Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (11 page)

Goodson expelled his final breath.

The Viral woman rose to her feet again. Books
fell all around her. She moved toward the fresh stack of flesh and
blood in the body of Garrison.

Garrison slung his light machine gun on his
shoulder and pulled out his sidearm. When the woman was close
enough, he grabbed her by the throat with his left hand and pointed
the gun at her with the other. Goodson’s blood bathed his hand in
warmth. He pushed her up against the desk and tightened his grip as
he shoved her on her back on the desk. Her legs flailed around his
waist, and though her crotch was cold and hard, it somehow aroused
him.

The woman coughed and snarled, her mouth open
in hopes of an opportunity to bite. Garrison grinned with pleasure,
a sense of power dripping on him like a blessing directly from the
devil. He pushed the pistol between her lips like a cold, black
phallis, tapping her teeth, before sticking the barrel fully into
her mouth. He pulled the trigger, sending the lead load down her
throat. Blood, spinal fluid and bone spit from the back of her neck
and through the desk. Her legs shook, then fell along the edge

of the desk.

Garrison removed his hand from her neck,
sliding it down her chest and to her breasts. They were cold and
lifeless. Blood smeared across her bosom.

“Garrison,” Rodriguez blurted from the
doorway, startling him. “Cut your shit—they’re coming.”

Garrison pulled away and walked to the door
when Sgt. Arnold and Sgt. Nickson arrived.

The two team leaders looked into the room in
shock.

“What... in the hell... happened?” Sgt.
Arnold asked, dismayed, as he made his way to Goodson’s body.

“He was bit by the Viral,” Garrison said, the
lie inadequately covered by his inflection.

Sgt. Arnold saw the bite on Goodson’s neck,
but could not ignore the wounds that put him down. He became filled
with anger. He turned around and faced the men. “How did this
happen?!”

Garrison was put on the spot again. He gulped
visibly before starting. “We heard a noise, came down to
investigate, and when he opened the door, the Viral was
waiting.”

“So you’re saying upon entry, this bitch was
not detected by Goodson?”

Garrison was under pressure. “Yes.”

“Bullshit,” Sgt. Arnold huffed. “He could not
have moved to the front of the room and not seen that bitch.”

“Listen, Arnold,” Sgt. Nickson said, coming
to Garrison’s defense, “Goodson’s dead. There’s no use playing the
blame game. Our first priority is protecting the senators. We can
address Goodson’s body accordingly sometime soon. Let’s get back to
our mission now.”

Sgt. Arnold was not buying Nickson’s high
road posturing. He considered the numbers in the room. Nickson,
Rodriguez and Garrison could quickly overtake him and there was not
one person from his own fireteam to bear witness to another
accident.

Wisely, Sgt. Arnold decided to leave the room
posthaste.

Three of the four Fireteam Nickson members
stood in the doorway. The energy of anger and fear resonated
heavily. Those energy waves were clashing as Sgt. Arnold advanced
on the rival team. Their hearts pounded. Their minds raced.

Sgt. Arnold shoved his way through. The wave
of energy was enormous, and it punched everyone in their spiritual
centers. Rodriguez took offense to Sgt. Arnold laying a hand on him
and took a swipe at him. Arnold, an amateur boxer before joining
the armed services, decked Rodriguez with three quick, hard punches
to the body and face. The third punch connected squarely with
Rodriguez’s chin, and dropped the big man to the floor like a bag
of rocks.

Sgt. Nickson tried to attack Arnold as the
fight spilled into the hallway. Arnold caught the advancing Nickson
with a jab/cross combination that stunned the fireteam leader.
Before Arnold could pounce and do some real damage, Garrison
tackled him.

By the time Arnold could shrug him off, both
Nickson and Rodriguez had recovered. Arnold took several steps back
so all three opponents were in view. He did not want to give them a
chance to surround him like the pack of wolves they were.

“Need you and two of your boys to take me,
huh?!” he shouted at his rival sergeant. “I swear when this shit is
done with, I’m going to kick your fuckin’ ass! All of you! One at a
time or all at once—I don’t give a fuck!”

