For the three fireteam members, it felt like an eternity. The zombies shuffled closer with impatient strides, eager to eat. But even worse, they stank to high heaven.
Noble marked her appearance with a yell that surpassed even the wail of the alarm.
“Fire in the hole!”
The team huddled together near the wall of the store, ignoring the door to the abandoned business in fear the sniper within might still have it in his sights.
Then it happened. The blast from the hand grenade burst several zombies into beefy and bloody pulps, shooting millions of rays of blood, bone and sinew into the air. Creatures not directly in the vicinity of the explosion were stabbed, diced and slashed by the shrapnel from the device as well as the pavement that was cracked and disassembled, creating a small, black-lined crater. For creatures further back, the concussive force of the blast ripped arms, legs, and even heads from the bodies. The various limbs were sent flying, joining the muscles and organs of the zombies that had been caught directly.
It provided more than enough of an opportunity for Spc. Noble to rejoin her fireteam. “Miss me?”
“Where’d you get the pineapple?” Sgt. Arnold asked.
“I snatched it from the Hummer,” she said. “Those crooks are loaded, Sarge. They’ve got artillery out the whazoo.”
Arnold nodded. “And Parcells’ classified failsafe.”
* * *
In the middle of the parking lot, barely distinguishable from the walking dead scattered on all sides of him, Talltree lowered his rifle. The view he had had stretched half the parking lot, through a broken display window, through the shelf and banner-lined interior of the video store, and into the employee hallway in the back. And through all the obstructions and darkness and ambiguity, he had had one opportunity at a headshot. He had fired three times, but wasn’t sure of the outcome.
Virals were approaching curiously. One of them about ten feet away took a couple of steps toward Talltree, stopped, stared blankly for a moment, took two more steps, and stopped again. Cognitions of hunger alternating with cognitions of disinterest were probably testing the limits of its mental capacity.
Talltree wasn’t going to push his luck. He decided to return to the McDonald’s rooftop to see if he could rediscover his quarry.
Once on the roof and settled in again, he scoured the landscape until finally acknowledging that Sgt. Arnold and his men had managed to elude him. So he shifted his focus to the apartment complex. Events there were developing at an accelerated rate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
9:35 PM
South Point Apartments
The ghostly hand of Night covered the land in darkness, and the malevolent sky spit out a stack of clouds, denying the south Austin cityscape a lot of light the glitter of the feminine moon provided. Only the brightest of stars managed to show through. Never had the night been more of a pall, more of a coffin closing on its permanent resident than this one. South Austin was slowly being filled with danger and woe like water filling a fish tank. The land and its people were soon to be drowned in it.
At the front gate of South Point Apartments, Sleepy’s gang finished establishing a perimeter around his vehicle. Zombies swarmed all around, reinvigorated by the arrival of such a massive quantity of fresh meat, their ghastly bodies illuminated under the concentrated glow of headlights and street lights.
Sleepy climbed up on top of the hood, put a bullhorn to his mouth, and directed his voice toward the camp. Sgt. Nickson and Spc. Garrison were still bound and strapped to the vehicle, on display for the soldiers on the other side of the gate to see.
Despite the remaining military presence, the negotiations were far from formal.
Or articulate.
“Ey,” Sleepy said. “We want a lady and child that’s in there. A mother and daughter. We’ll give you these fuckers in trade.” Twin spotlights from the watchtowers immediately swiveled and focused on him. He stretched his hand out toward the bound soldiers behind him, reminiscent of an auctioneer showing what was up for bid.
A shadowed military man in the tower responded in a very rote manner, “You must relinquish all weapons and enter the FEMA camp. You will be placed under the protection of the United States military.”
“I think you’re not hearing me, holmes,” Sleepy said. “We don’t want to get in there. We just want a woman and child. We make a simple transaction.”
Knowing Sleepy was distracted, Sgt. Nickson began twisting his hands inside the ropes that held them.
Following procedure, the military man repeated the command. “You must relinquish all weapons and enter the FEMA camp. You will be placed under the protection of the United States military.”
“Listen to me, pendejo,” Sleepy replied. “My friend wants his wife and daughter. In exchange you get these two fuckers here. That’s the deal. Muy razonable.”
“Enter the camp now,” the military man in the tower said, voice unwavering, “or we will use deadly force.”
Neither side was much for negotiating. Both only knew one method was effective in these times of death.
“Man, fuck these putos,” Sleepy said in irritated disgust. He turned around and barked, “Snipers!”
