Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (32 page)

* * *

Spc. Daniel Talltree continued to watch.

In his crosshairs, having patiently feigned
helplessness for the longest time, Sgt. Nickson had no choice but
to drop the façade and wiggle completely free of his bonds at last.
Virals were swarming the vehicle he was on and the thugs had given
up trying to fight them off. He jumped down from his iron stake and
worked to free Spc. Garrison. With skillful efficiency, he cut his
maimed battle buddy loose and together they ran into the FEMA camp,
gouging several zombies that stood in their path.

“Nice one, Sergeant,” Talltree said. “Well
done.”

He felt omnipotent as he watched the
apartment complex fall apart. But the longer he watched through the
scope, the more he felt his feeling of power shift to a feeling of
responsibility. As the scope danced from head to head, he knew he
could pick off anyone he wanted. But he would never do that. He was
not an animal like the members of his former fireteam. He still had
honor.

He watched as the remaining soldiers who did
not make it to the rear makeshift pillbox in time fought
side-by-side with the civilians against the ghouls. The zombies
were infiltrating the camp, and though the humans were achieving
mixed results, their numbers were finite. The zombies were not. For
every five or six zombies smashed, bashed, or burned, a human was
caught by surprise, bitten, and infected.

Or consumed completely.

Talltree took notice of a large diesel
vehicle traveling swiftly through the darkness, heading like a
meteor to the complex. The engine growled like an iron bulldog. The
white lights of the vehicle split the black night like a holy
weapon.

“What do we have here?”

Things were looking very bleak for the camp
when suddenly the rumbling eighteen-wheeled savior delivered a
temporary, yet vengeful solace, slamming through the wrecked gate
and bouncing zombies into the air.

It was Fireteam Arnold.

The truck crashed into the escape vehicles,
rattling the cholos in their cars, effectively blocking their means
of vehicular escape.

Talltree poised himself.

He would be getting another shot soon.

* * *

Ducky and Mousetrap were bounced around in a
random vehicle they had taken shelter in amid the zombie tidal
wave, trying to escape what they thought was a ticking bomb.

“What the fuck was that?!” Ducky asked,
upside-down in the driver’s seat.

“A fuckin’ trailer fuckin’ crashed the
fuckin’ gate!”

“Fuck!”

They repositioned themselves and looked
through the rear window. All they could see was the front grill of
an eighteen-wheeler with a Texas State Flag airbrushed on it. It
took up the whole of their view, like an overboard sailor’s final
image burned into his retinas of shark’s jaws ready to devour
him.

* * *

Though it was an impulsive strategy, the
eighteen-wheeler mowed down the zombie mob and seriously impeded
further penetration from the living dead through the gate. The box
trailer stuffed the entrance, and zombies could now only slowly
trickle in. It was a big chance for the humans to take control
again.

Bounding from the cab of the truck like the
military punishers they were, Fireteam Arnold retook the parking
lot, leveling the surprised flesheaters like a pro-bowler taking
down ten pins for his seventh strike.

“We’ll rendezvous with you in five,” Sgt.
Arnold said. “Tell those soldiers to stop shooting ASAP.”

Spc. Noble nodded. “Understood,
Sergeant.”

Arnold nodded back.

He and Spc. Parcells dashed to the Hummer,
while Noble and Knight ran to the barricaded bivouac at the rear of
the lot where the remaining FEMA forces were holding out.

Though many of the cholos were mad at Sgt.
Arnold for wrecking their cars, none offered physical resistance as
the two soldiers approached the Hummer. They could only watch with
awkward, confused expressions, like they had just been pulled over
by a cop and were waiting for the cop to approach their
vehicle.

Side by side, Sgt. Arnold and Spc. Parcells
opened the door to the Hummer, their destiny moments away from
being fulfilled.

They both saw the suitcase opened and ticking
down.

“Shit,” Parcells said. “Somebody had to go
and open it.”

“Well, turn it off,” Sgt. Arnold said, almost
laughing.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Parcells said, taking to the
keyboard below the timer. His fingers glided across the keys like
ballroom dancers doing the jitterbug as he entered a series of
complicated codes to disarm the beacon.

