Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (9 page)

No bullet was sent forth.

He was out.

The Viral was only yards away.

Garrison had spare mags for his primary
weapon, but they were stuck in his backpack. So he fumbled for the
pistol in its holster on his hip, and in his panic, it clattered to
the floor. The gun clicked across the marble tile like Sammy Davis,
Jr. tap dancing on a stage at The Sands. Eventually the weapon came
to rest near the feet of the Viral.

Garrison yelped and took a step backwards. He
bumped into someone, flinched in fear, and fell to the floor. With
hopelessness overtaking him, he curled up in a defensive position,
covering his head, waiting for a hand to grab him or a mouth to
bite him.

A gun blast popped his ears, and he yelped
again in fearful surprise.

He opened his eyes and saw Sgt. Nickson
hovering over him. He offered his hand and Garrison accepted,
trying to pull himself together for his superior.

“C’mon, Garrison, you cunt. We need your
help.”

Humiliated, Garrison followed Sgt. Nickson
onto the balcony where Sgt. Arnold was communicating with the
senators and pages below. “Are there any more of those things down
there—where we can’t see?” he asked.

“We don’t know!” one of the senators yelled
back.

Sgt. Arnold turned to Sgt. Nickson. “We’re
going to have to stay in the senate chambers and babysit.”

“That’ll work,” Sgt. Nickson said,
begrudgingly. He still couldn’t get himself to accept taking
commands from Sgt. Arnold. He tried to take some credit, though
what he wanted to say went without saying. “The National Guard
arrives at 0600 hours. We can get them out then.”

“Exactly,” Sgt. Arnold said, lacing the reply
with a dash of sarcasm. “Let’s do it.”

The sergeants communicated their plans to
their charges and immediately went to work. They moved cautiously
around the rotunda and advanced down the stairs to the first floor.
Two Virals climbing the stairs were quickly put down by the team.
Reaching the first floor, the temporary squad quickly advanced to
the locked senate chamber doors. Spc. Knight went to work with his
lockpicking kit, and in seconds the door was open.

Specialists Noble and Talltree moved into the
chamber, followed by Rodriguez and Knight, who were followed by
Garrison and Goodson, and finally Sgt. Arnold and Sgt. Nickson.

Sgt. Nickson, in an attempt to take control,
offered a plan. “Let’s lock those doors and hole up in here.”

“Negative,” Sgt. Arnold replied. “We would
lose all tactical advantage in here. We need to have more of a
capacity for tactical offensives if necessary.”

Sgt. Nickson scowled.

Sgt. Arnold continued, “Let’s have three men
stationed under the rotunda on the state seal, one in the hallway
to the chambers, and the remaining men in the chamber.”

“All right,” Nickson agreed. He didn’t see
any need to argue over such a simple plan.

The men communicated their plan to their
charges. Garrison, Rodriguez and Goodson were stationed on the
seal. Talltree was put in the hallway, while the rest were to stay
in the chamber.

It was 0300 hours. The National Guard would
arrive soon. But with the way the world was shaping, they weren’t
totally sure it was going to happen.

4:30 AM

Texas Capitol Rotunda

The senate chamber had been secured and its
inhabitants calmed down to the point of sleep. The senators and
their pages positioned themselves as comfortably as possible on the
floor. Most drifted off. Several could not relax and gathered in a
corner of the room to smoke. One senator had recovered his secret
stash: a bottle of L’Amour Whiskey. He even had shotglasses, and
shared with his colleagues. Some mixed it with their coffee, while
others just drank from the mug.

With his charges under the rotunda, Sgt.
Nickson had worked his way to the drinkers and smokers, while Sgt.
Arnold, Knight, and Noble were spread out among the napping
senators.

Knight had bathroom duty, and was escorting
small groups of senators to relieve themselves. The men’s bathrooms
were secure, and the erratic trips were a welcome break from the
monotony of standing and keeping watch over the sleeping
congressmen.

