Down the Road: The Fall of Austin

by Bowie Ibarra

  Arnold rolled it down.

  “Sergeant?” Noble asked.

  “Noble,” he robotically acknowledged, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  “Where’s Parcells?”

  “The sniper got him.”

  “Well... what do we do now?”

  “Someone set off the timer,” Arnold said. “Something bad’s going to happen here. I need to get this thing as far away as possible.”

  “Sergeant?” Noble said again.

  Sgt. Arnold took a deep breath, ready to give them their final orders. He said, “Noble, you’re in charge. Get as many people as you can on that rig and get them the fuck out of here. Knight, you’re helping her. Her orders are as good as mine. Now get that truck out of my way. That’s my final order to you. Good luck.”

  “Sarge...?” Noble began. There was confused suspicion in her eyes. And also a knowing sadness.

  “That’s an order, Noble,” Arnold said.

  “But...”

  “An order, Noble!” Arnold barked. “Go!”

  She took two small, uncertain steps backwards, cringing. Knight put his hand on her shoulder and kept her moving. She turned away fully before Arnold could witness her emotion.

  The soldiers did what they were commanded to do. Once the rig was out of the entrance, Arnold shifted into reverse and floored the accelerator. Zombies burst into pieces of fiery flesh as the vehicle bashed them with abandon.

  After he got turned around and headed down the road, a glance in the rear-view mirror showed that the rig wisely put itself back in the breach, damming the flood.

  “See, Noble,” he said to himself. “You’re going to do all right.”

  * * *

  The dire subtext of the announced message was quite clear to most residents, and those who did not get it were quickly persuaded by the alarmed expressions of those who did. In an urgent race, everyone began scrambling to all available vehicles. And in an amazing show of solidarity, everyone worked together, throwing out old conceptions and points of view for the sake of group survival. Soldiers made transports available and ushered people inside, while other soldiers did their best to direct the flow of human traffic. Even cholos like Ducky and Mousetrap eagerly assisted. In a moment of miraculous humanity, the majority of the interred worked together in an impatient yet cooperative effort.

  All they had ever needed, it seemed, was a common enemy, a common threat.

  Ducky and Mousetrap were in the back of the trailer, helping people into the crude transport when a young man dashed up to be included in the exodus. He was lugging a garish end table with him that they assumed he was trying to salvage from his apartment.

  “What the fuck is this?” Mousetrap asked. “We gotta have room for people, dickhead.”

  “Yeah, man, what the fuck are you bringing an end table for?” Ducky added.

  “But, but—it’s an Ikea,” the man said.

  “Do this,” Ducky said. “Take your Ikea end table back to your apartment and fuck yourself while you’re there. You’re not getting on the truck with it.”

  The guy groaned, but seemed hesitant to oblige.

  Ducky made it easy for him. He yanked the table from his hands and flung it into a pile of flaming zombies. “Now get on, dumbass!”

  Rule change.

  * * *

  Keri Lawrence and Officer Mike Runyard finally navigated all three flights of stairs and arrived at the bottom.

  “You really think we can make it to your cruiser?” Keri asked.

  “The cruiser I got here in isn’t there anymore. But there was another there. I think we can do it,” Mike said, limping, but more mobile than before the impending explosion proved an adequate motivator.

  “And if there’s no keys?” Keri said, resigning herself to the hopelessness of the moment.

  “Who knows?” Mike said, shrugging his shoulders with a kind of aloofness. “You still in?”

  Keri couldn’t help but giggle. She thought maybe she was going a little mad. “I’m in. You and me.”

  But exposing himself to the general public would prove more perilous than the trek to the vehicle. Once eye contact was made, it did not take Sleepy long to identify the man that had captured him and put him in jail only days before.

  “Ay, chingado,” Sleepy muttered, his heart slowly filling with rage, his soul trembling with fury.

  “Que? What’s wrong?” Tiny asked.

  “Holy shit,” Mike whispered with a distinct shiver. He turned to Keri and said gravely, “Keri, you need to go now.”

  “What?” she said.

  “You’ve gotta go,” he repeated. “You’ve got to run.”