Arnold leaned against the Hummer, moving ever
so slightly enough that the bullet that was sent from Talltree’s
rifle did not punch him in the face, but Parcells’ face
instead.

* * *

Talltree leapt to his feet, exasperated. He
stood erect and clenched his rifle tightly. His knuckles were
turning white.

“That man has a Guardian,” he said
softly.

In stark realization, Talltree humbly turned
his head up to the night sky and closed his eyes. He breathed the
air deep into his lungs.

What are you saying to me?

* * *

The bullet hit square into Spc. Parcell’s
ear, hitting at such an angle that it bore a tunnel through the
R-complex at the base of the spine, then ricocheted off the
interior of the helmet as it exited his head. It bounced back into
the brain, tunneling through and hitting the interior of the
forehead just hard enough to jut out. Blood dripped down from his
forehead in a straight line, then branched into two paths at the
bridge of his nose.

As Sgt. Arnold looked at the trail of blood
on the face of the assassinated soldier, he couldn’t help but be
reminded of a wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey.

As if by instinct, Parcells was continuing to
type in a heroic yet futile effort to turn off the beacon. All at
once he ceased his efforts and collapsed lifelessly into Sgt.
Arnold’s arms.

* * *

In the cold silence of space, the satellite
arrived at its new coordinates. A miniature silo door slid open. A
missile maneuvered into the ready position.

Its target had been painted. No abort command
had been received.

Unwavering in loyalty and unquestioning of
orders, it fulfilled its duty.

The missile fired.

* * *

Soldiers allowed Noble and Knight to enter
their stronghold.

Noble cut through the formalities: “We’re
with the military at the capitol. We’re here to secure a security
threat in that Hummer. So stop shooting at it!”

Knight saw several weapons that caught his
eye. “You have flamethrowers?”

“We’re not allowed to use them on
civilians.”

“Those things out there aren’t civilians,
broseph. Enemy combatants, maybe. But not civilians.” He hoisted
one of the heavy fuel packs onto his back. “There’s one more. Who
wants it?”

* * *

“I’m sorry, kid,” Sgt. Arnold said, looking
into Parcells’ empty eyes.

Knowing the body would be disrespectfully
defiled by the zombies if no action was taken otherwise, he heaved
it up onto his shoulders and stuffed it into the Hummer. He climbed
in right after.

It was hopeless. The parking lot was
refilling with Virals despite the initial sweep. Several of the
creatures began punching and clawing at the Hummer doors.

To Sgt. Arnold’s initial horror, streams of
flames lit up the darkness around the vehicle like vengeful dragons
defending treasure from their dark caves. The marauding black
knights—the zombies—were set aflame. Like walking torches burning
under the twinkling eyes of the dark spring sky, the Virals
stumbled, tripped, and shuffled in flames, setting others on fire.
Howls of pain and, perhaps, freedom, rang around the parking lot
among the torched beasts. Gripping at the fences of the camp, their
eyes, flesh, and brains melting at the hands of the eternally cruel
and unforgiving fire elementals, the ghouls collapsed slowly, their
already decaying flesh submitting to the punishment unleashed by
the two hellbringers.

“Well done, boys,” Sgt. Arnold said with
pride.

Knight and Noble attacked the two breaches at
the entrance on opposite sides of the trailers, setting the
impatient line of zombies on fire. It was serving a dual purpose,
as the zombies seemed to be repulsed by the flames, fearful of the
red rage, fleeing the skin-melting heat. The smoldering stacks of
the dead were now keeping the potential enemies at bay. And though
the disturbance and their satanic death howls were attracting more
to the scene, none were making efforts to advance.

Civilians and soldiers and thugs alike were
now starting to take control, eliminating all the zombies that
breached the gate.

But then what?
Sgt. Arnold
wondered.

These people depended on the government. On
the military. They had faith it would help them. FEMA and Homeland
Security commandeered this apartment complex to use for their
protection. Now it was going to serve as their graveyard. No one
knew about the cold, heartless beacon counting down to their doom.
If nothing was said or done, a majority of these people might just
stick around after their short-lived victory, destined to die at
the hands of whatever method the diabolical tool counting down was
concocted for.

