Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (34 page)

Standing up with the briefcase in his arms,
Arnold saw the zombie mob was starting to gather. He re-opened the
case and glanced at the timer. He then looked up.

The capitol stood just blocks away.

Arnold noticed another body nearby. It was
Parcells. He had been ejected like a cassette tape from an old
school tape player. “I’m sorry, man,” he whispered before gathering
his strength and taking off into a sprint.

But as he started his run he was blindsided
by a cruel spear-like tackle that sent him to the unforgiving
street pavement. Looking up at his assailant, he thought it was a
zombie. The tattered and bloody face could have been one, but the
fire in its eyes clearly indicated it was his nemesis, Sgt.
Nickson.

The two scuffled for position, the
unforgiving pavement of Interstate Highway 35 digging into their
backs, elbows, and knees. It was as if a third participant was
mixing it up with them under the blanket of black, and
indiscriminate about whom he assaulted. Nickson poked Arnold in the
eye and used the moment of disorientation to pull his recovered
sidearm and take the mount.

Instinctively, Sgt. Arnold defended himself
from the pistol in Nickson’s hand and held Nickson in a jiu-jitsu
guard, with every intention of getting to his feet. The last place
he wanted to be with the advancing Viral horde was on his back on
the ground. Both men held the other with a one handed choke. The
breath was slipping away from Sgt. Arnold as the zombies closed in.
The gun moved closer to his head. Though the choke on Sgt. Nickson
was sapping his energy as well, Nickson’s position was much more
advantageous and he was able to put his full weight into it.

The mob closed in. Sgt. Arnold’s eyes began
to roll back into his head as the gun came closer to sealing his
fate.

But those same fates, the daughters of
destiny, had other plans.

A hatchet cut Sgt. Nickson’s hand off at the
wrist, literally disarming him.

Sgt. Nickson looked up, howling in pain and
clutching the bloody stump at the end of his wrist. His eyes
narrowed in realization. What he at first assumed to be a Viral,
upon closer examination through squinted eyes, turned out to be a
grotesquely camouflaged Specialist Daniel Talltree.

Sgt. Nickson continued screaming as he was
pulled up to his feet and off of Sgt. Arnold with a reverse choke.
The blood and filth on Talltree rubbed over Nickson, christening
his victim with the stench of his future.

Sgt. Arnold gathered himself, breathing hard,
watching the scuffle, aghast. Talltree was covered in blood, and as
far as Arnold was concerned, was Viral.

Talltree swung the hatchet toward Nickson’s
stomach, cutting through the shirt. He hacked and slashed again,
opening up Nickson’s belly just below his armor, eviscerating him.
Reaching inside with a thrusting hand, Talltree secured his liver.
As he yanked out the thick organ, other innards fell out of the
large gash. And in the ancient Mohawk tradition, Talltree took a
big bite out of the liver. Blood dripping from his mouth fell
across Nickson’s face, who was seemingly frozen in time in
mid-scream, his face a mixture of fear and defeat. The blood
dripped across his eyes, casting long lines of red into his mouth
and across his chin and onto his already bloody clothes.

Noses perked up all through the nearby crowd
of zombies, their senses suddenly sharp. It was as if they could
smell the fresh blood and gore exposed to the night air. They
wanted it.

Talltree looked into Sgt. Arnold’s eyes and
nodded respectfully before dragging the defeated Sgt. Nickson
backwards into a crowd of flesh-eaters, where they were both
promptly swallowed.

A Viral immediately attacked Nickson’s head
and bit, sucking the blood off of his now exposed skull. Others
tore at his clothes, exposing more of his Kevlar armor. Several
grabbed an arm and started to twist it, pulling and tugging until
the bone was broken. They bit into the fabric of the sleeves,
tearing the fabric and, subsequently, his arms. He was still
screaming in pain as another creature bit into his neck, tearing a
large chunk of flesh from his throat that was now spitting blood
across their faces. Dark lines of red laced their lips and cheeks.
More creatures tore at the legs. Others attacked the soft and
lacerated belly below the armor.

It was a feast.

