Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (31 page)

Sleepy’s plan was working flawlessly.

Three other gang-driven vehicles passed the
vehicles defending Sleepy and Nick and drove into the interior of
the breached parking area. But they were promptly halted by heavy
machine gun fire and rocket propelled grenades that blew the
vehicles to pieces.

The soldiers retreated to the rear of the
facility, where they were already setting up a defensive
position.

Zombies that had been futilely shaking and
clawing at the chain link fence for many hours were now filing in
through the breach. Smelling the warm and sweaty flesh behind and
on top of the large trucks defending Sleepy’s vehicle, the ghouls
advanced.

The thugs were waiting with pipes, machetes,
and firearms.

“
Bring it on, pus-bags
,” one of them
said.

* * *

Having traversed several Viral-congested
blocks before finally finding an unclustered spot just across the
highway from the raid, Sgt. Arnold ordered his men to lay low while
he investigated the skirmish through his binoculars.

What he saw disturbed him.

Thugs and Virals and souped-up Trucks of Doom
were bottlenecked in and around the entire main gate and the entire
assembly was being bombarded with machine gun fire and RPGs.

He lowered his binoculars and muttered,
“Damn. That camp is finished—and so’s our Humvee.”

“Sergeant, we
have
to retrieve that
suitcase,” Parcells said. “We—”

“I
know
, Parcells,” Arnold huffed
impatiently. “I was just thinking out loud. Remember how I told you
to be chill? Do that for me.” He thought a moment, but knew his
chances of capturing the Humvee were diminishing with each passing
second. “We’ve got to let those soldiers know we’re here and what’s
at stake.”

“More RPG rounds are going to be coming any
second now that the soldiers have regrouped,” Knight said.

“It’s a war zone, Knight,” Arnold said. “Our
Humvee is getting swallowed whole.”

“It’s not that bad,” Parcells said.

Arnold ignored the comment.

“It’ll be worse if we don’t move now,” Knight
added.

Sgt. Arnold fully understood that fact
already, but he wasn’t going to send his men headlong into the
fray. It would be suicide. There was no tactical move evident with
their current resources and numbers that would secure victory for
his team. With a horde of Virals all around the camp and
infiltrating within, a gang of thugs whose responses would be
unpredictable, and a small unit of soldiers remaining in the
facility, it was a simple numbers game.

No one jumps into the whirlwind of a
tornado and expects to live
.

Sgt. Arnold wondered if Napoleon, Alexander,
or even Erwin Rommel ever faced this kind of tactical mindblock.
Granted, they operated on a much larger scale than he was now. But
the science was the same. Arnold had taken his men this far and
now, due to the unexpected balls-out assault by the gang, there was
nothing he could do. Failure was never an option for him. It was
rare that he failed at anything in his life. And when he did, he
quickly fixed the situation and the failure.

Behind the fireteam, an overexcited
flesh-eater groaned in delight as he edged to the now exposed
soldiers. Had the creature not vocalized, he might have made it to
the group and filled his mouth with flesh and blood. As it was, the
trained killers responded quickly.

“We’ve been outed, ya’ll,” Arnold said,
taking his combat knife and stabbing the living dead monster in the
head. It dropped like a sandbag. The scuffle was attracting a lot
of unwanted attention, and a small gaggle of ghouls began their
slow advance to the team. They were forcing Arnold’s hand, and he
had nothing.

“Wait,” Noble said. “Let me see those
binoculars.” The sergeant handed them to her, though she could
already see what she was looking for through the darkness of the
south Austin night, stranded and stuck in the middle of the access
road near the apartment complex.

“It’s a gamble, guys. I think we should take
it,” Noble said finally.

“What are you thinking, Noble?” Arnold asked,
ready to consider whatever option her already proven
tactical-minded brain had conjured. When no answer was forthcoming
in the few precious seconds that followed, he stabbed another Viral
in the skull and barked, “Spit it out!”

“Just follow me,” Noble said. “I’ll tell you
on the way there.”