The second syllable of the simple command had not even faded into a distant echo before a hidden sniper fired a shot that punched the military man in the mouth, busting his teeth out. His tongue burst into a juicy pulp, and for a singular moment the man could literally taste the hot lead of the bullet that was now putting him to rest. It was a literal last supper of his own flesh and blood. The bullet forever dismissed the man’s chances for survival by cutting through the bone of his spine, severing the nerve center, busting it into moist particles that showered the booth and some of the people below in a red and gray haze. He tumbled f
rom the tower like a Play-Doh Mr. Bill, crashing to the pavement in a clumsy heap, coming to rest in a twisted pile.
* * *
Watching through his scope, Talltree whispered, “Not bad.”
* * *
As the assassinated military man’s rifle clattered to the pavement, it discharged. The unintentional bullet punched another soldier in the mouth, providing the exact same final sensation the first man had experienced, only without so great a fall.
The twitching body was in front of the gated vehicle entrance—a very bad place to be considering that Sleepy’s war wagon had revved its engine and was rolling forward. It targeted the gated entrance with every intention of ramming it.
Seated on the custom hunting seats near the front of the auspicious battering ram, Nickson and Garrison gritted their teeth—Nickson more so than Garrison. Sleepy put the pedal to the metal, stomping bodies of zombies as it approached the gate. The bodies slapped up against the platform before the truck swallowed them in the undercarriage. The tires of the vehicle swallowed, chomped, and ground the undead into pulp with the indiscriminate efficiency of a whale opening its mouth and consuming everything around it.
Despite the crunchy speed bumps, the vehicle still hit the gate with much more velocity than the gate could withstand.
The heavy aluminum bars above the gate that held the chain links in place might as well have been swung by the hands of a rioter at Watts. When they broke free in the collision, they swung directly into the heads of the two soldiers bound to the vehicle, striking them smack in their faces. Nickson’s nose was smashed and broken, while Garrison’s face was cracked and broken just below his left eye. However, it wasn’t enough to knock either of the soldiers unconscious—the pain was simply too much.
Unfortunately for Nickson and Garrison, it wasn’t the end of it. As the forward motion of the vehicle busted the gate open, the chain link fence ripped at the men’s faces like a cheese grater. And though it only lasted a moment, the ripping anguish felt like a lifetime.
The vehicle then moved flush against the military-erected interior fence inside the apartment complex. With studied precision, several cars made a barrier around Sleepy’s vehicle, including the military Hummer. Sleepy and Nick jumped from the protected vehicle and raced to the gate. Nick began snipping away at the chain links below the barbed wire with a wire cutter.
Sleepy’s plan was working flawlessly.
Three other gang-driven vehicles passed the vehicles defending Sleepy and Nick and drove into the interior of the breached parking area. But they were promptly halted by heavy machine gun fire and rocket propelled grenades that blew the vehicles to pieces.
The soldiers retreated to the rear of the facility, where they were already setting up a defensive position.
Zombies that had been futilely shaking and clawing at the chain link fence for many hours were now filing in through the breach. Smelling the warm and sweaty flesh behind and on top of the large trucks defending Sleepy’s vehicle, the ghouls advanced.
The thugs were waiting with pipes, machetes, and firearms.
“Bring it on, pus-bags,” one of them said.
* * *
Having traversed several Viral-congested blocks before finally finding an unclustered spot just across the highway from the raid, Sgt. Arnold ordered his men to lay low while he investigated the skirmish through his binoculars.
What he saw disturbed him.
Thugs and Virals and souped-up Trucks of Doom were bottlenecked in and around the entire main gate and the entire assembly was being bombarded with machine gun fire and RPGs.
He lowered his binoculars and muttered, “Damn. That camp is finished—and so’s our Humvee.”
“Sergeant, we have to retrieve that suitcase,” Parcells said. “We—”
“I know, Parcells,” Arnold huffed impatiently. “I was just thinking out loud. Remember how I told you to be chill? Do that for me.” He thought a moment, but knew his chances of capturing the Humvee were diminishing with each passing second. “We’ve got to let those soldiers know we’re here and what’s at stake.”
“More RPG rounds are going to be coming any second now that the soldiers have regrouped,” Knight said.
“It’s a war zone, Knight,” Arnold said. “Our Humvee is getting swallowed whole.”
“It’s not that bad,” Parcells said.
Arnold ignored the comment.
“It’ll be worse if we don’t move now,” Knight added.