Specialist Daniel Talltree watched the entire
banquet until the creatures realized they could consume him as
well. They bit into his neck, his arms, his face. One even snatched
the liver from his hands and scampered away with it.

But Talltree did not scream. Prepared to
release his soul, he allowed himself to be consumed, to be relieved
of his fleshly anchor. Closing his eyes, he concentrated his
energies into the ritual of transferring his soul to the lifestream
of the cosmos. As had been handed down to him from generation to
generation, his soul would depart from his earthly shell, and like
an eagle, fly into the night sky to become one with the Great
Spirit.

Shaking himself in relief from the stunning
save, Sgt. Arnold held the suitcase close to his body. Despite his
limp, he sprinted like a gridiron fullback, ducking his shoulders
and knocking down zombies like an old school football star, bent on
delivering the Final Solution into the lap of the man that put a
contract out on him.

* * *

In one of the greatest shows of unity and
cooperation, the entire FEMA camp that was South Point Apartments
and hundreds of south Austin residents were en route out of the
facility, headed south on IH-35 under the cover of darkness, a
motley convoy of military transports, civilian vehicles, and the
eighteen wheeler. People were even riding on top of the trailer, a
vagabond cavalcade of hope.

“Don’t knock me off, fucker,” Ducky
complained.

“Well, stop holding my arm like a little
bitch,” Mousetrap said.

In the driver’s seat was Specialist Elizabeth
Noble, delivering the people from death, her face a visage of
determination. Riding shotgun was her second-in-command, Specialist
Hageshiro Knight.

* * *

Tiny, Nick Lopez and his family, and the
Mike/Keri combo made it safely to the empty police cruiser nearby,
on the side of IH-35, leaving a trail of bludgeoned and tazed
zombies in their wake. Though the resistance from the zombies had
been persistent, it was not overwhelming when the group of
survivors worked together.

Mike was able to walk fairly swiftly, even if
Keri hadn’t been holding his arm, as if his elation had cured him
of all his ills. However, he could not bring himself to search out
what little remained of his former partner, Derek Tucker, after the
zombies had had their way with his corpse.

When they reached the cruiser, to everyone’s
surprise, the keys were still in the ignition.

Keri put herself in the driver’s seat. As
everybody secured themselves in the vehicle, she asked, “So...
where to?”

Sitting beside her, Mike looked in the
side-view mirror and saw the multitude of headlights belonging to
the approaching convoy. He said, “Safety in numbers, my dear.”

She looked over and showed him a smile. “And
you’re smart, too,” she said. She patted him on the leg. She craned
her head around to look at Nick, Theresa, Laura Jane, and Tiny in
the back seat. “That okay with you guys?”

“You’re the boss, lady,” Nick said.

Keri pulled the cruiser back onto the road.
The convoy parted in the middle to allow her vehicle to join.

The entire group began their journey to San
Marcos, putting as many miles as possible between them and Austin
in what little time remained.

10:20 PM

Texas State Capitol

Exhausted and nearly hyperventilating, each
step more painful than the last, calf muscles feeling like they had
been stabbed with a million daggers, Sgt. Martin Arnold of the
United States Army was allowed entry into the new perimeter set up
around the capitol. The guards immediately alerted Captain Barrigan
of his arrival, noting the metal briefcase in his hands as
well.

Sgt. Arnold was marched on to the capitol
grounds at gunpoint as Cpt. Barrigan approached to meet him
halfway, clapping.

“Put your guns down, men. Is that any way to
greet a hero?”

The soldiers complied.

Sgt. Arnold smirked.

“Well done, Sgt. Arnold. Well done, indeed.
You secured the missing briefcase. Well done.”

Sgt. Arnold frowned. “You sent Nickson and
his boys to kill me. You sent a death squad against me and my
men.”

A light flickered in the night sky.

“Death squad?” Cpt. Barrigan said, covering
his embarrassment in front of the other soldiers, who were unaware
of the secret mission to eliminate Arnold. “Please, Sergeant.
That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? After all, with this most
opportune acquisition, I think there will be little problem in
canceling the court-martial of you and your men. You weren’t
AWOL—you were on a covert op I authorized. Understand?”

