Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (25 page)

The vehicles in the convoy, including the
Hummer, circled around the establishment like a wagon train,
creating a perimeter of protection. Any zombie that wasn’t run over
and mangled was shot in the head by armed men in the back of the
vehicles.

A second pair of cholos moved with guns and
tools to a nearby standalone ATM to liberate it of its contents.
With the skillful efficiency of a team that had done this job
several times already, the zombies were held at bay until the
machine was spitting out nothing but dry heaves. And in a
respectable time of two minutes and forty-seven seconds, the duo
was finished, returning to their vehicle entirely unscathed.

Now all they had to do was wait on their
tacos and sodas.

* * *

Under pressure and exposed, Sgt. Nickson and
Spc. Garrison continued securing the costume shop. Nickson knew
Sgt. Arnold was close, and was gambling that the very well
organized thugs would not notice him and his partner as they went
about their own business.

But then a stray bullet cracked through the
shop’s display window and set off an exterior alarm.

A cry of pain was heard from above.

Nickson heard it. The alarm had just busted
some poor sap’s eardrums.

He got Garrison’s attention. He put a finger
to his lips, then pointed to the roof.

The alarm sang its chorus of clapping iron as
the men continued firing on the final Virals around the
building.

* * *

The truck from the convoy, with the Mexican
flag on the hood, peeled off to investigate the alarm.

Inside the restaurant, the manager made a
gesture suggesting there was someone on the roof. One of the cholos
took notice, and since the tacos were going to take a few more
minutes, offered to investigate.

* * *

The shrill alarm took all auditory perception
from Fireteam Arnold. They sat huddled in irritation on the
rooftop.

Sgt. Arnold carefully peered over the side.
Nickson and Garrison were now nowhere to be seen in the front
parking lot. He didn’t need to look on the side of the building. He
knew that was where they were, and they were about to attack.

He needed to tell his team that they might
soon find a grenade lobbed at them, and if they did they needed to
pinch that son of a bitch off and toss it back. But there was no
way he could give orders over top of the alarm.

Thankfully his stressed expression was easily
interpreted. Knight, Noble and Parcells nodded understandingly.

They got ready.

* * *

Spc. Garrison located the ladder on the side
of
Bizarro
that led to the roof, but a souped-up Mexican
mauler was approaching and its passengers were primed to
disembark.

“Goddamn looters got some balls to come after
us,” Sgt. Nickson said. He could barely be heard over the
alarm.

Knowing it was going to take some time to
negotiate the wall and investigate the roof, he and Garrison backed
up and planned their response.

“We’re in a tight spot, Sarge. Should we let
them find Arnold and his men?”

“They’ll find us before they find Arnold,”
Nickson said. “Reload your shit.” Though their magazines were not
empty, he wanted them both to have a fresh load for their
pre-emptive strike.

All the men from the vehicle, with the
exception of the driver, disembarked and approached the store. They
carried assault rifles, firing at nearby zombies who were shuffling
to the initial skirmish.

Nickson gritted, “Oh fuck do they have some
firepower.”

* * *

Spc. Talltree’s observation of the happenings
at the costume store on the other side of the road was interrupted
when he heard a metallic clanking sound. He snapped his head around
and saw the metal portal that led from the roof to the interior of
the building. The noise was coming from there.

The lock wiggled and the hatch swung open,
held upright by a thug in an orange bodysuit. Talltree quietly
scampered over on his knees and forearms. He placed his arms at his
sides and put his legs together, making himself as narrow as
possible. There he lay, barely concealed on the other side of the
upright hatch, hatchet in his grip just in case.

The orange-clad thug climbed a couple more
rungs of the ladder until his full torso showed over the rooftop.
He squinted his eyes against the sun, probing.

Talltree visualized dropping the hatchet in
the back of the man’s head. His arms tensed. His fingers itched on
the handle.

The thug was all but dead when someone from
within the restaurant yelled, “Ducky! Tacos are ready!” He answered
back, “Announce it to the whole neighborhood, Mousetrap!”

He gave up his investigation and went back
down the ladder.

Talltree waited for the lock to slide back
into place from the other side before exhaling his minute-old
air.

He crept back to his original observation
point on the roof and watched the thug—who had just missed out on
having a hatchet planted in the back of his skull Friday the 13th
style—jump in the bed of the Zapata war wagon, never even knowing
how lucky he was as he contentedly took his first bite of breakfast
taco.

* * *

Sgt. Nickson and Spc. Garrison dashed into
the open from their soon-to-be exposed position on the other side
of
Bizarro
, opening fire and moving parallel with the
wall.

Three of the six looters that had been
investigating were immediately hit, dropping to the pavement with
mortal wounds. The other three lifted their assault rifles and
returned fire, but they were no match for the soldiers’ experience
and skill. Soon the other three were dead too.

The driver of the Mexican flag truck gunned
the engine and shifted into reverse before Garrison could
requisition it. He fired on the driver, wounding him, as the driver
was racing back to the restaurant.

The remnants of Fireteam Nickson, triumphant,
were cut short of their victory celebration as bullets were fired
at them from above.

Goddamn you, Arnold!

Nickson and Garrison scrambled to take cover
behind an overturned Jeep Liberty. Its exposed undercarriage
bellowed smoke.

They were panicking as they checked the
wounds they received. Nickson’s calf muscle was busted. Garrison
was struck in the hand, and everything from the second knuckle up
on his index and middle finger was missing. Only bloody stumps
remained.

“We... we gotta... watch for Virals,” Nickson
hissed through painful intakes of air.

“Not Virals, Sarge,” Garrison corrected.

Nickson looked up. Though he and Garrison
were protected from Fireteam Arnold’s gunfire by the metal husk of
the Jeep Liberty, there was nothing obstructing them from the gang
of looters.