  “No chance. I’m not leaving you.”

  With a deliberate stride, Sleepy advanced on them.

  “Ey, where you going, Sleepy?” Nick asked.

  “Hey, it’s the guy that saved me,” Theresa said.

  “Huh?”

  “That guy,” she said, pointing at Mike with her free hand, the hand that wasn’t attached to the arm tightly cuddling Laura Jane. “The cop I told you about. He saved me and L.J. from the looters.”

  Nick saw who the cop was. He was the same person Sleepy was heading towards with his pistol raised.

  In the world that had fallen apart like a stack of dominoes in a child’s toyroom, the one thing Nick had clung to, the one thing that brought him back to the love of his wife and the beauty of his daughter, was honor. Despite Nick’s treachery to his former employer, his dishonor and disloyalty

  to his former boss, his new allegiance to Sleepy was birthed in betrayal, raised in trust, but sanctified by honor. It was the honor of a jailed drug dealer and gang member. Sleepy was a man who profited from blood, was fed by the addictions of others, financed by a shadowy league of aberrant criminals, both from dark alleys and underground syndicates to elected officials and public offices. One man whose only code of honor was bound by his word. Nick had liberated Sleepy, a choice he had not needed to make, but made anyway. Sleepy had a similar choice he did not have to make, but did. It had been a choice to travel to this apartment complex, face extreme danger to honor his word, his code. The choice was part pledge of allegiance, part death wish. But Sleepy fulfilled his duty.

  But the murder that was about to take place needed to be addressed. The “pig” had saved his wife from danger, from death. This man, this stranger, this policeman had defended his wife when he himself was not there to do so. The cop was the man he had sworn to be to her in his absence, a swift and able defender in his family’s time of need. The cop had made a choice he had not needed to make, took a risk he did not need to take. But he did it anyway.

  This was a previously unheard-of definition of honor to Nick Lopez.

  If honor was the code that was keeping him and his family alive in this zombie apocalypse, then the cop’s simple quest to defend his wife in his absence needed to be honored, respected. Because now, Nick was given a choice, provided a cruel challenge by a giggling apostle of fate who was watching over the unfolding situation through the dark clouds of the night. His choice would be made for him in moments, by default, if he chose not to act.

  Keri caught sight of the advancing and armed thug in the chaos of the evacuation. He was the only one intently marching forward with an agenda, while everyone around him was bouncing in different directions. She understood the situation at once: Mike was a policeman, and policemen were certain to have many enemies, and in the anarchy of the apocalypse there was nothing stopping those enemies from seeking retribution.

  She froze up in horror, realizing her only friend, her salvation in her time of need—her destined love—was about to be murdered in a blood colder than an arctic winter, or a Milton-esque hellscape.

  Mike, crippled and defenseless, pulled his only ace, his tazer, and subtly hid it behind him as he fell to the ground on his ass, submitting to the advancing thug. He wondered if the opportunity to use the tazer, the ace, would even present itself on a proverbial flop, turn
, or river.

  “Fate’s a real puta, ey, baboso?” Sleepy said with a sadistic smile, hovering over him.

  Keri played the only hand she could. “Omigod—don’t shoot him! Please!”

  It did little to change Sleepy’s mind. “Shut up, bitch!” he yelled, not taking the gun off of Mike for a second.

  “C’mon, man, don’t kill me,” Mike said, sounding almost nonchalant. “That bust was a one-time thing. Kind of like a try-out for me and my partner. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

  There was no reply. Just the smile of a man seconds away from watching his vengeance unleashed as he squeezed the trigger.

  Keri fell to her knees next to Mike and wrapped her arms around him. She was crying now, trying to talk into his ear but instead just soaking his cheek with her tears. All Mike could make out between her whimpers was, “We were put there for a reason, you and me. It can’t just end like this.”

  Mike’s eyes were transfixed on Sleepy’s, remembering that night of the bust. Before his mind’s eye, he remembered his first kiss in junior high, his game-winning touchdown, the embrace of his mother and father. The gentle kiss he wished he had shared with Keri. A bright light filled his eyes; a healing, relaxing light approaching him like a soft blanket on a cold night.

