Bowie V. Ibarra (2 page)

Before he walked out of his apartment for the last time, George grabbed one of his custom tapes that was on the floor by the door. It was his “Fightin’ Music” tape, filled with music that inspired him to combat. It was used during his High School football days to fire him up before a game. If today was a football game, it was 1st and 10 with 200-some odd miles to go. San Uvalde was the goal line. It used to be a simple two and a half hour drive on a Saturday morning. Now it looked like it might take a little bit longer to get down the road.

George’s black ultralite boots were comfortable, as well as his faded blue Wranglers. He put on his red and black checkered flannel over his “APA Protection” t-shirt and picked up his bag.

George closed the door behind him.

He didn’t bother to lock it.

LOOKING OUT OVER the patio area of the third floor, George caught a glimpse of some neighbors down the street packing their goods into the back of a U-Haul. The parking lot, in general, was particularly barren. Even though most of the tenants would be clocking out at around this time from their lower middle-class jobs, the sparseness of automobiles in the parking lot sent a grave feeling through George’s mind.

Maybe I’m late! Maybe everyone has already left, and I’m late!

Machine gun fire in the shopping center next to the apartment complex shook George back to reality. “Just get moving, dumbass,” he said aloud. He began descending the stairway. His bag hung from his right hand, a little heavy, but not enough to hamper him.

As George hit the bottom of the stairway, something hit his nose like a brick -or more like a brick shithouse. It reeked, bad. George gagged as he stepped back up the stairs to avoid the stench.

“What the hell is that?!” he exclaimed, lifting his black shirt to cover his nose. The odor stunk like a stack of dead animals, or like a homeless guy sitting on the side of the street -The kind with the ‘I’m not going to lie, I want a beer,’ signs. George hated those unfortunate bastards.

But it wasn’t the same stench. It was something else. It took a quick glance toward the parking lot to his right for George to figure out where the stench was coming from. Walking across the lot, between the buildings, was a slow-moving ragged person. It looked like a homeless guy, in all honesty, but the walk was something different. The person walked in a slow stagger, rocking back and forth as it stepped.

As his pulse began to quicken, George knew that the figure was one of those creatures, the ones the news and the rest of the nation was crapping their collective pants over. He had now seen his first living dead creature, and it fascinated him.

How the hell are these broke-down, slow pieces of crap taking this nation by the balls, he wondered.

He put down his gear and slowly began moving towards the creature.

“I can take this one,” he stated with bravado. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

Walking down the sidewalk between the buildings to his right and left, and the lots in front and behind him, George noticed the stench getting stronger. “Damn, you’re one stinky motherfucker,” he uttered. He took a moment and looked at the apartment doors to his right and left. On the right side the door was wide open, but it appeared to have been looted. He wasn’t going to go near it.

“I can do this,” he reassured himself. “I’m better than them.”

Then, as George turned to his left a creature grabbed him around the waist and ungracefully tackled him, bringing him to the ground. He hadn’t even seen it -It must have been hiding in the doorway to his left.

The sneaky fucker.

George and the creature both landed with an awkward thud. George let out a loud scream, but caught his breath and began to scramble on the ground, breaking the grip that was surprisingly strong around his waist. Adrenaline and fear pulsed through his veins.

George was surprised at his instinct. It was a simple counter to a waist lock that he had learned in college while taking a basic amateur wrestling class. George took many martial arts classes, with western boxing being his most proficient skill, even though he lost a controversial decision at a boxing toughman competition held by the university fraternities. He had trained very hard for the fight and mixed it up well, but he felt he had been set up as a patsy for some juiced-up fraternity type.

Even though he had extensive training in western boxing, the wrestling still stood out to him mostly because he wished he had taken it longer.

The wrestling instructor, a short, goateed man named Sam Eaker, taught the counter on the first day of his class. It was a basic move - a valuable move -but George remembered how inefficient it seemed at the time. The maneuver seemed too slow and kind of looked like something professional wrestlers would do.

And that was hardly practical.

However, today, it worked. And it might have helped that his current opponent wasn’t nearly as agile as a living person.

Making his way to his feet, George swiftly turned around. Though the monster was tricky getting George to the ground, it was struggling just to regain its footing.

With intention, George reeled back his foot and delivered a massive kick to the creature’s mouth with his heavy black boots. The creature’s jaw repositioned itself and its mouth became a bloody mess as several teeth fell to the pavement and clattered across the concrete. Soon after, its head smacked the ground.

The ghoul flinched, but then tried to bring itself to its feet again. Raising his right foot, George maliciously stomped on its head, forcing it to smack against the sidewalk. The creature flinched again and tried to move, but George followed up with five more stomps to the head and face, the fifth bringing a cracking sound to his ears.

The ghoul didn’t move after that.

Looking up, George noticed that he had caught the attention of the homeless creature and it was making its way to him.

Way to go, stupid, thought George, as the creature continued to amble forward.

He wasn’t going to take another foolish risk. He knew he was good and could handle himself in a fight, but now he realized with certainly exactly why the nationwide crisis was getting out of control. After all, all it took was one bite from a dead creature -one lucky bite -and another poor soul was infected, destined to become one of them. He wondered how many people cockily faced one of the creatures as he just had, only to not be as lucky as he was.

George ran back to the stairway, got his gear, and carefully strode to his car, his eyes constantly surveying the lot for danger.

All clear.

GEORGE PUT THE key in the ignition and started the vehicle, his gear having been stuffed hastily in the back seat. The car was a black 1993 two door Chevy Cavalier. It was a dependable vehicle, getting him through college and beyond, and held quite a lot of sentimental value. Though the paint was beginning to fade and the tape deck had had to be replaced, George held his vehicle in high regard, even going so far as to christen it, “The Chevalier.” It had made that journey down the road to San Uvalde many times before, whether it was from Beeville near the Texas coast, Canyon up in the Texas panhandle, or San Marcos where George finished his schooling.

