Down the Road: The Fall of Austin

by Bowie Ibarra

  Sgt. Arnold gathered himself, breathing hard, watching the scuffle, aghast. Talltree was covered in blood, and as far as Arnold was concerned, was Viral.

  Talltree swung the hatchet toward Nickson’s stomach, cutting through the shirt. He hacked and slashed again, opening up Nickson’s belly just below his armor, eviscerating him. Reaching inside with a thrusting hand, Talltree secured his liver. As he yanked out the thick organ, other innards fell out of the large gash. And in the ancient Mohawk tradition, Talltree took a big bite out of the liver. Blood dripping from his mouth fell across Nickson’s face, who was seemingly frozen in time in mid-scream, his face a mixture of fear and defeat. The blood dripped across his eyes, casting long lines of red into his mouth and across his chin and onto his already bloody clothes.

  Noses perked up all through the nearby crowd of zombies, their senses suddenly sharp. It was as if they could smell the fresh blood and gore exposed to the night air. They wanted it.

  Talltree looked into Sgt. Arnold’s eyes and nodded respectfully before dragging the defeated Sgt. Nickson backwards into a crowd of flesh-eaters, where they were both promptly swallowed.

  A Viral immediately attacked Nickson’s head and bit, sucking the blood off of his now exposed skull. Others tore at his clothes, exposing more of his Kevlar armor. Several grabbed an arm and started to twist it, pulling and tugging until the bone was broken. They bit into the fabric of the sleeves, tearing the fabric and, subsequently, his arms. He was still screaming in pain as another creature bit into his neck, tearing a large chunk of flesh from his throat that was now spitting blood across their faces. Dark lines of red laced their lips and cheeks. More creatures tore at the legs. Others attacked the soft and lacerated belly below the armor.

  It was a feast.

  Specialist Daniel Talltree watched the entire banquet until the creatures realized they could consume him as well. They bit into his neck, his arms, his face. One even snatched the liver from his hands and scampered away with it.

  But Talltree did not scream. Prepared to release his soul, he allowed himself to be consumed, to be relieved of his fleshly anchor. Closing his eyes, he concentrated his energies into the ritual of transferring his soul to the lifestream of the cosmos. As had been handed down to him from generation to generation, his soul would depart from his earthly shell, and like an eagle, fly into the night sky to become one with the Great Spirit.

  Shaking himself in relief from the stunning save, Sgt. Arnold held the suitcase close to his body. Despite his limp, he sprinted like a gridiron fullback, ducking his shoulders and knocking down zombies like an old school football star, bent on delivering the Final Solution into the lap of the man that put a contract out on him.

  * * *

  In one of the greatest shows of unity and cooperation, the entire FEMA camp that was South Point Apartments and hundreds of south Austin residents were en route out of the facility, headed south on IH-35 under the cover of darkness, a motley convoy of military transports, civilian vehicles, and the eighteen wheeler. People were even riding on top of the trailer, a vagabond cavalcade of hope.

  “Don’t knock me off, fucker,” Ducky complained.

  “Well, stop holding my arm like a little bitch,” Mousetrap said.

  In the driver’s seat was Specialist Elizabeth Noble, delivering the people from death, her face a visage of determination. Riding shotgun was her second-in-command, Specialist Hageshiro Knight.

  * * *

  Tiny, Nick Lopez and his family, and the Mike/Keri combo made it safely to the empty police cruiser nearby, on the side of IH-35, leaving a trail of bludgeoned and tazed zombies in their wake. Though the resistance from the zombies had been persistent, it was not overwhelming when the group of survivors worked together.

  Mike was able to walk fairly swiftly, even if Keri hadn’t been holding his arm, as if his elation had cured him of all his ills. However, he could not bring himself to search out what little remained of his former partner, Derek Tucker, after the zombies had had their way with his corpse.

  When they reached the cruiser, to everyone’s surprise, the keys were still in the ignition.

  Keri put herself in the driver’s seat. As everybody secured themselves in the vehicle, she asked, “So... where to?”

  Sitting beside her, Mike looked in the side-view mirror and saw the multitude of headlights belonging to the approaching convoy. He said, “Safety in numbers, my dear.”

  She looked over and showed him a smile. “And you’re smart, too,” she said. She patted him on the leg. She craned her head around to look at Nick, Theresa, Laura Jane, and Tiny in the back seat. “That okay with you guys?”

  “You’re the boss, lady,” Nick said.

  Keri pulled the cruiser back onto the road. The convoy parted in the middle to allow her vehicle to join.

  The entire group began their journey to San Marcos, putting as many miles as possible between them and Austin in what little time remained.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  10:20 PM

  Texas State Capitol

  Exhausted and nearly hyperventilating, each step more painful than the last, calf muscles feeling like they had been stabbed with a million daggers, Sgt. Martin Arnold of the United States Army was allowed entry into the new perimeter set up around the capitol. The guards immediately alerted Captain Barrigan of his arrival, noting the metal briefcase in his hands as well.

  Sgt. Arnold was marched on to the capitol grounds at gunpoint as Cpt. Barrigan approached to meet him halfway, clapping.

  “Put your guns down, men. Is that any way to greet a hero?”

  The soldiers complied.

  Sgt. Arnold smirked.

  “Well done, Sgt. Arnold. Well done, indeed. You secured the missing briefcase. Well done.”

  Sgt. Arnold frowned. “You sent Nickson and his boys to kill me. You sent a death squad against me and my men.”

  A light flickered in the night sky.