  But the light was eclipsed by a dark shadow, a black angel in the white radiance. The total eclipse of the light erased it from his view, replaced with the red warmth of flesh and blood. A sacrifice at the altar of honor. The light was replaced by the shocked face of Hector ‘Sleepy’ Arana, horrified at the wild card played on the river, the pocket pair putting his hand in the muck.

  Nick Lopez had made his choice.

  He landed on the ground next to the cop. The bullet, the modern sacrificial knife, had cut through his shoulder, delivering the tribute to the fickle fingers of fate, making his right arm lame in honor of the man who saved his family.

  “Que estas hacienda, buey?!” Sleepy shouted, wondering why Nick made the choice to jump in front of the bullet.

  Swallowing his pain, Nick pleaded, “Don’t be mad, Sleepy. Just let me explain.”

  But before Nick could utter another syllable, a section of Sleepy’s head was drilled open by a bullet that busted a hole out the opposite side of his skull. Sleepy fell forward into the arms of the man he honored, victim of the same vengeful emotion he was prevented from unleashing.

  Mike, Keri, Nick and Tiny all turned to look in the direction the unexpected execution originated from. They all caught sight of the cruel avenger. Tiny considered charging the killer out of respect for his fallen leader, but stopped short.

  Standing by the gate was the hateful resonating personification of the sin of vengeance: Sgt. Roger Nickson. His face and clothes were stained with blood, and he looked for all intents and purposes like the living dead all around them—a Viral from Hell—his face red and blistering to prove he had faced the fires of Satan and lived to tell the tale.

  He dragged Spc. Garrison by the collar, and the two satanic disciples advanced through the hole in the gate to the truck that they were once bound to.

  Murdering the driver and passenger with cruel efficiency, Nickson tossed Garrison into the passenger seat beside him. Revving the engine and popping the clutch at a high rate of RPMs, Nickson burst through a weakened section of the chain-link fence and bounded over the sidewalk, escaping his thug captors and the FEMA camp.

  He still had a mission to accomplish:

  Execute Sgt. Martin Arnold.

  * * *

  When the second truck raced from the falling FEMA camp, driving through a fence and creating another breach, Talltree roused from his meditation and made his decision.

  He hopped off the McDonald’s rooftop, zombie scalps that hung from his belt flapping against his thighs, continuing to bathe his body in gorish camouflage.

  * * *

  Sgt. Arnold knew what he was doing. He had commanded the people to go south toward Koehl and San Marcos, so he needed to move the device north.

  He noticed a jimmied CD player and interior speakers. He turned it on. A techno beat hit the air.

  “Pump up the jam?” he whispered, identifying the tune with an incredulous smile. He shrugged his shoulders and turned up the volume.

  He had barely begun his lip-syncing when he looked up and noticed a pair of lights behind him—and gaining fast—shooting down a clear segment of the road in the zombie wasteland that Austin had become.

  Rear-ending the Hummer, Sgt. Arnold’s vehicle fishtailed before gaining control again.

  Sgt. Nickson pulled up beside the Hummer, deftly dodging stalled vehicles on the road. He made eye contact with Sgt. Arnold. Both pairs of eyes filled their owners with rage and both vehicles quickly attempted to sideswipe each other.

  “Fire on that vehicle, soldier!” Sgt. Nickson commanded to a spent and weary Spc. Garrison, riding shotgun.

  Garrison feebly attempted to lift his pistol to shoot out the window, trying to respect the command of his leader, his friend. But the gesture was futile. Too many of his fingers were missing and the gun fell to the floorboard.

  Specialist Leo Garrison spent the final moments of his life as an utter failure.

  He turned to Sgt. Nickson. “I’m sorry, Sarge.”

  Sgt. Nickson sped up slightly, moving just in front of the Hummer. He then shifted sideways in his seat, chambered his leg, and kicked Specialist Leo Garrison out of the moving vehicle, using him as a weapon against the Hummer.

