by Bowie Ibarra
“No, no, no. This isn’t going to work,” Mike said softly, thinking out loud. He turned to Keri. “If we lock ourselves inside, we’re toast. If and when those people leave—” he pointed at the gang below, “—those dead people are coming in.”
Keri swallowed hard, because she knew what he was going to say next.
“Keri, we gotta run.”
She gripped the railing hard with both hands and gazed at the chaos below. She was stunned, almost catatonic. Within minutes, their safe haven had turned into a disaster area. The scurrying people below made her think of Godzilla movies when the public took to the streets to escape the mystical flame attack of the monster, its heels stomping buildings and crushing cars. She saw the zombies stumbling into the complex and assaulting the makeshift barricade of cars. It was an easy estimation to know the zombies had the advantage by sheer numbers.
South Point Apartments was going to be overrun. Amidst the panic of everyone around them, she knew she had to be smart about this. She had to measure her choices and make an informed decision.
But the choice was obvious.
She reached for Mike’s hand. He latched onto it with his own and held it in a warm embrace. Both hands trembled, but once they were in contact with each other, the effect became like two tuning forks resonating harmoniously.
There was so much to lose now, infinitely more than yesterday or the day before. It scared them.
Neither expected to find love. Not in a FEMA camp. Certainly not in the middle of the apocalypse. And though no true physical affection had been shared, the goodness of their souls had mixed and mingled over their short time together—a time that was quickly a thing of the past, replaced
now with a sad uncertainty.
Mike’s ankles had been mended and were healing. But he was not running any marathons any time soon.
“We’re a team, right?” Keri asked, the feeling of doom placing itself in her throat, dropping to her stomach. The bitter pill.
For a brief moment, Mike allowed a tiny portion of the fear inside of him to manifest. He whispered, “Please don’t leave me.”
Keri gazed upon him with sympathetic eyes. He had the visage of a man thinking he might be left alone. The sad gaze of a vulnerable man. Keri tried to ignore the sense of impending death her reason was prescribing to her soul. “We’re a team, Mike. We live together, or…” She didn’t want to finish the sentence.
As the cries of panic and death filled the air below, their souls were pulling at each other. It was a song of desire, begging their physical selves to fulfill their soul’s secret wish to press their lips to each other, even for only a moment. The right moment was there, but they let it pass, their minds reminding them to preserve and protect their bodies from the terror infiltrating the camp.
“Help me down the stairs,” Mike said, immediately regretting letting the moment pass as the two began their slow descent into terror.
* * *
If Sleepy had turned his head to the right as he ran behind Nick Lopez up the flight of stairs to the second floor landing, he would have seen a uniformed A.P.D. Officer being assisted down the stairs from the third floor.
But he hadn’t looked. His attention was on fulfilling his promise to the man who had orchestrated his prison escape, not on the man who had put him there in the first place.
Tiny followed behind Sleepy, escorting him as Sleepy in turn escorted Nick to the front door of his home.
Theresa spotted her husband—her one and only love—from her window. A feeling of immense joy filled her heart, like a first kiss or a winning lottery ticket. Their eyes connected.
She ran to the door and flung it open, and there they stood facing each other.
In that moment, all their frustrations with each other, every grudge and gripe, every angry argument melted away. All they could feel as they fell into the other’s waiting arms was their eternal love. Never had an embrace felt so good, so warm, so safe. In the middle of a doomed world, a sad holocaust of death and woe, love resonated again.
* * *
The numbers game around the makeshift barricade was swinging in favor of the zombies. A section of the blockade defending Sleepy’s ride was breached. A cholo was jumped by two zombies, while a third bypassed the meal for the hole in the fence left by Nick and Sleepy. The ghoul was making a play for the less aggressive inhabitants of the FEMA camp. And though it was quickly put down with a headshot, it signaled a turning of the tide for the ever increasing and encroaching zombie mob.
In desperation, Ducky and Mousetrap opened the military Hummer, frantically searching for more weapons. Clicking open every apparent compartment and hold in the interior, they accidentally discovered that the back seat lifted up, revealing a hidden stowing area. Inside was a shiny metal suitcase.
Ducky cried out, “Oh, shit! Money!”
“Come que money, pendejo,” Mousetrap replied. “There’s probably guns in it. Open it.”
“Way ahead of you,” Ducky said, flicking the latches.
Expecting a weapon, the men got more than they bargained for. Once the lid was fully upright, a small keyboard inside lit up, and a digital timer above it flickered on.
Bright, blood-red numbers on a black screen: 30:00.00
Thirty minutes.
The numbers blinked twice, then began counting down.
Ducky and Mousetrap turned their heads to each other with mouths agape. A moment later they were both scrambling from the vehicle shouting, “Bomb! Bomb!”
The members of the makeshift blockade took no time leaving their battle stations and retreating to their cars. With no more resistance from the thugs, the position was quickly overrun by the zombies. And though the cholos were secured in their cars, the numbers around them were punching and clawing at their windows.
