Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (17 page)

Sleepy joined the brothers while the others
made themselves at home.

“
Este es
Sleepy. He had my back
en
la jaula
.”

“
Mucho gusto, joven
,” Sleepy said
courteously, thanking his host. “You will be rewarded for taking us
in.” Then he made a proclamation, setting it up with a very loud
whistle, followed by an order to bring everyone to attention.
“
Ey, cayensen los sicos, bueys
.”

The sea of orange-clad ex-cons immediately
shut their mouths and stood attentive to the man that led them to
this place of protection. “
Escushen. Este es el negocio de Jesus
Lopez. Darlo mucho respeto a Jesus y su familia, y tambien por el
negocio. Si no pones el proprio respeto, yo voy a matar.

Comprendes?”

A chorus of “si” resounded around the lot,
promising respect to Jesus, his family, and their business.

Sleepy eyeballed the crowd like a third-world
dictator, then turned to Jesus. “
Gracias, amigo
.”

“
Seguro
.”

“
A donde esta los banos
?”

Jesus pointed the way to the restrooms.
Sleepy nodded gratefully and made his way to them. The crowd went
about their business.

Jesus turned to Nick. “Hey, Nico, how’s
Theresa?”

“Before we left, she was fine.”

“Still at the apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“You should leave the bitch.”

The comment stung, but Nick knew the feelings
his brother had for Theresa had always been that way. “Bro, you
know I would if I could. But I can’t put Laura Jane through that.
Not right now.”

Jesus was frustrated, but understood. “Naw, I
know, man,” he said, regretfully.

“I need to get them.”

“Just wait, man. They’ll be fine. Call them.
Tell them you’ll head to them tomorrow.”

Nick knew he couldn’t go it alone. He was
ready to call in his favor from Sleepy, (the convoy was a massive
force and surely there would be volunteers that would assist,) but
he was just too tired right now. The morning prison riot and
subsequent march of the marauders had left him completely drained.
The danger outside was growing moment by moment though, and he
needed to at least check in with his wife and see how she and their
daughter were holding up. He could rest, form a plan, and put it
into action tomorrow.

All around him the liberated criminals
celebrated. Many of the convenience stores hit had been liberated
of their beers. And the liberated liberators liberated the light
libations contained in the various bottles and cans they held in
their hands. Several people came up to Nick and hugged him, and
thanked him.

He graciously accepted, then found a quieter
corner of the garage and called his wife.

* * *

Theresa Lopez quickly picked up the ringing
and rattling ground line in her apartment in anxious anticipation
of who was calling.

“Nicholas?” she asked.

“Terry, it’s me, baby.”

“Where the fuck are you?” she nagged, as if
he was out late on a Friday night without her.

Laura Jane poked her head from her hiding
place in her room. “Is that daddy?”

“Yes, baby,” she replied.

Nick answered her initial question. “I’m at
Jesus’ place. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I—”

Nick cut her off. “Where’s L.J.?”

“She’s here. She’s—”

“She okay?”

“Yeah. She—”

“Let me talk to her.”

Theresa frowned, then said, “What about
me—your
wife
?”

“Terry, just put her on.”

“Laura Jane, your dad wants to talk to
you.”

Laura Jane lit up with a smile and dashed
into the living room. But her joy was squashed unexpectedly as her
mother threw the cordless phone at her in frustration. Not
anticipating the bitter response, the phone hit Laura in the face,
then fell to the floor and broke.

Laura looked at the phone on the floor. The
battery of the cordless had popped off just nearby. She picked it
up.

No dial tone.

No daddy.

She put the battery in, then put the phone up
to her ear.

Dial tone.

Still no daddy.

A small bump formed on her forehead where her
mother hit her with the phone. She began to whimper.

“Mom,” she said, resonating with the sadness
of a Chopin etude. She couldn’t find the words, and was ashamed to
ask why her own mother did that to her. She ran back to her room,
crying.

