Bowie V. Ibarra (11 page)

“Josh!” screamed Misty. She turned to George. “You need to go. The Threes will be looking for you.”

A crowd began to gather. Before George could run, Misty grabbed his arm. She whispered, “Thank you,” then let him go into the crowd.

Finding a black and white blanket on the ground, George threw it over his red flannel like a cape and looked for a spot to hide somewhere in the crowd.

Hide and lie down.

Lie down and sleep.

Sleep and dream.

Esparanza was standing in front of George on a highway. She was wearing what felt like a blue shirt and white shorts. She was barefoot. Cars were wrecked all along the road. A vehicle sped by George. Esparanza began to giggle. George felt happy. Teasing, she raised her right hand and made a gesture with her index finger for George to come closer. George tried to move closer, but couldn’t. He was stuck. She began to run. George began to run, but fell. He got up, but fell again. When he looked up, Esparanza was looming over him like a giant. She ran toward a burning city in the distance and stomped it with her bare foot. Her foot began to bleed. She stomped the city again. Blood began to cover the ground near George’s feet. She pointed down into the city and said, “There!”

George was jarred from his sleep by a gentle, but firm, kick to the ribs. He looked up. Three Hispanic guys hovered over him under the cool morning sky. Two had to be teens. One was a man. The two kids were wearing plaid shirts buttoned up at the collar, revealing their white tank top shirts underneath. The big guy had a goatee, a hair net, and a black tank top style shirt. All three wore loose khakis and black shoes.

“Morning guys,” said George.

“Is that him?” asked the man.

“That’s him, Marco,” replied the kid in the green plaid shirt.

“Ey,” said Marco, “Jose said that you punked one of the Threes, esse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said George, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. The blanket rolled off him, revealing his flannel he forgot he was hiding.

“That’s him. He was wearing that. I remember,” said Jose, pointing at the flannel.

A crowd was gathering around.

“You saw someone else, dude,” George urgently replied.

“It was you, esse,” said Jose. “He’s a red square, too, Marco.”

“Why you lying, buey,” asked Marco in a distinct south Texas dialect. The crowd grew larger.

George got to his feet and stretched the stretch of a man who just woke up -the stretch of a man hiding his fear. Maybe not fear for the two punks, but for Marco. He looked intimidating.

“Man, look,” said George, “I don’t want any trouble and I don’t want to fuckin’ join any of the corners.”

“You know you’re a red square, right? You know what that means, right?” asked Marco.

Having a pretty good idea what it meant, George responded, “Look, I don’t give a shit what color my fuckin’ square is, just leave me the fuck alone!”

Frustrated, Marco replied, “I’m tired of this culo’s attitude. Jose, Pedro, kick his ass.”

The two kids spread out, fists raised, and circled George. The crowd began to cheer and yell.

Soldiers in the stands took notice. They readied their weapons.

So did the Corners. Several members from each group except the Ones were sent out to investigate.

George scoped it out, focused on Pedro, and as both lunged in, George committed to a flying knee, cracking Pedro in the jaw. Pedro fell and Jose hesitated a step, watching his buddy fall face first on the grassy football field. As George landed on his feet, he quickly delivered a right back fist toward Jose. The hesitation saved Jose from catching it on his cheek, but now he stood in front of the man that just KO’d his friend. A twinge of fear teased Jose’s heart as he started throwing a flurry of punches at George. After taking three shots to the face, George ducked under the flying fists and shot for Jose’s waist, securing a side waistlock. Jose sent an informal elbow attack towards George’s face, connecting above his eye. But it was not enough to stop the arching throw George had begun, sending Jose backwards, tossing him awkwardly on his head and neck. Jose’s own weight and the force of the throw damaged his neck and the resulting pain immobilized the young thug. George was going to continue the assault, but after seeing Jose grab at his own neck and cry out in pain, he knew it was done. The crowd went crazy.