  “Death squad?” Cpt. Barrigan said, covering his embarrassment in front of the other soldiers, who were unaware of the secret mission to eliminate Arnold. “Please, Sergeant. That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? After all, with this most opportune acquisition, I think there will be little problem in canceling the court-martial of you and your men. You weren’t AWOL—you were on a covert op I authorized. Understand?”

  A subtle whistle could be heard from up above, coming very much from the flickering light in the sky that was slowly growing larger, distinguishing itself from the stars.

  “So, Sergeant. It looks like we win.”

  Win, Sgt. Arnold mused, suddenly recalling Knight in the office of the computer nerds. He then chuckled, remembering the line from the television show. He muttered, “To lose is to win, and he who wins shall lose.”

  “What?” Cpt. Barrigan asked with a curious smile.

  Sgt. Arnold took a deep breath before he started to laugh openly, looking up at the sky in the direction of the whistling missile that was clearly just overhead.

  Sgt. Arnold handed the case to the Captain and walked away.

  As he casually strolled to a grassy portion of the capitol courtyard, he reached into his bloody breast pocket and pulled out the bundle of three U.N. patches. He tossed them over his shoulder with disregard, and they spun like shurikens until they hit the ground.

  He sat down.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I relax, sir,” he said. “I’ve been on my feet the past two days and my dogs are barking something awful.” He untied his boots and pulled them off. Next his sweaty, soaked socks were off and discarded.

  And there he sat, barefoot, leaning back on his elbows. He found himself whistling, attempting to match the same pitch he heard above.

  Barrigan had watched him through the entire process, sneering at his audacity.

  He finally looked down and opened the case in his hands.

  The timer read thirty-one seconds.

  “Oh, my God,” Barrigan whispered.

  He
dropped the case at his feet and simply stood there, shocked into inaction.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Sgt. Arnold said. “Scientists can align the trajectory of a missile to coincide exactly with the final countdown of a clock on Earth. I was never much for Calculus. Or Trigonometry. Or whatever it is. I...”

  He trailed off without even realizing it. Having his feet liberated from the heavy leather bonds once and for all was so relaxing it was almost hypnotic. He let out a contented sigh of relief and wiggled his toes, letting the night air bathe them in cool comfort.

  “That feels... so good,” he said.

  The timer struck zero.

  The suitcase sent the ultimate electric signal to a receiver on the missile: The operation was go-ahead as scheduled, do not abort, do not self-destruct.

  A light blipped within the missile at the measured and programmed altitude of two hundred yards above the ground, setting forth the power of the GBU-43/B-A, a modified version of the Massive Ordnance Air Blast Bomb, The Mother of All Bombs.

  Every sentient being in its massive blast radius was disintegrated.

  Sgt. Arnold and Cpt. Barrigan’s molecules were melted into nonexistence, along with every other soldier in the capitol compound.

  The wave moved through the streets, transforming zombies to molecular ash blowing in the wind.

  The wave moved for miles, eliminating every zombie in its wake, dissipating into dust.

  Unfortunately, for the people in the IRS camp—including the lucky family who had barely made it inside with their lives and the soldiers who had helped them do so—and those holding out in their homes all around Austin—including the traumatized girl named Andi—their number was up as well. Their bodies turned to dust.

  The wave hit five miles. Ten. Fifteen. The bodies at South Point Apartments melted away. The energy was rolling as if it would never lose energy. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

  And near the twenty-one mile mark, the energy was no longer as potent, though the wake was still able to toss cars through the air like toys, bending trees and testing roof shingles.

  And then the pulse energy dispersed, fizzled out like the final fireball of a Roman candle. Twenty-one square miles from the capitol had been cleansed of the plague of the dead.

  And the living.

  The capitol remained. Though windows were blown out and shattered and several cracks clicked across portions of the building, the antique stone edifice stood strong, proud. A sentinel of strength. A symbol of pride. The large Texas Star several blocks away in front of the Texas History Museum also stood tall, alone.

  The green lawn of the capitol sat peacefully under the Texas night. The massive tribute statues held strong to their positions, defending their sacred contributions to Texas history. Much like Sgt. Arnold, whose dusty remains drifted around the capitol, forever a part of its history, a major player in the fall of Austin, yet forever an unwritten chapter of Texas folklore.

  His story might be told, spoken by those south Austinites who were now crossing into the remnants of Koehl just off of IH-35. The exiles who never saw the man’s face, or knew the kind of person he was.

  But two people knew his story. Two people knew the man behind the disembodied voice from a Hummer that told them to run, run far away. He was their leader. His story would someday be told by them, his charges, now driving an eighteen-wheeler filled with human beings whose lives he saved. People he gave hope to in a hopeless world.

  Specialists Elizabeth Noble and Hageshiro Knight never thought they would be leaders of an exodus. But they had just saved the lives of a large group of men and women.

  Nick Lopez never thought the common criminal named Tiny would find it in his heart to ever assist his wife and daughter to liberation. But life brings many choices. Tiny made his.

  And two total strangers never thought they’d be destined to take on the world together. Keri Lawrence was the face Mike Runyard would find strength in while hiding in a world of the living dead. And Mike was the heart and soul Keri would find solace in during this time of need.

  Sgt. Martin Arnold’s selfless, impromptu decision to unite a group of south Austinites with a grave urgency would remain forever in their memory as the paragon of human potential.

  The convoy moved onward through the fog, resigned to face their fate in the zombie apocalypse somewhere down the road.

  Monday, September 1st 2008, 10:26 PM

  In a booth at a Whataburger

  Kyle, in the republic of Texas

  —Bowie V. Ibarra