* * *

As Fireteam Arnold moved into the uncertainty
of Noble’s plan, the remnants of their rivals were suffering on the
custom hunting vehicle. Blood and flesh dripped from the mangled
nose of Sgt. Nickson as he continued to adjust his bonds, close to
freeing himself. Garrison threw up on himself, the concussion of
striking the pole suddenly affecting him, playing games with his
constitution. Vomit and blood fell across his shirt in chunks and
globs like a child spilling a soggy bowl of artificially colored
and flavored cereal.

“Let them kill me, Sarge,” Garrison begged,
whimpering in pain, his voice lisping due to his missing front
teeth. “Please.”

Sgt. Nickson, close to releasing his
vengeance, gave Garrison a taste of his rage. “Stop being a little
cunt bitch, Leo.”

* * *

The civilian contingent of the camp was
beyond terrified, and Officer Mike Runyard had also been close to
losing his wits before he got his head straight and kept focused.
He watched the melee from the third floor landing, just outside the
apartment he had been calling home. Other residents of South Point
Apartments, both new and old, were scurrying all around him like
The Flash
from the comic books, and at first he felt he was
trapped in slow motion like in a bad dream.

Down below, a street gang was penetrating the
camp’s interior. It was obvious. It shouldn’t be happening; the
armed soldiers should have stopped them before they had advanced
even a single step. But the soldiers were falling back—actually
falling back
from an onslaught by a group of mere
ruffians—and seemed only now to be in the process of regrouping on
the other side of the parking lot.

That
had been the catalyst that set
off the civilians, Mike knew. They realized their safety was not
assured as promised and all that was left was panic. And though the
criminals were a legitimate threat, the people in the camp knew the
zombies would soon be next to infiltrate their police state safe
haven. People were running to their apartments and boarding up
their doors. Some became bold enough to try to scale the fence and
take their chances with the zombies on the other side. Floodlights
were getting shot out, (by the gang, Mike assumed,) covering large
swathes of the complex in total darkness. Friendlies and enemies
alike became shadows, obscured from identification by the lack of
light.

One floor down, on the second floor landing,
Theresa held her daughter by the hand. Mike tried calling out to
her, but she either couldn’t hear him or wasn’t listening. Mike
assumed the latter: Theresa wasn’t going to let herself be
distracted from her child for even a second.

He could pick out her and her daughter’s
voice from the myriad of others, though.

“Mommy, what’s going on?”

“Just get in the house, L.J.,” he heard
Theresa answer in a very in charge tone of voice. She ushered her
daughter into the living room of their apartment. There was a Ginsu
knife in her hand. There was already flecks of blood on it that had
not been completely wiped off from the earlier attack by
ex-cons.

Theresa closed her door.

“No, no, no. This isn’t going to work,” Mike
said softly, thinking out loud. He turned to Keri. “If we lock
ourselves inside, we’re toast. If and when those people leave—” he
pointed at the gang below, “—those dead people are coming in.”

Keri swallowed hard, because she knew what he
was going to say next.

“Keri, we gotta run.”

She gripped the railing hard with both hands
and gazed at the chaos below. She was stunned, almost catatonic.
Within minutes, their safe haven had turned into a disaster area.
The scurrying people below made her think of Godzilla movies when
the public took to the streets to escape the mystical flame attack
of the monster, its heels stomping buildings and crushing cars. She
saw the zombies stumbling into the complex and assaulting the
makeshift barricade of cars. It was an easy estimation to know the
zombies had the advantage by sheer numbers.

South Point Apartments was going to be
overrun. Amidst the panic of everyone around them, she knew she had
to be smart about this. She had to measure her choices and make an
informed decision.

But the choice was obvious.

She reached for Mike’s hand. He latched onto
it with his own and held it in a warm embrace. Both hands trembled,
but once they were in contact with each other, the effect became
like two tuning forks resonating harmoniously.

There was so much to lose now, infinitely
more than yesterday or the day before. It scared them.