Too proud to admit her fault, Theresa just
sat on the couch and pouted. She never really had any kind of
patience. She knew she shouldn’t have done what she did, but wasn’t
going to say she was sorry. Laura Jane should have caught it. She
was old enough. And had the phone’s ringer not broken, they would
have received several return call attempts from Nick.

Theresa took another deep breath and leaned
her head back on the couch, listening to Laura Jane cry in the
distant room. Her curly brown hair fell on the cushion like a
shawl, covering the pillow in curls.

Her relaxation was broken by something going
on outside. It was different from the typical noises of the past
couple of days when many tenants were evacuating South Point
Apartments. It wasn’t even a fight like when her neighbor, on his
way out, stomped a monster in the head until it died. No, the
joviality of this ruckus held something dangerous in its song of
joy.

She moved to her blinds and peeked out past
her partitioned patio.

Two looters in bright orange jumpsuits, armed
with shotguns, were kicking down doors and sacking apartments. It
was a fearful sight, and when one of the men caught her peeking
through her blinds, they advanced to her apartment door.

Fortunately, someone else was also
investigating the ruckus and also saw the men:

Officer Mike Runyard.

Watching from his third floor makeshift base,
he was not going to allow two thugs to get away with vandalism and
assault. Sprained ankles swollen like grapefruit or not, he was
going to do something. It was his duty—his promise to the city of
Austin. The rules might have changed, but his job did not.

The men arrived at the door and knocked.
“Little piggy, little piggy, let me in.”

Theresa ran to the kitchen to grab a knife,
yelling, “Laura Jane, hide!” She hoped L.J. heard her. Theresa was
not going to take this threat to herself and her daughter lying
down.

She grabbed the Ginsu butcher knife she had
bought off the Home Shopping Network just three months before, (at
a great bargain.)
“We don’t need that,”
Nick had said, that
same night they ordered it, as he flipped through the channels
while
Lost
broke for commercials.
“Babe, you never
know,”
she had retorted. The purchase would be one in a string
of overdrafts registered at their bank that would drive a wedge
between her and Nick.

But it was about to be the best fifty-five
dollars on top of a thirty-one dollar overdraft they ever lost
money on.

The orange-clad ex-cons taunted their prey.
“Ready or not, we’re going to cum in your mouth!” one yelled as he
kicked open the door in a hailstorm of splinters, not actually
caring whether the occupants inside were male or female.

“Hey!” Mike yelled, stepping out of the
apartment he had holed up in and doing his best to stand straight
and look intimidating. “APD! Stop your shit now!”

It was an impotent command, even suicidal
considering the firepower of the criminals. However, Mike delivered
the words with the same authority he would have if the world had
not changed. But as he shifted his weight a bolt of pain shot
through his body. He flinched and crumpled to the floor.

Both of the orange-clad ex-convicts looked up
at Mike and laughed and pointed.

Dumbyard.

Mike decided to try using his legitimate
injury as bait.

“Go bag that shithead. We’ll fuck him, too,”
said the first man to the second. The first man advanced into
Theresa’s apartment while the second man sprinted up the stairs to
get Mike.

Mike scooted and crawled painfully into his
apartment and slammed the door. He took a position beside the door
in hopes that the man would not expect him to be there.

Dumbyard
.

The first man advanced into Theresa’s
apartment. She feined fear, hiding her ace behind her back, and
leaned against the wall of the kitchen, cut off from escape.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” the man said,
baring a mouthful of missing teeth. He raised his shotgun up in the
air and extended a hungry hand to her shirt to expose her
breasts.

With his eyes on the prize, he never
suspected Theresa to attack, much less with a knife.

Outside, the other man made it to Mike’s
room, twisted the doorknob and took a step inside.

Mike’s guess was right. He entered straight
in and wasn’t ready for the tazer to shock him to the ground
outside the apartment. The bolts of mechanized lightning forced the
man to drop his shotgun. Mike was able to scoot and pick it up.
Mike rose to his feet, not letting off the trigger of the tazer as
he moved to the railing overlooking Theresa’s apartment.