  Garrison plunged headlong to the blurry gray pavement, eating the grill guard of the Hummer first. The hit knocked out more teeth and broke his face even more before he tumbled in a heap under the speeding steel monster. The tires twisted Garrison’s body like a high school senior twisting a wet towel to snap the bare ass of a freshman in gym class. His organs were squeezed out of his belly through his anus, scattering on the road like a basket of vegetables and sausages falling from a delivery truck. Legs were twisted and torn away from the pulverized body, accompanied by a set of arms. His head was crushed under the back tire, busting like a large tomato crushed under the foot of a Spaniard celebrating an annual festival in his home country. By the time Specialist Leo Garrison was spit out the back of the vehicle, nothing was left of him that was discernable but his scalped jawbone on a mass of sanguine mincemeat, a mincemeat nearby zombies were eager to consume.

  Detecting the fresh meal on the interstate, the product of the vehicular massacre, the zombies shambled to the remains and ate it with greed, shoving whole handfuls into their mouths, feasting freely in the middle of the deserted highway. The remains were spread in a line across the road, and ghouls approached as if moving to the salad bar or buffet table, with just enough cognitive ability to pick and choose the choicest parts.

  Nickson’s cruel tactic had been highly effective though, as it caused Sgt. Arnold’s Hummer to clip Nickson’s vehicle in the rear. Both vehicles swerved, fishtailed, then tumbled in a deadly roll down the access road just blocks from the Texas State Capitol. In moments, they both stopped rolling, both coming to rest upside down.

  Rattled and dizzy, Sgt. Arnold released himself from his seatbelt and crawled out of the Hummer. His leg was hurt and his ribs were bruised, but he was still fully functional despite the limp. The groans of the dead signaled their inevitable approach to the potential meal. He looked at the other vehicle and saw no one in the cab. The broken front window indicated Nickson must have been thrown from it.

  Sgt. Arnold scrambled to his Hummer in search of the suitcase. The moans of the dead were sounding more like calls to attract others to the fresh meat.

  Standing up with the briefcase in his arms, Arnold saw the zombie mob was starting to gather. He re-opened the case and glanced at the timer. He then looked up.

  The capitol stood just blocks away.

  Arnold noticed another body nearby. It was Parcells. He had been ejected like a cassette tape from an old school tape player. “I’m sorry, man,�
�� he whispered before gathering his strength and taking off into a sprint.

  But as he started his run he was blindsided by a cruel spear-like tackle that sent him to the unforgiving street pavement. Looking up at his assailant, he thought it was a zombie. The tattered and bloody face could have been one, but the fire in its eyes clearly indicated it was his nemesis, Sgt. Nickson.

  The two scuffled for position, the unforgiving pavement of Interstate Highway 35 digging into their backs, elbows, and knees. It was as if a third participant was mixing it up with them under the blanket of black, and indiscriminate about whom he assaulted. Nickson poked Arnold in the eye and used the moment of disorientation to pull his recovered sidearm and take the mount.

  Instinctively, Sgt. Arnold defended himself from the pistol in Nickson’s hand and held Nickson in a jiu-jitsu guard, with every intention of getting to his feet. The last place he wanted to be with the advancing Viral horde was on his back on the ground. Both men held the other with a one handed choke. The breath was slipping away from Sgt. Arnold as the zombies closed in. The gun moved closer to his head. Though the choke on Sgt. Nickson was sapping his energy as well, Nickson’s position was much more advantageous and he was able to put his full weight into it.

  The mob closed in. Sgt. Arnold’s eyes began to roll back into his head as the gun came closer to sealing his fate.

  But those same fates, the daughters of destiny, had other plans.

  A hatchet cut Sgt. Nickson’s hand off at the wrist, literally disarming him.

  Sgt. Nickson looked up, howling in pain and clutching the bloody stump at the end of his wrist. His eyes narrowed in realization. What he at first assumed to be a Viral, upon closer examination through squinted eyes, turned out to be a grotesquely camouflaged Specialist Daniel Talltree.

  Sgt. Nickson continued screaming as he was pulled up to his feet and off of Sgt. Arnold with a reverse choke. The blood and filth on Talltree rubbed over Nickson, christening his victim with the stench of his future.