Bowie V. Ibarra (9 page)

Trash and paper was everywhere. Some of the building fires had done their job, leaving the buildings as nothing more than a black memory.

The plan was to hit another back road, get to the New Braunfels loop, then make it to south 35 to San Antonio. He decided the city was big enough, (one of the nation’s mightiest metroplexes,) that he would take his chances.

George drove slowly through town. Though it seemed deserted, he still drove carefully, as if a truck might barrel its way around a corner at any minute.

George entered the city plaza. Had it been a normal day he might have parked and entered one of the many bars encircling the plaza. There was certainly plenty of parking today.

A figure darted out of sight from a rooftop. George looked up, but not in time to make out what it was.

George slowed the Cavalier down at a four-way and shifted into neutral.

The view of the road to the right was obstructed by a smoldering building.

He looked to the left. Nothing there.

He looked straight ahead. It was wide open -not even a monster or wrecked car. That was a good thing, as the back road he wanted to reach was just ahead.

He looked to his right one more time.

A wooden bat smashed George’s driver-side window. Glass flew toward his face, but he averted his head just in time to avoid getting cut.

Someone opened his door and yanked him from the car with a vicious heave. Two boys began to stomp at him and kick at his ribs.

They were Betas, whooping and hollering.

“Kick that spic’s ass!” one yelled.

George surmised that there were probably four of them. One had a baseball bat. One was in the driver’s seat of his Cavalier. They were obviously looters, a roving gang of thugs looking for anything that might help them survive.

“It’s standard,” said the driver, turning to bat boy. “Can anyone drive standard?” He popped the clutch, causing the car to stall. “Shit, what did I do?”

Bat boy was walking toward the two kicking at George.

“I got him,” said bat boy.

“Oh, shit, a fuckin’ machine gun,” said the driver, looking in the passenger seat.

As bat boy moved closer to the two guys kicking George on the ground, it gave George the opportunity to pull his.38 from the back of his pants. He hurriedly flicked off the safety and aimed the gun at bat-boy.

George gut shot him, then repeated the same on the two that were kicking him.

The guy in the car reached for the AK in the passenger seat. Before he could figure out how to take it off the safety, George yanked him by the hair out of the car, smashed his mouth with the butt of the .38, and shot him in the neck. The bullet severed the spine, bathing the other three in blood, the head barely holding on by a shred of flesh.

The driver was dead. His body began to shake in shock, nerves trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

George sent the fifth bullet in the chamber through bat boy’s heart. The muscle exploded out his back, moistening the street below. The other two Betas, bleeding profusely, began to beg off.

Cowards, thought George. Nothing but bullies and cowards.

His father shared a pearl with him once about bullies. It was many years ago. George had to have been eight or nine.

On a sunny summer afternoon, while sitting with his father talking about school bullies, he had told George, “Mijo, bullies are really just cowards. You shouldn’t be afraid of them. If you punch them right in the mouth or nose, they’ll leave you alone. They only like to pick on the weak. Show them you’re not, and they’ll leave you alone.”

George then hugged his dad.

“I love you, Mijo. Don’t be afraid.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

He remembered back in school how a couple of bullies had made his life miserable -taking his pens, teasing him, making him cry in front of his friends and girls he liked. No fun. George never avenged the wrongdoing by the bullies.

Then he thought, These fuckers probably did the same thing to somebody, somewhere, making their lives miserable… Hurting them, embarrassing them.

Two were bleeding and dead. Two were crying and begging for their own survival.

“Please, please don’t hurt me.”

“Please, don’t!”

Those were the same words George would cry in his youth. That same pain came back for a second. The universe was balancing out an old score. A past wrong would be righted, maybe not for George, but for a few. The universe pushed George to help its balancing act.

Prepared to unleash a furious anger, George was stopped by a sound beyond the crying of the frat boys. It was clear. Unmistakable.

Somewhere close, the moans of the living dead were marching towards them.