* * *
Floating in near-Earth orbit, a satellite was finally receiving the signal from the briefcase. Small boosters blew flames, slowly shifting and repositioning the satellite to its newly programmed coordinates.
* * *
Spc. Daniel Talltree continued to watch.
In his crosshairs, having patiently feigned helplessness for the longest time, Sgt. Nickson had no choice but to drop the façade and wiggle completely free of his bonds at last. Virals were swarming the vehicle he was on and the thugs had given up trying to fight them off. He jumped down from his iron stake and worked to free Spc. Garrison. With skillful efficiency, he cut his maimed battle buddy loose and together they ran into the FEMA camp, gouging several zombies that stood in their path.
“Nice one, Sergeant,” Talltree said. “Well done.”
He felt omnipotent as he watched the apartment complex fall apart. But the longer he watched through the scope, the more he felt his feeling of power shift to a feeling of responsibility. As the scope danced from head to head, he knew he could pick off anyone he wanted. But he would never do that. He was not an animal like the members of his former fireteam. He still had honor.
He watched as the remaining soldiers who did not make it to the rear makeshift pillbox in time fought side-by-side with the civilians against the ghouls. The zombies were infiltrating the camp, and though the humans were achieving mixed results, their numbers were finite. The zombies were not. For every five or six zombies smashed, bashed, or burned, a human was caught by surprise, bitten, and infected.
Or consumed completely.
Talltree took notice of a large diesel vehicle traveling swiftly through the darkness, heading like a meteor to the complex. The engine growled like an iron bulldog. The white lights of the vehicle split the black night like a holy weapon.
“What do we have here?”
Things were looking very bleak for the camp when suddenly the rumbling eighteen-wheeled savior delivered a temporary, yet vengeful solace, slamming through the wrecked gate and bouncing zombies into the air.
It was Fireteam Arnold.
The truck crashed into the escape vehicles, rattling the cholos in their
cars, effectively blocking their means of vehicular escape.
Talltree poised himself.
He would be getting another shot soon.
* * *
Ducky and Mousetrap were bounced around in a random vehicle they had taken shelter in amid the zombie tidal wave, trying to escape what they thought was a ticking bomb.
“What the fuck was that?!” Ducky asked, upside-down in the driver’s seat.
“A fuckin’ trailer fuckin’ crashed the fuckin’ gate!”
“Fuck!”
They repositioned themselves and looked through the rear window. All they could see was the front grill of an eighteen-wheeler with a Texas State Flag airbrushed on it. It took up the whole of their view, like an overboard sailor’s final image burned into his retinas of shark’s jaws ready to devour him.
* * *
Though it was an impulsive strategy, the eighteen-wheeler mowed down the zombie mob and seriously impeded further penetration from the living dead through the gate. The box trailer stuffed the entrance, and zombies could now only slowly trickle in. It was a big chance for the humans to take control again.
Bounding from the cab of the truck like the military punishers they were, Fireteam Arnold retook the parking lot, leveling the surprised flesheaters like a pro-bowler taking down ten pins for his seventh strike.
“We’ll rendezvous with you in five,” Sgt. Arnold said. “Tell those soldiers to stop shooting ASAP.”
Spc. Noble nodded. “Understood, Sergeant.”
Arnold nodded back.
He and Spc. Parcells dashed to the Hummer, while Noble and Knight ran to the barricaded bivouac at the rear of the lot where the remaining FEMA forces were holding out.
Though many of the cholos were mad at Sgt. Arnold for wrecking their cars, none offered physical resistance as the two soldiers approached the Hummer. They could only watch with awkward, confused expressions, like they had just been pulled over by a cop and were waiting for the cop to approach their vehicle.
Side by side, Sgt. Arnold and Spc. Parcells opened the door to the Hummer, their destiny moments away from being fulfilled.
They both saw the suitcase opened and ticking down.
“Shit,” Parcells said. “Somebody had to go and open it.”
“Well, turn it off,” Sgt. Arnold said, almost laughing.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Parcells said, taking to the keyboard below the timer. His fingers glided across the keys like ballroom dancers doing the jitterbug as he entered a series of complicated codes to disarm the beacon.
Arnold leaned against the Hummer, moving ever so slightly enough that the bullet that was sent from Talltree’s rifle did not punch him in the face, but Parcells’ face instead.
* * *
Talltree leapt to his feet, exasperated. He stood erect and clenched his rifle tightly. His knuckles were turning white.
“That man has a Guardian,” he said softly.
In stark realization, Talltree humbly turned his head up to the night sky and closed his eyes. He breathed the air deep into his lungs.
What are you saying to me?
* * *
The bullet hit square into Spc. Parcell’s ear, hitting at such an angle that it bore a tunnel through the R-complex at the base of the spine, then ricocheted off the interior of the helmet as it exited his head. It bounced back into the brain, tunneling through and hitting the interior of the forehead just hard enough to jut out. Blood dripped down from his forehead in a straight line, then branched into two paths at the bridge of his nose.