“Fuck you, Arnold!” Sgt. Nickson fired
back.

“You listen to me, you dumb fuck,” Arnold
gritted. “The National Guard is minutes away. All this other shit
is on hold. For now.”

“Fine with me.”

In the distant rotunda, Talltree stood
silent. Watching. Measuring. Learning.

8:31 AM

Silver Creek Apartments, South Manchaca
Road

Drops of water echoed in a dark, dank hallway
as they splashed into puddles below. In a distant and non-visible
location, a red light bathed the soft, smoky mist with a ray of
evil. It cast just enough light on either end of the hallway to
illuminate each entrance to the steamy hall, but left the middle of
the long stretch of floor cloaked in darkness.

Officer Mike Runyard stepped into the mouth
of the hallway. He looked into the darkness. He could not tell for
sure if something was moving around in the black void, if water
filled the void, or if there was even a place to stand in the
middle of the hallway. Fear pierced his heart and his breathing
became tense.

An energy compelled him into the dark mystery
of the hallway. Water dripped on him as he advanced, hitting his
neck like the cold kiss of a mythical frost princess. As he moved
forward, the ground became soft and the frosty kisses began to fall
on his head, neck, and shoulders with greater frequency. Mike could
feel a muddy grass under his feet in the darkness despite seeing
the solid metal floor of the hallway yards away, bathed in red
light and mist.

As he took more steps forward, he noticed
himself sinking into the ground. The floor was becoming bog-like.
The grassy vines were grabbing at his feet and legs, wrapping
around his limbs like tentacles, pulling him into the ground. The
cold mist became a steady, icy rainfall.

He looked to the ground and watched his feet
slowly sink, pulled in by the green arms of the alien weeds in the
grass. He tried to move to avoid being consumed.

Looking forward, he felt something watching
him—scrutinizing him. He turned around to see four shadows moving
toward the hallway like specters. They quivered and danced against
the wall, the red light caressing their darkness.

Mike turned around with the intention to run,
but his feet were stuck. He looked down. They were consumed in a
soupy mess of mud and grass.

He turned back to the entryway. The black
shadows were growing larger. It felt like it would only be moments
before they would turn the corner, revealing themselves as help or
horrors.

Something cold and hard cut into his shins,
dropping him face first into the muddy muck. Rising to his feet was
agonizingly slow as he looked to the massive stone monument that
tripped him. It was a flat tombstone. A large portion of his flesh
was on the stone. He looked at his leg and saw a big section of
skin was torn away, like a slice of cheese cut from a block by a
knife.

He turned to see the shadows moving closer,
looming larger.

Then the lights went out behind him, and the
shadows disappeared. Yet he heard their footsteps arrive at the
entrance.

The red light in front of him illuminated
enough to move forward. But he was stuck again. He looked down.

His feet were in the bloody chest cavity of
the girl with no name, the same girl from the police car. She
looked up at him and screamed. He whimpered as he realized the
entire floor was transformed into her body. He began to sink, stuck
in the blood, guts, and filth of the innards of the infinite bodies
of the girl with no name. A steady knock resounded around the
hallway, as if the shadows were advancing toward him on wooden
planks. Their arrival was inevitable.

Mike screamed.

A knock echoed around the hallway, getting
louder and louder.

And then he woke up.

The knocking on the front door turned to
banging.

Rising from his bed, he moved to his dresser
where the belt holding his weapons was situated. He pulled his
pistol from the holster and walked into the living room in his
boxer briefs. Moving to the door, he wondered if he should look
through the peephole. He had been to several crime scenes in his
lifetime that started with a victim looking through the peephole
only to get shot in the eye and killed.

Despite that fact, he chose to look through
the peephole.

Outside the door stood a total stranger,
standing impatiently, tapping their foot. Considering the way the
world was shifting, Mike thought it might be best not to answer the
door.

Paranoia gripped his mind. Would this guy try
to kick down the door? Is he a looter? Is he armed?