George was ready to burst the frat boys’ hearts with his gun, but he hesitated. Across the plaza, a large group of the undead were gathering and walking their way.

Swiftly, George removed the glass from the driver-side seat and opened the glove compartment to get more bullets. He hovered over the weeping and dying Betas as he reloaded.

He shouted, “How’s it feel now, huh?! C’mon, tell me! How’s it feel?!”

“Please, don’t hurt us! Please!”

“Take us with you! Please! Help us!”

“They’re gonna fuckin’ eat us! Please help us!”

George let it all out: “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

He shot both of the boys in both of their knees. Both cried out in agonizing pain. The zombies vocalized something in response, almost in harmony with the agonizing cries, the vibrations of their screams resonating in the bodies of the walking dead.

George leaned against the Cavalier and put his hands on his face. He began to cry over the screams of the dying and the moans of the dead.

Pulling himself together after a moment’s release, George reloaded his gun.

The creatures were seconds away as George sat down in the driver’s seat and caught his breath.

He started the car. He looked to his left. Clear, apart from the two frat boys who were making a futile and painful effort to move away from the advancing horde.

He looked straight ahead. Clear.

He looked to his right. No bat this time. All clear.

George closed the door and shifted to first as several of the zombies began to wail. More figures were walking from the plaza toward the bodies even as the first wave had already arrived. George heard the final screams of the frat boys as the zombies began to eat their flesh.

George drove away while the zombies devoured the Betas.

THE SUNNY MORNING sky held up an array of puffy, healthy white clouds. Birds glided in the wind. Butterflies flew across the highway as George drove along. He was surprised to see so many ghouls along the road. For every mile, there seemed to be at least three zombies stumbling along.

George was halfway between San Marcos and New Braunfels when something caught his eyes. In stark contrast to the barren road and serene countryside, George spotted what he thought was some sort of military checkpoint. As he began to slow to a stop, camouflaged and heavily armed soldiers walking around the barrier confirmed it was indeed a checkpoint.

George was now face to face with Homeland Security.

A large red gate with concertina wire stood next to a small tower. Sandbags were stacked on both sides of the tower and gate. Two large concrete slabs, (very much like the kind utilized to divide freeways,) were in front of the sandbags. A soldier was in a booth below the tower and several other soldiers stood behind the barrier. Behind the point, two humvees with cattle trailers were parked.

The guard in the tower alerted the others of the Cavalier’s presence. Several soldiers readied their weapons. The guard in the tower called over a megaphone to George.

“Halt. To the driver of the black vehicle. Halt. Do not move or attempt to leave.”

Five soldiers advanced through the now open gate, machine guns trained on the vehicle.

A butterfly landed on the Cavalier’s windshield wiper.

“You are not under attack. We are operatives of FEMA and Homeland Security. We are here to help.”

George was cursing under his breath. On one hand, he could put it in reverse and head another way, risking the soldiers firing on his vehicle and, more than likely, finishing him off.

A shot rang out. George flinched. A zombie near the car fell flat on its face.

The soldiers edged closer.

“Exit your vehicle with your hands behind your head. Lay face down on the ground.”

Goddammit, thought George. He considered the notion of jumping out of his car and running away on foot, but he knew it was a dumb choice. There was an obvious bullet-ridden conclusion if he went with that decision.

The soldiers surrounded the vehicle.

The butterfly flew away.

“Non-compliance will result in neutralization.”

A soldier opened the driver-side door.

The bottom line was, in George’s mind, that he wasn’t going to get any closer to home as a puddle of blood, so he chose to cooperate.

Forcing George’s hands behind his head, the soldiers dragged him out of the car and placed him face down on the ground. A soldier then brought George’s hands down to the back of his waist and cuffed him with a heavy duty zip tie.

- For his protection, of course.

Dust jumped into George’s eyes as he hit the ground. He tried to blink it away, but couldn’t.