As Sgt. Arnold looked at the trail of blood on the face of the assassinated soldier, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey.
As if by instinct, Parcells was continuing to type in a heroic yet futile effort to turn off the beacon. All at once he ceased his efforts and collapsed lifelessly into Sgt. Arnold’s arms.
* * *
In the cold silence of space, the satellite arrived at its new coordinates. A miniature silo door slid open. A missile maneuvered into the ready position.
Its target had been painted. No abort command had been received.
Unwavering in loyalty and unquestioning of orders, it fulfilled its duty.
The missile fired.
* * *
Soldiers allowed Noble and Knight to enter their stronghold.
Noble cut through the formalities: “We’re with the military at the capitol. We’re here to secure a security threat in that Hummer. So stop shooting at it!”
Knight saw several weapons that caught his eye. “You have flamethrowers?”
“We’re not allowed to use them on civilians.”
“Those things out there aren’t civilians, broseph. Enemy combatants, maybe. But not civilians.” He hoisted one of the heavy fuel packs onto his back. “There’s one more. Who wants it?”
* * *
“I’m sorry, kid,” Sgt. Arnold said, looking into Parcells’ empty eyes.
Knowing the body would be disrespectfully defiled by the zombies if no action was taken otherwise, he heaved it up onto his shoulders and stuffed it into the Hummer. He climbed in right after.
It was hopeless. The parking lot was refilling with Virals despite the initial sweep. Several of the creatures began punching and clawing at the Hummer doors.
To Sgt. Arnold’s initial horror, streams of flames lit up the darkness around the vehicle like vengeful dragons defending treasure from their dark caves. The marauding black knights—the zombies—were set aflame. Like walking torches burning under the twinkling eyes of the dark spring sky, the Virals stumbled, tripped, and shuffled in flames, setting others on fire. Howls of pain and, perhaps, freedom, rang around the parking lot among the torched beasts. Gripping at the fences of the camp, their eyes, flesh, and brains melting at the hands of the eternally cruel and unforgiving fire elementals, the ghouls collapsed slowly, their already decaying flesh submitting to the punishment unleashed by the two hellbringers.
“Well done, boys,” Sgt. Arnold said with pride.
Knight and Noble attacked the two breaches at the entrance on opposite sides of the trailers, setting the impatient line of zombies on fire. It was serving a dual purpose, as the zombies seemed to be repulsed by the flames, fearful of the red rage, fleeing the skin-melting heat. The smoldering stacks of the dead were now keeping the potential enemies at bay. And though the disturbance and their satanic death howls were attracting more to the scene, none were making efforts to advance.
Civilians and soldiers and thugs alike were now starting to take control, eliminating all the zombies that breached the gate.
But then what? Sgt. Arnold wondered.
These people depended on the government. On the military. They had faith it would help them. FEMA and Homeland Security commandeered this apartment complex to use for their protection. Now it was going to serve as their graveyard. No one knew about the cold, heartless beacon counting down to their doom. If nothing was said or done, a majority of these people might just stick around after their short-lived victory, destined to die at the hands of whatever method the diabolical tool counting down was concocted for.
If the zombies didn’t get them first, that is.
They needed someone to lead them.
But Sgt. Arnold knew that that person could not be him.
He looked at the metal case. It was as if each tick of the clock inside was a mocking laugh at him. A dare.
The people would manage without him. Certainly they would work together if it meant their survival. Maybe even, if given the opportunity, someone would rise to the occasion and lead them to safety. It would be an exodus of this strange company of south Austinites away from the impending doom ticking away in the Hummer.
The apartment complex would be saved. But what about the people in the IRS? What about the others holed up all over town?
Why did he, Sgt. Arnold, have this burden to bear?
Because I’m the only one who can.
He wasn’
t sure if he had only thought it, or if he had said it aloud.
He was Sgt. Martin Arnold of the United States Army. He had a job to do to protect these people in the South Point Apartments FEMA camp, in the very least, and he was going to do it.
He grabbed the microphone to the Humvee’s external announce system as the countdown continued its relentless march to zero.
“Ladies and gentlemen. This is Sgt. Arnold of the United States Army. It is imperative that all persons in this facility evacuate immediately to any and all available vehicles. If you do not have a vehicle, please enter the trailer of the Mack Truck. Drive south to San Marcos. It is imperative that all civilian and military personnel cooperate, for the love of Christ, in this evacuation. We are all in grave danger of a cataclysm that will strike in...” He looked at the case. “—In just over twenty-five minutes. Begin evacuating now!”
* * *
Ducky and Mousetrap turned to each other in the car.
“What do we do?” Ducky asked.
Mousetrap responded, “Fuck up some of those dead bitches and get in the goddamn truck!”
They weren’t really sure if they were up to it. Fear tickled their bellies. Taking a deep breath, the two thugs shouted and dashed from the vehicle, shoving their way to the trailer.
* * *
Sgt. Arnold unclicked the talk button and pressed the ignition button, rattling the Hummer to life.
Specialists Knight and Noble appeared at the driver’s side window.