Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (24 page)

Two people sat in the cabs of each vehicle,
and five more sat in the beds. All were armed to the gills.
Glasspack muffler systems rattled as the drivers revved the
engines, psyching themselves up for the mandated mission to rescue
Nick’s family, as assigned by their general, Hector ‘Sleepy’
Arana.

The gates were opened. The gate guards poured
hot lead from their guns on the zombies outside, and the mini
Mexican army was on their way.

7:47 AM

Living Room of a Murdered Family

Specialist Leo Garrison had a good way of
denying his faults:
Lie.

Lie to yourself. Lie to others.

What happened in the house was not murder,
followed by rape.

No.

It was a rescue operation where the hostages
turned hostile. Restraint was out of the question—they were already
shooting. In fact,
they
shot first. In doing so they killed
a loyal American soldier. So they had to be neutralized. Moreover,
they had died essentially quick and painless. That was a lot more
than most people could ask for, even dying a natural death.

And as for the girl—Andi, her name was—hell,
him and Sgt. Nickson had cut her a break. A lot of times
lawbreakers are given a choice by the judge or magistrate: jail
time or community service. And the girl performed community
service—she
serviced
soldiers during wartime; there was
honor in that. She had done wrong and she needed disciplined for
it. But he and Sgt. Nickson had let her off easy. They allowed her
to exploit her natural assets

(the tight young pussy of quintessential
White America and the audibly gratifying whimpering moans of a
likely virgin)

as a service to the nation instead of capital
punishment. Who else could have assaulted a United States soldier
and got off with the equivalent of a slap on the wrist?

We weren’t that rough with her at all,
really,
he thought.
Its doubtful anybody would even remotely
construe it as rape.

So, everything was justified, and the
incident would never have to be mulled over in his mind ever
again.

Thinking back on other events, though, he saw
a trend.

He did not acquire his position in the
military without screwing over others in his platoon that were
better, more talented, and in truth, a better all-around human
being than he was. By his philosophy, you did not get anywhere in
life by being nice. And the easiest way to get what you wanted was
by being nice not out of sincerity, but solely to secure allies.
For when the day comes when someone sniffs you out for being the
lying bastard you are, you call forth the people you have brought
to your side to defend you against your enemy. The only way to
succeed was not by talent or skill, but to crush your opposition.
Once powerful men are aligned with you, the ultimate foundation of
the alliance is the same:

Lies.

This was probably the reason Sgt. Nickson
liked Spc. Garrison so much. He knew he was full of shit the first
time they met. No favors were ever granted to him. On the contrary,
Garrison wanted so much to be liked by Nickson—to be “friends,”
have a “friendship”—that he did anything for him. Nickson owned
Garrison.

It was now a very appropriate union. With
Rodriguez dead and Talltree AWOL, the only person he could latch on
to was Nickson. And now, in this changing world, they both needed
each other.

“Damn injun. I swear I’m going to gut that
goddamn redskin piece of shit.”

“So... what do we do now?” Garrison
asked.

“I know he’s going after Arnold without us. I
just know it. So it’s easy:

We keep following the trail of dead.”

Garrison sensed potential trouble in the
plan. “You don’t think he’ll set traps for us?”

“Maybe. But we still have a job to do. We
just need to be careful. The longer we wait, the more those things
grow in number. We need to move fast.”

“Right,” Garrison gulped.

The rotting bodies outside of the house were
getting very funky and the stench was drifting inside. Nickson and
Garrison held their breath as much as they could as they prepared
their gear.

Nickson dropped his HK416 and commandeered
Rodriguez’s SAW, hefting it up, getting accustomed to its weight.
It was a heavy son of a bitch—he couldn’t imagine a solid wooden
log being heavier—and he wondered if he could carry it far.

They stood by the front door. After a nod
from Nickson, Garrison opened it and both men exited, guns raised
and ready. They sprayed bullets into the heads of four Virals
loitering on the front lawn.

