Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (20 page)

The problem was this fireteam had no plan B;
no contingency plan if trouble came along. They were told to drive
to the capitol from Fort Hood, given clear instructions what to do,
and directions on how to neutralize Virals. They were ready for
civilians and the Virals. They were not ready for the two
armor-piercing bullets that popped through the bullet-proof glass
and punched holes in the faces of the driver and the soldier riding
shotgun. Almost nine years of service snuffed out in the blink of
an eye. The vehicle jumped the curb, the accelerator still pressed
to the floor by the weight of the dead driver’s foot, engine
roaring, and crashed into a concrete wall surrounding the parking
lot of Brackenridge Hospital.

Specialist John Parcells screamed like an
elementary schoolgirl, unprepared for the surprise attack and
subsequent wreck. However, the uninjured soldier next to him kept
his wits and grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him out of the
back of the vehicle. He shouted, “Take cover and return fire,
Parcells!”

John the Greenhorn fell face-first on the
pavement. He looked up to see his partner ventilated by a series of
gunshots that toppled him over right in front of him.

The man turned to him, and in his final
breath changed the orders, mouthing two words: “Run, dipshit.”

Rule Change.

John knew running would be a clear violation
of their objective, which was to deliver the cargo. He quickly
deduced, however, that dying while defending the cargo and not
warning the officials of the situation would have more dire
consequences.

Gunfire clapped in the night and whizzed past
John’s head like angry bees. He had enough sense to maintain
possession of his M4. He scampered away from the ambush, lost in
every way, not knowing what direction he was running, but knowing
he needed to run. His desperation was fueled by his need to
survive.

Specialist John Parcells was one of the four
soldiers in charge of delivering the crucial piece of a two-piece
puzzle—a puzzle that, when linked together, was plan B of the Texas
Reclamation Plan.

A clearly Mexican
grito
resonated as
the team of ambushers, a small cadre of troublemakers from the
encampment of escaped prisoners blocks away at Lopez Auto Repair
and Custom Cars, took possession of the Hummer and all its
contents, including the crucial piece of Plan B of the TxRP.

12:10 AM

Cesar Chavez and Congress Street Bridge

Fireteam Arnold, though gloriously AWOL, did
not allow their adrenaline to overwhelm them. They had dealt with
their impromptu scramble with the efficiency of a well-oiled
machine. Advancing up the sidewalk one by one and head-shotting
Virals as soon as they appeared, leaving grossly disfigured faces
in their wake, it was no time at all before the team was at the
mouth of the Congress bridge.

“Do we keep moving, Sarge?” Spc. Knight
asked, in reference to the severely limited avenues of retreat the
bridge presented.

“We keep moving, soldier,” Sgt. Arnold said.
“Let’s see what we can see on the other side.”

The Congress bridge had turned into a
deathtrap for the citizens of Austin very early in the outbreak. It
took only one stalled car to prompt the chaos. After that, panicked
drivers smashed into each other, and in the congestion it took only
one Viral to set off a chain reaction of carnage. What Fireteam
Arnold was looking at now, under the scant moonlight, was a maze
with narrow passages beset with protruding, twisted shards of sharp
metal. Several ambling Virals roamed the makeshift corridors
between wrecked cars like the ghosts in Pac-Man.

“Christ, what a mess,” Spc. Noble said,
wrinkling her nose at several dead bodies near an overturned Ford
Tempo.

“Keep a sharp eye on the Virals, ya’ll,” Sgt.
Arnold said.

The team began to advance through the mess,
quietly and strategically.

“Should we check the cars for survivors?”
Knight asked.

“Negative, Knight. Too dangerous.”

And it’s doubtful anyone survived
this
, he thought.

* * *

Sgt. Nickson scaled the last rung and set
foot on the scaffolding at the very top of the lookout
tower—technically designated Tower B—that had been erected at the
edge of the camp.

The young guard on duty had heard him coming,
and eyed him curiously as at first his head appeared, then the rest
of him. Recognizing him as a superior, the guard stood at
attention.

“Sergeant.”

“At ease, son,” Sgt. Nickson said. “I’m just
out for some air.”

“Very good, Sergeant.” The guard sat back
down on his stool.