His questions were answered as the man, in
desperation, ran away from the door. Mike let out a long sigh of
relief.

But the fear set in. What was going to happen
now?

As a precaution, he moved the couch up
against the door. He looked at the spot that was once hidden under
the couch. Dust bunnies jumped around the unswept tile like
tumbleweed, dancing between Pop-Tart crumbs and pennies exposed to
the light.

Pennies. So pointless. Nobody even picks them
up anymore. They’re indistinguishable from other trash on
sidewalks.

He sat down on the couch. The remote control
lay on the cushion next to him, reclining like a German nihilist
passed out after drinking a bottle of L’Amour Whiskey. Mike grabbed
the remote and pointed it at the television screen, clicking the
cathode ray tube generator on. The news was reporting.

“… reports show that the mystery illness that
struck New York City one week ago has now spread across the
country. The unknown disease has now been reported in all states in
the continental United States. The sickness has not been reported
as of yet in Alaska and Hawaii. Doris West has more…”

It was all becoming too much for him. An
intense feeling of fear and despair was taking over his body,
wrapping him in a blanket of anxiety. Gunshots outside were
becoming more frequent, accompanied by screams for help.

The house phone rang, making Mike jump in his
seat. It was quite a surprise, but he quickly pulled himself
together and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Son?”

“
Mom
,” Mike said, relieved. “How are
you—are you all right?”

“We’re fine, son. How are you?”

“Things are going a little crazy here,” he
said. “How are things in Three Rivers?”

“The city is doing fine. We’re so far away
from the big cities, I don’t think we’ll be having much trouble
down here.”

Three Rivers, Texas, was Mike’s hometown. His
mother and father were still there, along with his brother, who
managed a convenience store.

“I think you might be right, mom. You guys
need to sit tight. And make sure you’re armed.”

“Oh, your father has things taken care of,
son. We’re going to be fine.”

His father was an avid hunter, and kept a
vault filled with firearms. Mike felt relieved. It was soothing to
know his family would, potentially, be protected. He could still
see his mother wearing one of her many fancy embroidered shirts in
the middle of the apocalypse. After some brief small talk, Mike
assured his mother he would be fine in Austin.

“The city needs me right now,” he said,
feeling kind of like a knight.

“I don’t know what I can do right now,
exactly, but I’m trying to keep in mind why I became a cop in the
first place—before I lost the enthusiasm. You know, before
reality
. I know I can help, I just—”

“You just take care of yourself, son. We’ll
be fine. This will all blow over soon.”

“Take care, mom.”

“I love you, son.”

“I love you, too, mom.”

The two said their goodbyes, and not one
second after Mike put the receiver back in place, another knock
came at the door.

Who the fuck is that asshole looking for?

Taking his gun back in hand, he approached
the door again. He peered through the peephole.

It was Derek.

Mike pushed the couch away from the door,
unlatched the chain, unlocked the handle, and opened the door.

Derek neglected pleasantries. “Get your
uniform on, man,” he said, almost too excitedly. “We gotta
roll.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Just get your shit
on.”

The television continued its report: “All
citizens are to report to any of the following FEMA centers nearest
where you live: Bowie High School, Crockett High School, Travis
High School, YMCA

central…”

Mike barely heard the newscast as he fit
himself into his modern day shining armor. Far from the pure white
of the old symbols of goodness, it was a police-state midnight
blue. He buckled his belt and looked in the mirror. Austin Police
Department’s own—and perhaps
only
—white knight was ready. He
couldn’t help but think this might be the last time he would look
at himself in the mirror. He gulped, considering the very real
prospect.

Walking to the door, he joined his silent
partner for their walk to their police cruiser. All around them the
apartment complex was in chaos. People screaming. Gunshots.
Yelling. It felt like a prison riot. People needed help. But Mike
knew if he started here he would never get out. Whatever plan Derek
had for him was to be revealed soon, and he trusted his partner not
to lead him astray. Mostly.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, the
streets were filled with frenzied pockets of people in panic.