Neither expected to find love. Not in a FEMA
camp. Certainly not in the middle of the apocalypse. And though no
true physical affection had been shared, the goodness of their
souls had mixed and mingled over their short time together—a time
that was quickly a thing of the past, replaced

now with a sad uncertainty.

Mike’s ankles had been mended and were
healing. But he was not running any marathons any time soon.

“We’re a team, right?” Keri asked, the
feeling of doom placing itself in her throat, dropping to her
stomach. The bitter pill.

For a brief moment, Mike allowed a tiny
portion of the fear inside of him to manifest. He whispered,
“Please don’t leave me.”

Keri gazed upon him with sympathetic eyes. He
had the visage of a man thinking he might be left alone. The sad
gaze of a vulnerable man. Keri tried to ignore the sense of
impending death her reason was prescribing to her soul. “We’re a
team, Mike. We live together, or…” She didn’t want to finish the
sentence.

As the cries of panic and death filled the
air below, their souls were pulling at each other. It was a song of
desire, begging their physical selves to fulfill their soul’s
secret wish to press their lips to each other, even for only a
moment. The right moment was there, but they let it pass, their
minds reminding them to preserve and protect their bodies from the
terror infiltrating the camp.

“Help me down the stairs,” Mike said,
immediately regretting letting the moment pass as the two began
their slow descent into terror.

* * *

If Sleepy had turned his head to the right as
he ran behind Nick Lopez up the flight of stairs to the second
floor landing, he would have seen a uniformed A.P.D. Officer being
assisted down the stairs from the third floor.

But he hadn’t looked. His attention was on
fulfilling his promise to the man who had orchestrated his prison
escape, not on the man who had put him there in the first
place.

Tiny followed behind Sleepy, escorting him as
Sleepy in turn escorted Nick to the front door of his home.

Theresa spotted her husband—her one and only
love—from her window. A feeling of immense joy filled her heart,
like a first kiss or a winning lottery ticket. Their eyes
connected.

She ran to the door and flung it open, and
there they stood facing each other.

In that moment, all their frustrations with
each other, every grudge and gripe, every angry argument melted
away. All they could feel as they fell into the other’s waiting
arms was their eternal love. Never had an embrace felt so good, so
warm, so safe. In the middle of a doomed world, a sad holocaust of
death and woe, love resonated again.

* * *

The numbers game around the makeshift
barricade was swinging in favor of the zombies. A section of the
blockade defending Sleepy’s ride was breached. A cholo was jumped
by two zombies, while a third bypassed the meal for the hole in the
fence left by Nick and Sleepy. The ghoul was making a play for the
less aggressive inhabitants of the FEMA camp. And though it was
quickly put down with a headshot, it signaled a turning of the tide
for the ever increasing and encroaching zombie mob.

In desperation, Ducky and Mousetrap opened
the military Hummer, frantically searching for more weapons.
Clicking open every apparent compartment and hold in the interior,
they accidentally discovered that the back seat lifted up,
revealing a hidden stowing area. Inside was a shiny metal
suitcase.

Ducky cried out, “Oh, shit! Money!”

“
Come que money, pendejo
,” Mousetrap
replied. “There’s probably guns in it. Open it.”

“Way ahead of you,” Ducky said, flicking the
latches.

Expecting a weapon, the men got more than
they bargained for. Once the lid was fully upright, a small
keyboard inside lit up, and a digital timer above it flickered
on.

Bright, blood-red numbers on a black screen:
30:00.00

Thirty minutes.

The numbers blinked twice, then began
counting down.

Ducky and Mousetrap turned their heads to
each other with mouths agape. A moment later they were both
scrambling from the vehicle shouting, “Bomb! Bomb!”

The members of the makeshift blockade took no
time leaving their battle stations and retreating to their cars.
With no more resistance from the thugs, the position was quickly
overrun by the zombies. And though the cholos were secured in their
cars, the numbers around them were punching and clawing at their
windows.

* * *

Floating in near-Earth orbit, a satellite was
finally receiving the signal from the briefcase. Small boosters
blew flames, slowly shifting and repositioning the satellite to its
newly programmed coordinates.