He was then frisked and relieved of his wallet and his money.

One of the soldiers picked him up and led him away while the other four searched his vehicle. One acted as guard, capping the occasional zombie that shambled along, protecting the other three during their search of the Cavalier.

George was placed in the back of one of the cattle trailers behind the Hummers. He was given a bottle of water and very sarcastically told the giver, “Gee, that’s so generous of you.”

George sat in the trailer for over an hour before three new soldiers approached. One opened the back of the trailer, the other two trained their rifles on George. He didn’t like it so much and commented, “Is that really necessary? The whole gun pointing thing?”

The unarmed soldier smugly replied, “It’s for your protection and mine, sir.”

“Sure it is,” responded George.

“My name is Corporal Robert Johnson. I am a member of Homeland Security. I’m here to ask you some questions.”

Johnson was wearing the usual green camouflaged fatigues, with lots of various gear strapped around his waist and over his shoulders. He had a moustache and a buzz cut. He had pulled out a pen and a small blue notepad.

“Now, sir, your driver’s license shows that you are from Austin. Why have you not joined the FEMA centers up there as you have been ordered over the radio?”

“Don’t trust ya’ll, sir,” replied George swiftly.

After a bewildered look, Johnson made a note in the notepad. “What are you doing so far away from Austin?”

“Want to get home, sir.”

“Where’s home?”

“San Uvalde.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Seventy miles west of San Antonio.”

“Doesn’t matter, no one is allowed on the roads anymore. FEMA and the U.S. Military have full control. The U.S. has been put in a state of emergency.”

“Always has been since the ‘War Powers Act’ anyway. So what else is new?”

“Excuse me?” replied Johnson, puzzled at the remark.

“Never mind,” said George.

Johnson made another notation in his book. “Tell me where you got your weapons from.”

“Pistol’s mine. Machine gun was given to me in San Marcos.”

“Why do you have them?”

George made a face, but then answered, “Protection, sir. Seems the world is a little more dangerous today than it was a couple of days ago, don’t you think?”

Johnson jotted down a few more notes. A shot rang out. The four looked away for a moment, listened, then looked back at their business.

Johnson stood up. “Thank you, sir, we appreciate your coopera-tion.”

“Am I free to go sir?” asked George.

“No sir, you will be joining the locals at the New Braunfels FEMA center this evening at seven before it-”

“-Gets dark. Yeah, I know,” interrupted George. “What about my car?”

“It’s going to be impounded. You can retrieve it from FEMA after the state of emergency is over and you are released from the camp.”

“Fine, fine,” said George. “Can I at least have my wife’s photo back? It’s in my wallet. You know, where my money used to be?”

Johnson reached into his pocket, retrieved the wallet, searched through it until he found the photo, then removed the photo and tucked it into George’s breast pocket. He then said, “There you go, sir.”

Sneering contemptuously at George, the three soldiers closed the back of the trailer and locked it. Johnson told them, “Mark him as a red square when you get to the camp. Firearms possession, possible looter, possible insurgent.”

They walked away.

George was locked in the cattle trailer for the rest of the day while soldiers manned the checkpoint. He was given two bottles of water and a protein bar in the early afternoon. When he needed to piss, he was followed by a soldier. Always at gunpoint.

Just before it got dark, two soldiers manned the Hummer that the trailer was tied to. Alone in the back, George began the trip to the FEMA camp.

As night threw its black pall over Texas, George and the vehicle approached the FEMA camp in New Braunfels. The camouflaged Hummer was crossing the land at quite a clip. Along the way, the trooper manning the mounted gun was blasting zombies every now and then. Some of the shells tapped across the aluminum top of the trailer as George sat in the back. It wasn’t the most comfortable ride he ever took, and he wondered how the horses and other cattle that once rode in the back might have felt. He was surprised, though, that FEMA had the courtesy to clean out the requisitioned trailer, but the aroma of barnyard excrement still floated around George’s nose.