Watching from the bedroom window and seeing
that her attackers were gone from her home and on the opposite
sidewalk, Andi dashed to the front door and frantically slammed and
locked it.

Get over yourself,
Nickson thought,
rolling his eyes.
You weren’t that good that we’d go back for
more. And you couldn’t stop us if we wanted to.

Fireteam Arnold’s trail was obvious; it
didn’t take long at all to rediscover. What did they ever need
Hiawatha for anyway?

“Wait a second,” Sgt. Nickson said, moving to
one of the bodies.

“What is it?”

“I just want to check something out.”

Garrison supplied cover fire. Though his
skill and firepower was neutralizing the ghouls with ease, it was
evident their numbers had grown. At this pace there simply wasn’t
going to be enough bullets for them all.

Was he actually going to have to ration
ammo?

Sgt. Nickson rolled the body over.

Its head was split open.

“That’s how he got by without drawing
attention to himself with gunfire: split their heads with a blade.
I like this guy.” He rose to his feet. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m
still going to kill him, but I like his style.”

Nickson and Garrison began moving to the
intersection of Riverside and IH-35, blasting any ghoul in their
way. The line of bodies they followed continued down Riverside,
moving across the bridge and to the east.

In fact, the soldiers were enjoying
themselves, almost comparable to ecstasy. Here were walking
corpses, the living dead who offered less than fearsome resistance
when scattered and unconcentrated. Here was their chance to kill a
mob of walking dead—humans who could do no more than walk toward
them and eat lead. They felt unstoppable, like Greek gods
unleashing lightning bolts of death. The bodies that were stacking
up by their holy hands piled on top of bodies that already littered
the highway by way of Fireteam Arnold.

Basking in a kind of orgasmic glory of
unbridled carnage, the men had no idea what lay ahead of them.

7:59 AM

East Riverside Drive

Talltree overlooked Riverside Drive from the
safety of the taco house rooftop. The spring sun had already warmed
the paved Texas landscape and the black, tarry roof surface was
probably doubly hot. It would be unbearable to stay here much
longer, but he couldn’t leave yet. Fortunately the people in the
restaurant below were making no effort to smoke him out.

The sounds of gunfire were getting closer,
and Talltree could make out the movements of the fireteam. To his
surprise, he discerned four distinct figures carrying weapons and
wearing military fatigues. It confused him. Had Cpt. Barrigan sent
out another team? Talltree knew Sgt. Nickson was down to two,
(Rodriquez dead and himself deserted,) and Sgt. Arnold was down to
three, (Goodson dead.)

So who were these four that approached?

He would know soon enough.

* * *

“Stop just a minute,” Sgt. Arnold said.

“Something up, Sergeant?”

“Maybe,” he replied. He looked around. There
were too many Virals that had already been terminated—expertly
terminated. It wasn’t too obvious, but the signs were definitely
there. “Someone has been this way already. Parcells, you said you
were the only one with the code and the GPS, right?”

“Yes, Sergeant. I was the only survivor. But
someone from Fort Hood might be able to track it.”

“Nah, nobody could have gotten here that
fast,” Arnold noted. He took a moment to contemplate the evidence
while his men picked off the ever-encroaching Virals. They were
scattered, but stumbled after the humans from all directions. “I’m
not sure what’s going on here. Something’s definitely up. Follow
me.”

Sgt. Arnold led the team to a small building
just off the road, a costume shop called
Bizzaro
, and
circled around to the rear. The store rested against a steep
hillside, and since his team was attracting a crowd, they were
essentially pinning themselves in behind the store and the hill.
Several Virals drifted toward the soldiers’ new position.

Sgt. Arnold gambled that there would be a
service ladder at the rear of the building. He was right. But he
did not consider that the ladder might be locked with iron grating
to prevent unauthorized access. However, he and his crew were
athletic enough to scale it anyway, using the device as a
foothold.

Up top, the roof at first appeared completely
flat, but after they walked on it they realized it was tilted just
enough to provide drainage. The exterior was angled, though, and
provided a three-foot high rim around the edges that the team could
take cover behind and stay out of sight.