George stood up, blood flowing over his right eye. “You go tell whoever the fuck you need to tell that I ain’t standing for this shit!” George yelled. “Stay the fuck away! Do you hear me?!” Marco stood in stunned silence. “You fuckin’ hear me, Marco?!”

Marco nodded. Someone from the crowd took a pot shot at Marco, slapping him across the back of his head. Before he knew it, Marco was getting jumped by what seemed to be a group of Twos. Others began to kick the boys on the ground -mostly Twos, but a little bit of everyone got a shot in. A small group of Fours had arrived, as well as a group of Threes, simultaneously. They took in the sights, both realizing they were there for George. More Twos jumped them both before they could get to George. The energy and motion around the area now was intense as people were scrambling for position.

“George!” yelled Misty, who had appeared suddenly. “Hurry! This way!” Her soft hand grabbed George’s and pulled him out of the pandemonium that was erupting.

As she led him swiftly away, a full blown riot erupted on the field. Fists, objects, and bludgeons were flying. Those not involved moved in a wave away from the brawl in the direction of the closest end zone. A large mass of people remained in the middle, fists flying.

Within seconds, several members of the military personnel in the bleachers, (who had been watching the events unfold,) opened fire on the brawlers. Bullets diced hands, cut arms, pierced legs, stabbed brains, and chopped faces indiscriminately. However, another group of soldiers began to fire on the soldiers who were neutralizing the fighters, disagreeing extremely with their comrades’ actions. The surviving brawlers began to scatter, as did the soldiers, who were now engaged in a firefight in the stands with each other.

Outside the gates, the commotion was attracting the attention of scores of zombies.

They were watching.

Waiting.

It was an awkward afternoon. A large pile of bodies lay in the middle of Titan field, and the bodies of over a dozen soldiers lay in the aluminum bleachers of both the visitors’ side and the home side of the field. For several hours after the morning skirmish, things were quiet. But desperation was beginning to rear its ugly head around the facility.

With the gang numbers drastically reduced, a truce was called by the Ones and agreed upon by all but the Threes. Then, two hours after the massacre, the Ones, Twos, and Fours united and wiped out what was left of the Threes.

The soldiers didn’t respond.

Breakfast was not served this particular morning. Many were left wondering if lunch would be.

Finding an unoccupied medical tent, Misty and George sat and hid. George was probably safe due to the gang truce, but probably not from the guards. That is, the guards that were left. If they decided to search for him, having a place to hide would be a good idea. The medical tent was a good enough place as any, even if it was close to the bleachers.

Misty had left George alone for a few minutes and returned with some cloth and healing ointments so she could tend to the cut over his eye. She helped him remove his flannel. Sitting in front of each other, she tended to the wound above his eye. His adrenaline was gone, so the pain was very perceptible. He winced, but gritted his teeth and allowed her gentle hands to continue working.

Her blue eyes sparkled. “You were very brave out there,” she said.

George responded, “I don’t know about brave so much as I was pissed off.”

“Why?”

“Just, these people, you know? They can’t get along, even when they need to the most. One group thinks they know what’s best for the other and insists on babying them -And what a shitty job they’ve done up to now, huh? The others can’t even unite against them. They’d rather divide themselves and fight and kill each other. It’s such bullshit,” George said, gritting his teeth again as Misty placed a patch soaked with medicine to George’s cut.

“Hush now,” she whispered. “It’s alright.”

Her voice began to calm him, though he remained a bit grouchy. “Man, I wish it was. I wish we could unite against that shit outside…Those dead things.”

As Misty secured the patch over the cut, she bowed her head. “I’m so sorry, George.”

George sulked. “It’s not your fault.”

Misty finished with the primitive bandage. She kissed it. “There, now you’re all better.” She looked into George’s eyes. Her blue eyes were hard to resist. She touched his face. George’s hands moved across her thighs. Both began to breathe in a different way; energy began to manifest.

George gazed into her eyes and felt an almost magnetic pull towards her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to grope her and rub his hands all over her body. He could feel her desire.