Sgt. Arnold fully understood that fact already, but he wasn’t going to send his men headlong into the fray. It would be suicide. There was no tactical move evident with their current resources and numbers that would secure victory for his team. With a horde of Virals all around the camp and infiltrating within, a gang of thugs whose responses would be unpredictable, and a small unit of soldiers remaining in the facility, it was a simple numbers game.
No one jumps into the whirlwind of a tornado and expects to live.
Sgt. Arnold wondered if Napoleon, Alexander, or even Erwin Rommel ever faced this kind of tactical mindblock. Granted, they operated on a much larger scale than he was now. But the science was the same. Arnold had taken his men this far and now, due to the unexpected balls-out assault by the gang, there was nothing he could do. Failure was never an option for him. It was rare that he failed at anything in his life. And when he did, he quickly fixed the situation and the failure.
Behind the fireteam, an overexcited flesh-eater groaned in delight as he edged to the now exposed soldiers. Had the creature not vocalized, he might have made it to the group and filled his mouth with flesh and blood. As it was, the trained killers responded quickly.
“We’ve been outed, ya’ll,” Arnold said, taking his combat knife and stabbing the living dead monster in the head. It dropped like a sandbag. The scuffle was attracting a lot of unwanted attention, and a small gaggle of ghouls began their slow advance to the team. They were forcing Arnold’s hand, and he had nothing.
“Wait,” Noble said. “Let me see those binoculars.” The sergeant handed them to her, though she could already see what she was looking for through the darkness of the south Austin night, stranded and stuck in the middle of the access road near the apartment complex.
“It’s a gamble, guys. I think we should take it,” Noble said finally.
“What are you thinking, Noble?” Arnold asked, ready to consider whatever option her already proven tactical-minded brain had conjured. When no answer was forthcoming in the few precious seconds that followed, he stabbed another Viral in the skull and barked, “Spit it out!”
“Just follow me,” Noble said. “I’ll tell you on the way there.”
* * *
As Fireteam Arnold moved into the uncertainty of Noble’s plan, the remnants of their rivals were suffering on the custom hunting vehicle. Blood and flesh dripped from the mangled nose of Sgt. Nickson as he continued to adjust his bonds, close to freeing himself. Garrison threw up on himself, the concussion of striking the pole suddenly affecting him, playing games with his constitution. Vomit and blood fell across his shirt in chunks and globs like a child spilling a soggy bowl of artificially colored and flavored cereal.
“Let them kill me, Sarge,” Garrison begged, whimpering in pain, his voice lisping due to his missing front teeth. “Please.”
Sgt. Nickson, close to releasing his vengeance, gave Garrison a taste of his rage. “Stop being a little cunt bitch, Leo.”
* * *
The civilian contingent of the camp was beyond terrified, and Officer Mike Runyard had also been close to losing his wits before he got his head straight and kept focused. He watched the melee from the third floor landing, just outside the apartment he had been calling home. Other residents of South Point Apartments, both new and old, were scurrying all around him like The Flash from the comic books, and at first he felt he was trapped in slow motion like in a bad dream.
Down below, a street gang was penetrating the camp’s interior. It
was obvious. It shouldn’t be happening; the armed soldiers should have stopped them before they had advanced even a single step. But the soldiers were falling back—actually falling back from an onslaught by a group of mere ruffians—and seemed only now to be in the process of regrouping on the other side of the parking lot.
That had been the catalyst that set off the civilians, Mike knew. They realized their safety was not assured as promised and all that was left was panic. And though the criminals were a legitimate threat, the people in the camp knew the zombies would soon be next to infiltrate their police state safe haven. People were running to their apartments and boarding up their doors. Some became bold enough to try to scale the fence and take their chances with the zombies on the other side. Floodlights were getting shot out, (by the gang, Mike assumed,) covering large swathes of the complex in total darkness. Friendlies and enemies alike became shadows, obscured from identification by the lack of light.
One floor down, on the second floor landing, Theresa held her daughter by the hand. Mike tried calling out to her, but she either couldn’t hear him or wasn’t listening. Mike assumed the latter: Theresa wasn’t going to let herself be distracted from her child for even a second.
He could pick out her and her daughter’s voice from the myriad of others, though.
“Mommy, what’s going on?”
“Just get in the house, L.J.,” he heard Theresa answer in a very in charge tone of voice. She ushered her daughter into the living room of their apartment. There was a Ginsu knife in her hand. There was already flecks of blood on it that had not been completely wiped off from the earlier attack by ex-cons.
Theresa closed her door.