Nickson stood next to the soldier, put his
hands on the railing, and allowed his eyes to play over the
landscape. It was too dark to make out many details.

“Much activity?” he asked.

“Some, Sergeant,” the guard replied. “But
nothing to raise the alarm about.”

“Stand up, son. I want to see for
myself.”

“Sergeant?”

“Stand up.”

The guard quickly hopped to his feet and
stood aside. Sgt. Nickson requisitioned his seat and swung the butt
of the rifle steadied on the railing against his shoulder. He
peered through the scope.

It took much effort and much teeth gritting
to finally locate Fireteam Arnold. He found them on Congress Street
Bridge, stealthily scampering one by one past car after car in
standard small squad formation, a zig-zag pattern that covered all
angles. They were coolly and expertly popping Virals in the
foreheads as they advanced, each member taking turns covering the
others’ rears. None of the Virals were able to even get close.

The young soldier tried to brown-nose.
“Anything I can help you with, Sergeant?”

“Don’t ask me any questions, boy,” Sgt.
Nickson growled, focusing the telescopic scope. “Well, well, well.
I see you have allowed Virals to roam unchecked. You were ordered
to keep clear a wide perimeter.”

“Sergeant, I—”

“Shut your trap,” Nickson said, steadying the
crosshairs. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He adjusted his breathing.

* * *

“Over here! Over here!” yelled a man from his
car, opening the door with his hands raised to the advancing
fireteam. He stepped out and cautiously stepped forward.

Sgt. Arnold scanned him for trouble, then
approached him with his gun lowered. His charges stood guard around
him.

“
Thank God
. Thank God you guys are
here,” the man said. He was tall, freckle-faced and had red hair.
“I thought I was going to die in that car. There was no way I was
getting out on my own. Whew!”

“I’d like to tell you you’re safe, sir, but
the shit’s pretty deep right now. You have a weapon?”

“No.”

Sgt. Arnold pulled out his sidearm. “You know
how to use this?”

The man gawked at the gun, looking stunned.
“Heck no. I’ve never fired a gun before in my life.”

“Well, shit, man. What good are you?” Sgt.
Arnold chuckled.

Spc. Noble put down a Viral several cars down
as the men talked. Knight put down another.

“Would you stab a guy if it meant your life
or his?” Sgt. Arnold asked.

“Sure, I guess,” the man said.

“Well, here.” Arnold re-holstered his sidearm
and bent over to pull a combat knife from his boot.

The bullet intended for him missed. It shot
by and punched through the skull of the nameless redheaded man.
Sgt. Arnold was sprinkled with blood as he and his soldiers took
cover.

“Holy shit!” Knight shouted. “What was
that?!”

“Everybody just sit tight,” Arnold said.
“Just breathe, ya’ll. Chill is the word of the day.”

* * *

Sgt. Nickson released the spent bullet from
the bolt-action rifle. The hot empty casing tapped the young
watchman on his exposed arm.

“Ouch,” the soldier said, flinching and
shaking his hand.

Nickson grinned, then looked back through the
scope.

* * *

“What’s the plan, Sergeant?” Noble asked.
Sgt. Arnold was searching the tops of the buildings around Cesar
Chavez for signs of the sniper. The dark night was not helping at
all.

“Just sit tight, guys. Just sight tight,” he
whispered. He pulled out his binoculars.

His intuition was prompting him to feel
anxious, to move. Suddenly feeling exposed, he concentrated
intently. He scanned across the street and tried to check each
building. His eyes were failing him at the moment, and was hoping
that tuning his ears to the world around him would help. The angle
the shot had come from was not jiving with him. Something caught
his eye as he scanned across the street to another building,
skimming past the capitol.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned.
“The watchtower.”

A bullet flew in a straight and deliberate
line toward its target.

Sgt. Arnold ducked, hearing the shot fired,
knowing the bullet was faster than the sound. He had
milliseconds.

Before he could be totally out of sight, the
bullet hit his helmet. It was at such an angle that—combined with
Sgt. Arnold’s movement—caused the bullet to ricochet off in another
direction. It knocked him on his ass, though. He regained his
senses and scampered back to his hiding spot.