Trucks revved and grumbled like demonic
minions. They were on their way back.

“They’re going to kill us,” Garrison
whimpered.

“Put your gun down and raise your hands,”
Nickson said.

“What?!”

“We’re no good to anyone dead. That’s an
order.”

The two men resigned themselves to
surrender.

The trucks pulled up and the looters zapped
nearby zombies before training their guns on the soldiers. One
yelled something at Nickson that Nickson could not understand. He
assumed it had something to do with their dead friends, but didn’t
answer. The man pointed to two men in the bed of one of the trucks,
giving a command in Spanish. Two thugs with duct tape exited the
vehicle and proceeded to wrap Nickson and Garrison’s wrists behind
their backs, then their ankles.

“
Ay mas?
” a looter asked.

“More of you?” asked another, who could speak
English.

Nickson smirked, but had to restrain himself
from laughing openly. He nodded his head and indicated the roof of
the costume store.

A man then slapped a strip of duct tape over
Nickson’s mouth, then Garrison’s.

Two thugs were sent around the side of the
building while another two men ran into the store.

The two in the back found the locked ladder.
Both were wily enough from their lives of crime and athletic enough
from vast amounts of prison exercise that they bypassed the locked
ladder and headed to the roof.

They found smoldering empty bullet casings.
But that was it.

* * *

Sgt. Arnold and his team took a deep breath.
They were hidden in the brush, and were banking on the thugs giving
up the search. But each one of them saw what they had started their
morning looking for. Gazing from the brush to the restaurant up
ahead, they saw the Hummer.

“That’s the one,” Spc. Parcells said.

Nearby, a ghoul groaned.

9:20 AM

Texas State Capitol

Captain Barrigan was sorting through briefs
in the communication tent once again, scanning for any more
messages or codes that would indicate what Fort Hood knew about the
missing Hummer. A knot had been twisting in his gut since the first
message. He assured himself, though, that everything would be all
right, but regretted not providing Nickson and his team with
communication devices.

At the time he hadn’t wanted to know what
they were up to.

One of the communication officers turned to
Barrigan and handed him another note.

The desk is in the center
.

Barrigan shredded the note with his
hands.

There would be no more orders coming through.
Fort Hood had been compromised.

12:05 PM

South Point Apartments

Keri Lawrence spent most of the morning
re-outfitting herself. None of the sneakers in the apartment would
fit her small feet, so she knew she was stuck with what she had:
her completely unsuitable charcoal-colored
Skechers
-brand
designer cuffed knee-high boots with suede texture that cost her a
hundred and thirty-nine dollars of a teacher’s pitiful salary
on
sale
.

Why did I wear these
, she asked
herself.

—
Oh yeah.
‘
Cause Chris dumped me. I
had to go and want to feel all sexy to avoid post-breakup
depression. Fish for compliments like a troll.

It had taken a lot of self-cajoling before
finally being able to slice off a portion of the heels to make them
more suitable for the conditions she currently found herself in.
She paced around in them for a while in the living room to get
accustomed to the new feel.

Though the rightful tenant wasn’t a very
large man, all his clothes were very big on her. The best she could
find was an Old Navy button-up shirt in the closet. It was light,
but the material seemed tough. It could probably withstand tearing
if one of those walking corpses latched onto her.

Lastly she found a pair of brown cargo
shorts—shorts to the rightful owner, anyway. On her they reached
all the way down to the middle of her calves. And she had had to
carve a new notch in a belt just to keep them up on her waist.

But it was after finding the belt that she
had discovered something that completely unhinged her.

All morning she tried not to let Mike notice
her apprehension.

After showering, she stood in front of the
bathroom mirror and brushed her teeth. Knowing what she now knew,
she didn’t feel so strange using the rightful tenant’s
toothbrush.

Mike stood behind her, leaning against the
wall, dabbing a new dose of hydrogen peroxide over the scrapes on
his arms. She watched him in the mirror, and though he was mostly
focused on his arms, she occasionally caught his eyes wandering
over to her posterior. How it looked appealing at all in baggy
cargos, she didn’t know.

She sighed and said, “Just do it and get it
over with, Mike Runyard. A couple of wayward students have done it
before, so why should I care if you do?”

He looked up and met her gaze in the mirror.
He said, “Do what?”

“Grab my ass.”

He chuckled awkwardly. After several seconds,
during which she didn’t drop her glare, he said uneasily, “I—I can
never tell when you’re joking or when you’re being serious.”

“What does my expression say to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’ve been acting
really irritated for a while. I know we’ve got a lot to process
right now, but—”

“Are you even really a cop, Mike Runyard?”
she blurted.

He stood aghast. He stuttered, “Yeah, of
course I am. I—last night... I thought we came to an
understanding—that you trusted me.”

“How did you really find this apartment?” she
asked, turning around to face him fully now. “No more bullshit that
you just stumbled here.”

“I stumbled here—literally—much like you did.
Some maniac hit me with his car. I tried to get into other places,
but this was the first one I found unlocked. Really, end of
story.”

She shook her head. “Stop it,” she said. “How
do you know the guy that owns this place?”

“I don’t. Do
you
?”

Keri lifted the towel off the hamper that
concealed what she had found tucked into the Bible on the coffee
table earlier. She picked it up and thrust it into Mike’s hands. He
accepted it, (though he had no choice,) then looked down to see
exactly what it was:

A 5x7 photograph of a smiling woman with a
round face, brown eyes, and long black hair. She was pretty, and
seemed like she might be the pleasant, approachable type.

Mike looked up from the photograph, confused.
“I, um, don’t know her.”

“Her name’s
Esparanza
,” Keri said. “I
know because I met her. She was a co-worker’s fiancée. He brought
her to a PTA party one time. She was murdered six months ago.”