“Everyone stay low,” Sgt. Arnold said,
pulling out his binoculars. Thankfully there was a lid above the
lenses to prevent them from flashing reflected light at distant
targets.

He scanned the area.

“Sarge,” Knight said. “What’s going on?”

“The road we were on,” Arnold replied,
pausing while he refocused his binoculars, “It felt like a trail.
Too many dead in a line.”

“Leftovers of another military op?” Noble
asked.

“Maybe,” Arnold said. “Let’s just sit tight
for a little while.”

Spc. Parcells took a moment to check out the
position of the Hummer again. His eyes widened as he gazed at the
LCD display. “Sergeant, it’s the package. It’s moving.”

“What?”

But before anyone had a chance to check out
the GPS, gunshots were heard. Some was machine gun fire, but the
rest was the rapid fire of what they all recognized as the
malicious song of a SAW.

“
Son of a bitch
,” Arnold muttered. “Of
all the people Barrigan could send...”

* * *

“Hey, check it out. Just like at the house,”
Spc. Garrison said, pointing at the dozen Virals clawing away at
the side of a nearby building. The sign in front read
‘
Bizarro
’ in gothic lettering. The Virals’ heads were tilted
lustfully as they salivated for the fresh meat surely concealed
within.

“Looks like Arnold and his men found
themselves a place to stay overnight,” Sgt. Nickson said. “And here
I thought we’d find them in a hidey-hole like that fucking coward
Hussein.” He noticed the black leather lingerie displayed in the
window, and smirked. “They’re probably having a circle-jerk right
now.”

“Why—they could just gang-bang Noble,”
Garrison added, which prompted him to muse,
they’re no better
than us
.

“Too true,” Nickson agreed. “Can you imagine
that pale bitch all decked out in those black dominatrix duds?”

Actually, Garrison
could
imagine it,
and he concentrated on the image a little too long.

Nickson chuckled. “Let’s do this.”

They advanced on the store, exterminating
every Viral in their path. Even though in most instances only one
bullet in the brain stem would terminate a hostile, they were
holding their triggers well over a second per target—and Garrison’s
HK416 alone fired fourteen rounds a second. Virals’ heads were
getting punctuated to the point they would be missing entirely,
their bodies quivering underneath, showered in blood and brain
matter, dancing the dance of death until they were finally allowed
to collapse and cease to exist.

* * *

Gazing intently on the GPS, Spc. Parcells
whispered, “Hey, what street is this?”

“Riverside,” Noble whispered back.

Parcells held up the GPS to display to
Arnold.

Sgt. Arnold’s eyes widened.

Below the store, the zombies were being
leveled with cruel efficiency by Sgt. Nickson and Spc. Garrison.
But a rumbling even louder and more severe was taking over. Noisy
Glasspacks could be heard—the urban war cry of vehicles revving
coupled with sporadic gunfire.

Sgt. Arnold turned to his crew and asked,
“What the fuck is that?”

* * *

Spc. Garrison let off the trigger of his
HK416, ears ringing, and turned to Sgt. Nickson. He asked, “What
the fuck is that?”

* * *

The people in the restaurant watched the
vehicles pull into their parking lot. The manager said, “
Que
chingados es esto?
”

* * *

Spc. Daniel Talltree peered over the edge of
the restaurant’s roof. He mumbled, “
Naho ki:ken?
”

* * *

Like modern day bandidos, the convoy of
Mexican insurgents pulled into the
Taqueria Vallarta #3
. A
pair of cholos exited from the bed of one of the trucks and ran to
the door, blasting two zombies on the way. One man banged on the
door with his open palm, hoping the people would open it for him.
The other cholo flashed cash to entice the inhabitants further. The
owner of the restaurant, recognizing the thug as a friend and
regular customer, allowed him inside. The thug placed two crisp
hundreds on the counter and politely said, “Fifty breakfast tacos
and sodas, please.”