If the zombies didn’t get them first, that
is.

They needed someone to lead them.

But Sgt. Arnold knew that that person could
not be him.

He looked at the metal case. It was as if
each tick of the clock inside was a mocking laugh at him. A
dare.

The people would manage without him.
Certainly they would work together if it meant their survival.
Maybe even, if given the opportunity, someone would rise to the
occasion and lead them to safety. It would be an exodus of this
strange company of south Austinites away from the impending doom
ticking away in the Hummer.

The apartment complex would be saved. But
what about the people in the IRS? What about the others holed up
all over town?

Why did he, Sgt. Arnold, have this burden to
bear?

Because I’m the only one who can
.

He wasn’t sure if he had only thought it, or
if he had said it aloud.

He was Sgt. Martin Arnold of the United
States Army. He had a job to do to protect these people in the
South Point Apartments FEMA camp, in the very least, and he was
going to do it.

He grabbed the microphone to the Humvee’s
external announce system as the countdown continued its relentless
march to zero.

“Ladies and gentlemen. This is Sgt. Arnold of
the United States Army. It is imperative that all persons in this
facility evacuate immediately to any and all available vehicles. If
you do not have a vehicle, please enter the trailer of the Mack
Truck. Drive south to San Marcos. It is imperative that all
civilian and military personnel cooperate, for the love of Christ,
in this evacuation. We are all in grave danger of a cataclysm that
will strike in...” He looked at the case. “—In just over
twenty-five minutes. Begin evacuating now!”

* * *

Ducky and Mousetrap turned to each other in
the car.

“What do we do?” Ducky asked.

Mousetrap responded, “Fuck up some of those
dead bitches and get in the goddamn truck!”

They weren’t really sure if they were up to
it. Fear tickled their bellies. Taking a deep breath, the two thugs
shouted and dashed from the vehicle, shoving their way to the
trailer.

* * *

Sgt. Arnold unclicked the talk button and
pressed the ignition button, rattling the Hummer to life.

Specialists Knight and Noble appeared at the
driver’s side window.

Arnold rolled it down.

“Sergeant?” Noble asked.

“Noble,” he robotically acknowledged,
preoccupied with his own thoughts.

“Where’s Parcells?”

“The sniper got him.”

“Well... what do we do now?”

“Someone set off the timer,” Arnold said.
“Something bad’s going to happen here. I need to get this thing as
far away as possible.”

“Sergeant?” Noble said again.

Sgt. Arnold took a deep breath, ready to give
them their final orders. He said, “Noble, you’re in charge. Get as
many people as you can on that rig and get them the fuck out of
here. Knight, you’re helping her. Her orders are as good as mine.
Now get that truck out of my way. That’s my final order to you.
Good luck.”

“Sarge...?” Noble began. There was confused
suspicion in her eyes. And also a knowing sadness.

“That’s an
order
, Noble,” Arnold
said.

“But...”

“An
order
, Noble!” Arnold barked.
“Go!”

She took two small, uncertain steps
backwards, cringing. Knight put his hand on her shoulder and kept
her moving. She turned away fully before Arnold could witness her
emotion.

The soldiers did what they were commanded to
do. Once the rig was out of the entrance, Arnold shifted into
reverse and floored the accelerator. Zombies burst into pieces of
fiery flesh as the vehicle bashed them with abandon.

After he got turned around and headed down
the road, a glance in the rear-view mirror showed that the rig
wisely put itself back in the breach, damming the flood.

“See, Noble,” he said to himself. “You’re
going to do all right.”

* * *

The dire subtext of the announced message was
quite clear to most residents, and those who did not get it were
quickly persuaded by the alarmed expressions of those who did. In
an urgent race, everyone began scrambling to all available
vehicles. And in an amazing show of solidarity, everyone worked
together, throwing out old conceptions and points of view for the
sake of group survival. Soldiers made transports available and
ushered people inside, while other soldiers did their best to
direct the flow of human traffic. Even cholos like Ducky and
Mousetrap eagerly assisted. In a moment of miraculous humanity, the
majority of the interred worked together in an impatient yet
cooperative effort.