“Alright, bud,” whispered George, “Do it one more time.”

As the car warmed up, George looked in the rearview mirror. The homeless creature was halfway down the path where the scuffle had taken place, shuffling toward the vehicle. Far enough away that George was safe, but close enough to give him the chills.

He pushed in the clutch and shifted into reverse. The Cavalier glided backwards, and shifting into first gear, George directed the vehicle to the front gate of the apartment complex.

As he drove to the gate, he switched on the radio. A stern male voice boomed through the speakers.

“…No longer allowed to seek occupancy in any private residence or property anywhere. Citizens found to be occupying private residences will be fined and incarcerated.”

Bastards, thought George. Looks like FEMA and Homeland Security utilized the black box.

The black box was a device all radio stations were required to have installed into their main system by the FCC. The box allowed FEMA and the federal government to immediately requisition every radio station with these boxes during a state of emergency. Once utilized, they would relay messages to the masses about what they need to do next. He didn’t expect the messages to be so menacing.

And people thought FEMA camps were a joke, he mused.

“Once again, citizens are to report to the nearest FEMA center in or near their place of residence. A state of emergency has been implemented by Homeland Security across the nation. You are no longer allowed to seek occupancy in any private residence or property anywhere, regardless of how safe you might be. Citizens found to be occupying private residences will be fined and incarcerated.”

“Incarcerated,” George echoed. “Sounds the same as being in a FEMA camp to me. What a crock of shit.”

One of George’s friends, Bogart Sylvan, once commented to George that he sure did cuss a lot for being a school teacher. In a way, Bogart was right. However, George was the consummate gentleman and teacher at school and -for the most part -in public. A teacher’s reputation is always secretly scrutinized by the world around them, including their own colleagues. However, on this day, George was alone and always allowed himself to express the fear and anger he sometimes held inside himself. George was, by nature, a kind-hearted person, but holding in frustrations from disrespectful students, work pressures, and broken relationships made for an always tense George Zaragosa.

With the gate wide open now, George shifted to first and put his foot on the accelerator and turned the corner toward the highway.

“Holy shit,” he mouthed as he looked out onto the interstate and adjoining access road, both of which were congested with cars leaving Austin. Some were staying in line. Others were blazing their own trail. He gritted, “I ain’t got time for this,” as he pulled on to the access road.

“The only safety for you and your family is in the nearest FEMA center in your area. We cannot stress this enough. The FEMA center is equipped to protect and provide for you and your family while this crisis is contained by members of Homeland Security.”

“Contained,” mocked George. “Whatever.”

“The bodies of the recently deceased are returning to life and attacking the living. If you are approached by one of these creatures, there are simple measures that can be utilized to protect yourself. Blunt trauma to the head or spine or a gunshot to the head or spine will immobilize the monster. You are discouraged though from using a firearm within the city limits and are subject to local and federal laws regarding firearms if you choose to use a firearm to immobilize a creature. If local law enforcement or members of Homeland Security find firearms while securing your family from your property, you will be subject to possible interrogation and incarceration.”

“Goddamn! What a load of shit!” George shouted. He flicked off the radio in disgust and slid one of his mix tapes into the tape player. It was his Classical music mix.Albinoni’s adagio began to play as he continued down the road.

The cars were moving, but in a very erratic fashion. However, at least they were moving. As George drove, he noticed just down the way that several vehicles had stopped after a small fender-bender.

What the hell are they stopping for, he wondered. They’re crazy if they want the cops to sort this out.

Looking into the ditch between the highway and the access road, George saw an overturned Chevy Blazer. Luggage was strewn around the vehicle. The driver, a blond guy in a blue shirt and slacks, was scratching his head while his three passengers were trying to roll the vehicle right side up again.

Good luck with that, he thought.

Two sets of lights were flashing off to the left of George near the concrete median in the middle of the interstate. They were Austin police cars. Looking closer, he noticed they were empty.

What’s that all about?

As he came over the hill, George saw on the highway an 18-wheeler was overturned, smoke rising from its underbelly. Traffic began to slow a bit in his lane until it came to a stop.

“Dammit,” he mouthed, steaming. He squinted his eyes to try to see farther ahead, and that was when he saw two policemen - probably the same ones from the empty cruiser -walking between cars, issuing tickets to drivers. Some drivers were leaning out their windows, obviously cursing, while others were taking their tickets passively as if they saw no other option.

Fucking unbelievable.

George looked to the side of the road. Several cars were lined up along the shoulder. Beside the cars were people sitting in handcuffs. Two small children were also in bonds.

“What the fuck is this shit,” said George as he looked back toward the cops for an explanation. Watching one of them, he noticed money changing hands. “Oh, what a horse-drawn carriage of bullshit!” he gritted. The cops seemed to be demanding payments for the tickets immediately. If you didn’t have the cash, they were sending you to jail.

He stopped his car and waited for them to approach. He rolled down his window.

Next to him on his left was a large Dodge Ram. It was maroon, jacked up somewhat on some big wheels, and had a fierce metal grill guard on the front with a winch. It was one of those gas-guzzling vehicles, the ones environmentalists crapped themselves over.

George noticed that that vehicle’s window was also rolled down. The driver, a kicker-looking fellow with a worn cowboy hat, sat glum-faced and frustrated.

George called to him, “What a load of bullshit, huh?!”

The driver looked over, and without missing a beat, replied, “You’re telling me. I don’t have any money for these cocksuckers. My family’s waiting for me in Koehl. We’re heading into the hills. Homeland Security doesn’t make me feel so secure with their machine guns and all, and I’m not much for this FEMA center idea.”