Sgt. Arnold had time to think as he stood
around. A career soldier, Martin Arnold was the youngest of three
brothers. Among his blood brothers in his hometown of San Uvalde,
he stood out as the loudest and most charismatic. He was practical
and had a common sense that accentuated his sense of humor. From
stout stock, he had a barrel chest and a round face. He had gone
through several cigarettes since securing the chamber, and was
working on yet another, puffing away like a train in a John Wayne
western.

Spc. Noble had been given the okay to have a
chance for some shuteye. She needed it, too.

Raised in a family with a rich military
history that provided a participant in every major war dating back
to the second World War, Elizabeth Noble knew in her youth that she
wanted to be like her mother and father. Both of her parents were
officers in the military (mom in the Navy and dad in the Marines,)
and her goal was to someday lead a unit like her father did during
the first Gulf War. Growing up with four brothers (all in the
military as well,) she passed up a college scholarship to play
volleyball in her home state of Washington so she could be a
permanent addition to the proud Noble family tradition of serving
her nation, wherever it may lead, even all the way south to Texas.
Plus, having been called “Liz” or “Beth” alternately depending on
which family member addressed her, she found the stability of being
called “Noble” to be a welcome change. Pretty for a tomboy, she
kept her black hair cut to shoulder length, making her small frame
somewhat more noticeable. But when wearing her uniform, her dark,
haunting eyes over porcelain skin—and a perfect smile—were the only
indications of her femininity, a gothic appearance she never
intended to have or could readily alter.

Specialist Hageshiro Knight was the only
child of two computer programmers who fell in love in college
during the late ‘80s. His mother was from Tokyo, Japan. His father
was from Laredo, Texas. The parents latched on to the company that
would change the face of computers in the ‘90s:
Apple
. Sharp
as a knife like his parents, Hageshiro chose the military over
college. Most of his motivation to join came from the chance to
express the anger he had built up from being called
zipperhead
,
chink
, and many other racial slurs due to
his half-Asian background. His mother was fullblooded Japanese, and
if it wasn’t for his mastery of the English language, he could
easily pass as an Asian immigrant, even though he was a fullblooded
American.

Spc. Rodriguez had infiltrated the group of
senators and was holding the bottle of L’Amour Whiskey hostage like
a bully holding candy from a small child. A tattoo of a goat head
sat on his right forearm, stretching down to his wrist. A
black-robed wraith with a scythe stretched down his left forearm.
He always kept his sleeve rolled up to proudly display his satanic
ink. Many also felt it was his true spiritual allegiance. A trim
moustache sat on his thick lips below his bulbous nose. A unibrow
stood thick over his dark eyes. A perpetual bully, Rodriguez was
enjoying his time intimidating the senators. He was intimidating
enough even without flaunting it. He had obviously found ways to
receive and use steroids, though no one really cared as long as he
was on their team. Born in Panama but raised in the U.S., Rodriguez
was a standout defensive lineman from Skyline High School in
Houston, Texas. His grades and bad attitude during his school years
were more fitting for the military than college. His large
trapezeous muscles gave the illusion he had no neck. The ink on his
arms were on proud display, though nondescript from a distance
against his dark black skin.

Spc. Daniel Talltree, standing in the hallway
between the two secured sections, took in the social dynamics of
both sections. Talltree was a proud Mohawk Indian, which his family
thought would exclude him from service in the military. The Mohawk
Warrior Society, a strong militant segment of the Mohawk nation,
had gained a bad reputation in Canada, forcing the northern nation
to label the society a terrorist organization. The Oka Crisis, as
it became known, found Mohawks taking on the town of Oka, Quebec,
Canada, in a fight to recover their native land. It was
particularly important to the natives, as the sacred pines and land
the city planned to tear down in order to build a golf course was
home to a sacred Mohawk burial ground. The Mohawks fought the
system with numbers and tenacity. And though the land moved into
the hands of another governmental force that promised to protect
the land, the Mohawks became a force to be reckoned with. Despite
the reputation the militant segment of the Mohawk nation gained
after the incident, and the fact some of Talltree’s family members
participated in the event, Talltree was allowed to enlist.