But he was scared. Not of kissing her or anything in regards to his physical attraction to her, but of the reality of the situation. The fear that humanity wasn’t going to survive this plague. That they could not unite and help each other. That if humanity united, another segment of that same humanity would rise up and crush them, like they did to Jeff and the barrier people.

George wondered, Hasn’t it always been that way? Divided? Segregated? United, but really not? Even the civil war was one group of people who had the right to separate, but were made to stay together by force.

George knew it would be hard to get home, but never thought it would be this hard. After today, it seemed hopeless. No vehicle. No weapons. No food. No water.

George leaned in to Misty and held her. She embraced him as he began to weep. He wanted to see his mom and family again, but was now afraid they were dead, and all this danger he had encountered was for naught.

Pulling himself together, George shared a kiss on the cheek with Misty. A moist sensation touched his lips as he kissed away a tear from her cheek. She returned the affection with a short, sweet kiss on his lips. She wiped his tears away. He wiped hers. Perhaps she was feeling the same way.

As they separated, a man pulled open the curtain to the tent. George and Misty’s hearts skipped a beat. Misty gasped.

“Uncle Brandon!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and embracing the man. He was tall and rather big and sported a green John Deere hat. Suspenders held up a pair of worn and dirty blue jeans that were fighting a waist war with Uncle Brandon’s prominent beer gut. The gut was stretching his extra-extra large Charlie Daniels shirt to the limit. Misty, in all her dainty charm, jumped and hugged him around his thick neck, cheek to cheek.

They both smiled.

Though his gut suggested bad physical conditioning, he seemed to have the strength -if not the power -of a man of size.

“How you been, sweetie-pie?” he asked, kissing her on the cheek.

“I’ve been alright, Uncle Brandon.” She turned to George. “This is my friend, George.”

George stood and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise, good sir,” replied Brandon, showing a smile. “I hear you whipped some of them spics’ asses this morning. We could use someone like you.”

“What do you mean?” George asked. “If it’s about joining a gang, forget it!”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” he said, pulling out a pack of Red Man and stuffing some chaw in his bottom lip. “Well, me and my son, Brandon Junior, are planning on making a break for it.”

“Are you crazy?” asked Misty. “They’ll kill you!”

“Hang on, Misty,” said George. “Hear him out.”

They all took a seat. Misty surprised George by sitting on his lap. They glanced at each other quickly. George became a bit excited. Uncle Brandon winced, but shook his head and shared his idea.

“First off, their numbers are low now. A lot of them have been taking off, leaving their posts. Way I see it, they’re not unified anymore. And there definitely seems like they have no leadership anymore. Secondly, they’re looking for you, George. I heard they’re going to do another roundup. Why, in God’s name, I don’t know. But I’m going to report you.”

“What?!” George gasped, taken aback.

Misty exclaimed, “Uncle Brandon!”

Brandon lifted a hand to show he wasn’t finished explaining, then continued, “I’m going to report you because when those two guys get over here, we’re going to jump ‘em and take their guns!”

“Sounds crazy,” George said. The plan was simple -perhaps too simple -but could he really expect for some brilliant strategy to come along? He figured he’d rather do something desperate than do nothing at all, though it was still a big risk. He asked, “What do you have in mind?”

“We lead them here to this tent and jump them.”

“With what?” Misty asked.

“Well, with a brick or some shit. A pipe. Something.”

“Alright, so we find something to bash them with, pound them, then what?”

“We take their guns, make like we’re not carrying anything, and head to the ticket booth. Someone could act the fool and get them to open that magnetic door. Then, we take out the tower guy first, secure the open door, and take out anyone else in the area.”

“Then what?” asked Misty.

“It’s simple. Either we find one of those Hummers with a key in it, or we make a run to our house.”

“Neither of those options sound likely to happen,” George pointed out. “First, we’d have to find a Hummer with the keys in it.”

“Well, yeah,” replied Brandon. “That’s what I said.”

“And, yeah, anyway,” George went on, “With the run to the house -wherever that is -the tower guys would pick us off in a matter of seconds. That is, if the zombies didn’t get us first.”