Theresa attacked the arm that held her
assailant’s shotgun, slicing twice at his hand and wrist, then his
arm in rapid succession. Surprised and screaming, he stumbled
backwards. She continued to slice until he stumbled onto her porch,
trying to escape, dripping blood everywhere.

Close to following him out, she was repelled
back into her apartment by a loud blast that sent the man up
against the outside wall, tearing pieces of his orange suit and
turning them red. Then another blast sent a large portion of his
head against the wall, and the man fell to the ground.

Theresa slammed the door, which was futile
considering the doorknob had been knocked off. But she did follow
up by throwing the couch up against the broken door. She stood up
against the wall breathing heavy. The man’s blood dripped down her
bare arms.

She closed her eyes and tried to catch her
breath. She looked down at the Ginsu knife.

We don’t need that,
Nick had said.

She listened, probing to try to hear
something outside.

A shotgun blast broke the silence.

Then silence returned like a specter.

“Laura Jane?!” she called out, “You all
right?!” It was the same question she should have asked before the
whole undead holocaust went down.

“Yes, mommy.” Laura Jane had no idea what
happened, but was glad she was in her room.

Theresa moved to the windowblinds and looked
out.

On the third floor landing stood the cop she
had watched climb up the stairs earlier. He saw her and waved back,
then turned back around.

Theresa thanked God for sending an angel to
her and her daughter.

They were now safe.

And armed.

2:15 PM

North IH-35 near William Cannon

Keri Lawrence had hit the road at around
eleven that morning, but the route that used to take her twenty
minutes to and fro each way was a postapocalyptic nightmare. Some
drivers were trying to remain patient and keep an orderly line, but
many were blazing their own trails on access roads and in
medians.

On the two hour drive to Slaughter Lane, Keri
witnessed gunfights, trucks asserting their automotive power over
other vehicles, dead bodies strewn across roads, and monsters
eating people on the side of the road, in cars, and even on the
highway itself. Most of the time, a driver had the wisdom to run
those beasts over if they were exposed and easy to hit. It had been
a chaotic two hours, and she was thankful she had gassed up at the
Conoco. Despite the line and the chaos around her, things had been
surprisingly orderly while she was there. It was a bit jarring at
times, though. When the vehicle in front of her pulled up to the
gas pump, she was utterly surprised to see the condition of the
driver. His shirt was soaked in blood. His hand was covering a
wound on his shoulder. It was clearly a bite. She watched him gas
up, his back turned to her vehicle, watching the pennies turn to
dollars on the pump. When he finished, he reentered his vehicle and
drove off. Nobody called an ambulance for him and he certainly
hadn’t been gassing up just to drive to a hospital.

Rule change.
But Keri couldn’t yet
completely wrap her mind around the parameters of these new
rules.

She pulled out of the Conoco just in
time—just as gunfire erupted. A bullet popped through the trunk of
her vehicle, lodging in the spare tire. The gunfight was a result
of someone in a vehicle dying from wounds and reanimating. The
person was shot dead by a stranger who witnessed the event. The
family tried to defend their deceased family member by returning
bullets at the stranger, only to set a spark and ignite a massive
fireball that consumed all of them.

Keri had just hit the access road when that
gas pump blew up, followed in sequence by the rest of the pumps.
Conoco was ablaze, as well as most of the people in and around it.
Bodies set aflame ran into the streets before collapsing on the
pavement, splotches of human campfires.

Keri put in a CD of Celine Dion after tiring
of the repeated warnings from FEMA on the radio. Despite the
urgency, it was becoming a little too tedious. The blather was just
too much for her to deal with.

“Dr. Allison Fischer at the Center for
Disease Control has confirmed that the epidemic has spread across
the country and has affected every major city in Texas, New York,
California, Washington D.C., and Washington state. Every other
state in the union, with the exception of Hawaii, has been affected
as well.”

She considered herself lucky just to have
made it to Slaughter Lane. But as the traffic into Austin slowed
down, from slow-and-go to bumper-to-bumper—a typical Austin
morning—to a complete stop at William Cannon, she felt her good
fortune was about to fade away like a wish made at a secluded
fountain.