“No problem, no problem,” he said, as cool as
the Fonz. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Sniper Man is firing from the
watchtower at the capitol. That means we got
made
.”

“Are you okay, Sarge?” Knight asked.

“Oh, I’m just dandy. My helmet on the other
hand...” he said, feeling for the dent. “Love your helmets, ya’ll.
Love your helmets.”

The group had a chuckle. Even a nearby Viral
seemingly groaned in appreciation. But Knight capped it, knocking
it to the ground.

“Listen, we’re almost a good klick from the
tower and there’s enough cars criss-crossing this damn bridge that
we could make it to the other side if we move very low and very
carefully to Riverside. You got it?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“All right. Stay close, stay low, watch for
Virals, and let’s move.”

12:47 AM

Lopez Auto Repair and Custom Cars

“I swear, Sleepy, I shot the thing five times
in the heart, and it did not go

down.”

“I know,
compa
, I saw you.”

The rogue gallery that now made up the auto
repair shop were all sharing their stories with each other. It was
very late, and many had already gone to sleep. Others had joined in
some late night revelry.

Nick Lopez sat away from the group. Anxious
about the safety of his wife and daughter, his stomach churned and
twisted in his belly, rattling him like a kid lost in a store. It
was the kind of tension that arises when a priority is not met, or
a deadline is looming and no work has been done. It was hard to get
Sleepy’s attention, as many of the men were looking to the man for
leadership, conversation, and guidance. But Nick hung around,
waiting for that one opportunity to cash in on his favor.

As the midnight hour ticked away, ready to
shift to the second official hour of the new day, Sleepy was ready
to turn in. Nick jumped at the chance.

“Hey, Sleepy.”

“Nico.
Que paso, buey
?”

“Hey. I want to ask for your help.”

“What’s up?”

Nick explained the situation to Sleepy
regarding his wife and child, using perfect Tex-Mex: “
Mi esposa
y mi nina esta en un apartamento en el sur de Austin, cerca de
thirty-five
.”

“And you want my help?”

“
Si, mon
.”

Sleepy was quick and decisive. After all, he
had a whole sea of minions to choose from. “
Ay
, I’ll make
sure you have some help to get there and back.
Muy facil
.
’K?”

“’K.”

“
Bueno
, bye,” Sleepy said. He retired
to a prepared dark corner of the garage where dozens of people were
already asleep.

Nick smiled. He turned around and, having
prepared it earlier in the evening, moved to his own sleeping spot.
The blanket was from the prison and was very thin, which was
especially noticeable when it was placed on the grimy floor of the
garage. The stern scent of gas and oil filled the room, especially
along the floor.

But before Nick and Sleepy could settle in, a
crew that had carjacked a military Humvee pulled into the garage
with their prize. Frenzied cries of celebration were heard all
around.

Standing nearby, Sleepy called to Nick,
“There’s your ride
and
your crew. Hardcore killers,
buey
. They’ll take care of you.”

1:15 AM

Riverside Drive west of IH-35

The trio that made up Fireteam Arnold, having
evaded the sniper, proceeded carefully down Riverside. The streets
were dimly lit and ravaged by the anarchy of the day. Every so
often a stiff breeze would hit them in the face. Under normal
circumstances, an evening Texas breeze was welcome in the early
days of spring; a soothing stroke of fresh air, fleeting
refreshment from the heat. But with the plague overtaking the city,
some of those cool blasts were perfumed with the funk of the dead,
the pungent aroma clouding the central Texas landscape.

Virals sprinkled the surroundings, and
despite the fireteam effectively using urban hiding spots while
blasting ghouls, there was small groups of them constantly in
pursuit. For blocks all around, the dead things seemed to know in
which direction to congregate. It was as if their hearing was
amplified. And, as Fireteam Arnold observed, the Virals acted
smarter at night. Wiser. The night was somehow heightening their
sense of direction, their greed for flesh, their perception.
Perhaps it was the cooler temperature. Or perhaps it was some
resident evil in the very nature of darkness itself, a ghostly
power that generated some kind of energy for the dead. They
stumbled in faster strides, almost walking as a normal human would,
at first glance indistinguishable from a living, breathing
civvie.