A subtle whistle could be heard from up
above, coming very much from the flickering light in the sky that
was slowly growing larger, distinguishing itself from the
stars.

“So, Sergeant. It looks like we win.”

Win
, Sgt. Arnold mused, suddenly
recalling Knight in the office of the computer nerds. He then
chuckled, remembering the line from the television show. He
muttered, “
To lose is to win, and he who wins shall
lose
.”

“What?” Cpt. Barrigan asked with a curious
smile.

Sgt. Arnold took a deep breath before he
started to laugh openly, looking up at the sky in the direction of
the whistling missile that was clearly just overhead.

Sgt. Arnold handed the case to the Captain
and walked away.

As he casually strolled to a grassy portion
of the capitol courtyard, he reached into his bloody breast pocket
and pulled out the bundle of three U.N. patches. He tossed them
over his shoulder with disregard, and they spun like shurikens
until they hit the ground.

He sat down.

“I hope you don’t mind if I relax, sir,” he
said. “I’ve been on my feet the past two days and my dogs are
barking something awful.” He untied his boots and pulled them off.
Next his sweaty, soaked socks were off and discarded.

And there he sat, barefoot, leaning back on
his elbows. He found himself whistling, attempting to match the
same pitch he heard above.

Barrigan had watched him through the entire
process, sneering at his audacity.

He finally looked down and opened the case in
his hands.

The timer read thirty-one seconds.

“Oh, my God,” Barrigan whispered.

He dropped the case at his feet and simply
stood there, shocked into inaction.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Sgt. Arnold said.
“Scientists can align the trajectory of a missile to coincide
exactly with the final countdown of a clock on Earth. I was never
much for Calculus. Or Trigonometry. Or whatever it is. I...”

He trailed off without even realizing it.
Having his feet liberated from the heavy leather bonds once and for
all was so relaxing it was almost hypnotic. He let out a contented
sigh of relief and wiggled his toes, letting the night air bathe
them in cool comfort.

“That feels... so good,” he said.

The timer struck zero.

The suitcase sent the ultimate electric
signal to a receiver on the missile: The operation was go-ahead as
scheduled, do not abort, do not self-destruct.

A light blipped within the missile at the
measured and programmed altitude of two hundred yards above the
ground, setting forth the power of the GBU-43/B-A, a modified
version of the Massive Ordnance Air Blast Bomb, The Mother of All
Bombs.

Every sentient being in its massive blast
radius was disintegrated.

Sgt. Arnold and Cpt. Barrigan’s molecules
were melted into nonexistence, along with every other soldier in
the capitol compound.

The wave moved through the streets,
transforming zombies to molecular ash blowing in the wind.

The wave moved for miles, eliminating every
zombie in its wake, dissipating into dust.

Unfortunately, for the people in the IRS
camp—including the lucky family who had barely made it inside with
their lives and the soldiers who had helped them do so—and those
holding out in their homes all around Austin—including the
traumatized girl named Andi—their number was up as well. Their
bodies turned to dust.

The wave hit five miles. Ten. Fifteen. The
bodies at South Point Apartments melted away. The energy was
rolling as if it would never lose energy. Seventeen. Eighteen.
Nineteen. Twenty.

And near the twenty-one mile mark, the energy
was no longer as potent, though the wake was still able to toss
cars through the air like toys, bending trees and testing roof
shingles.

And then the pulse energy dispersed, fizzled
out like the final fireball of a Roman candle. Twenty-one square
miles from the capitol had been cleansed of the plague of the
dead.

And the living.

The capitol remained. Though windows were
blown out and shattered and several cracks clicked across portions
of the building, the antique stone edifice stood strong, proud. A
sentinel of strength. A symbol of pride. The large Texas Star
several blocks away in front of the Texas History Museum also stood
tall, alone.

The green lawn of the capitol sat peacefully
under the Texas night. The massive tribute statues held strong to
their positions, defending their sacred contributions to Texas
history. Much like Sgt. Arnold, whose dusty remains drifted around
the capitol, forever a part of its history, a major player in the
fall of Austin, yet forever an unwritten chapter of Texas
folklore.