The recruiter saw something special in
Talltree, something that could be used to the Army’s advantage. The
recruiter who signed him up by ignoring his tribal affiliation was
already experiencing it. It was a kind of ESP, a spiritual
infiltration that bordered on the psychic, but was somehow
instinctual. Talltree had a way to connect so strongly to a person
he could know exactly where they were when they were not around. It
was an ability he knew he had, as well as his family. But it was
their secret. Having been around his fireteam members long enough
to connect to their spiritual energies of hate and anger, they were
forever bound to him, and would never be lost while he was
around.

Spc. Knight approached Talltree from the
senate chambers, escorting two women to the restroom. Talltree
nodded subtly to the group as they passed.

The trio passed the three guards under the
rotunda.

“Hey,” Knight said.

“Don’t squeeze the
Charmin
, Knight,”
Rodriguez chuckled, eyeing the well-dressed female senators as they
passed.

As the trio walked further away, Rodriguez
leaned toward Garrison and whispered, “I’d fuck them.” A smile
spread across his lips. “And if they didn’t want to fuck, I’d fuck
them anyway.” Garrison and Rodriguez shared a laugh.

It was hard to like anything about Spc.
Garrison. It wasn’t that he was overtly mean or cruel like his
fireteam compatriots. It was more the fact that he was simply a no
talent kiss-ass. He was smart enough to establish himself as a
confidante to the well-positioned within any establishment or
league he was working with. Using that influence, he would
reposition himself within the organization and have his opposition
dismissed by the powers that be—even opposition that had earned the
role.

Spc. Rodriguez was a force within fireteam
Nickson, and it was important to Garrison to maintain his
trust.

A short man, Garrison had a chubby face like
a three year old who eats too much junk food. An unsanctioned
graying goatee fell from his chin that made him look just that much
more foolish.

Spc. Goodson, the only fireteam Arnold member
placed with Garrison and Rodriguez under the rotunda, grimaced in
disgust at the antics of his teammates. “Give it a rest, guys. You
don’t have to talk like that.”

“Goodson, you little bitch, shut the fuck
up,” Garrison sneered. “If you’re going to act like a pussy, do it
somewhere else.”

From day one, Goodson had wanted to punch
Garrison in the face. It was one of those feelings of instant
repulsion, like the nauseating feeling of stepping in a pile of dog
shit in your Sunday best.

A man of significant size and muscle mass as
well, Spc. Goodson was a powerful man, but significantly shorter
than Rodriguez. With GQ cover good looks and an Aryan appearance
that would have made Hitler proud, Goodson was far from being a
fascist and had a more reasonable disposition that rarely exploited
his size and strength.

Today, however, he wished Rodriguez wasn’t
around. He wanted nothing more than to crush the little bastard
Garrison.

“Garrison, seriously, you need to be real
careful what you say to people. Especially
these
people. Who
knows how many of them might have pull with our higher-ups.”

Garrison, once again, unconsciously stepped
toward Rodriguez like a small child steps toward his parent for
protection. “So fucking what, Goodson?”

Goodson shook his head in repressed
anger.

Talltree watched silently, estimating the
level of the rising tensions and recording the moment in his
mind.

* * *

Down the hallway from the State Seal, Spc.
Knight was leading the women to the restroom. Conversation was
uneasy.

“So, why were ya’ll here so late?” Knight
asked.

“We were working on passing legislation that
would allow the state of Texas to turn all major highways into toll
roads.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Knight
asked, lacing the question with sarcasm.

The female senators were no fools, and picked
up on the subtext as Knight reached the restroom. “Next time you
travel on a Texas Highway, just remember how it was paid for.”

“I’m from Kansas,” Knight lied, motioning the
women to stop and wait. No females had needed to use the restroom,
and the women’s facilities had not been secured yet. “Thanks for
the roads.”

He slowly pushed open the door and was hit in
the face with a funk that was clearly not just the foul odor of
excrement. The lights were off. The illumination from the hallway
revealed the light switch by the door. Knight flicked the switch
upwards. It clicked into place.