Down the Road: The Fall of Austin by Bowie Ibarra Read Free Book Online Page B

was Rodriguez’s hanger-on, more for
the fact that Rodriguez would stand up for him not necessarily as a
friend, but as an excuse to lash out and bully anyone he could.
    “How can you fuck Noble’s mom when Garrison
always has your dick in his mouth?” asked Spc. Goodson, smirking.
Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, he looked more like a model than a
soldier. The cowardly Garrison unconsciously shifted in his seat in
defense.
    “At least I have a dick, you faggot,”
Rodriguez said before Sgt. Arnold broke up the festivities.
    “All you dumb fucks need to shut the fuck
up!” Sgt. Arnold barked.
    “Neither I or Sgt. Nickson have been told by
command what’s going on, specifically. All we know is we are to
secure the Texas state capitol by 0600 hours. What that means, I
don’t know. But we’re not going to do it if we don’t work together.
The fact that they’ve equipped us with some really good
shit—” Sgt. Arnold indicated the Heckler & Koch HK416s instead
of the standard outdated M4 Carbines, “—says a lot to me. So quit
this dumb shit and shut the fuck up!”
    Sgt. Nickson smirked, and so did his men. The
tension between the two rival fireteams was as palatable as
drinking a bowl of Tabasco sauce.
    There was, however, one exception. On
Nickson’s side, sitting stoically, was Specialist Daniel Talltree.
His long black hair was tied in two braids behind his head. Being
Native American, he was allowed to keep his hair long. His dark
hands held fast to his HK416, though a sniper rifle was held in its
case, disassembled, on his gear. His dark brown facial features
were strong and severe, clearly indicating his ancestors did not
come over on the Mayflower. Gazing into an upper corner of the
vehicle, he concentrated on ignoring his partners and focusing his
energy on the approaching mission.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    12:14 AM
    APD Cruiser 864 en route to downtown
hospital
     
    The plague, having exposed itself to Officers
Mike Runyard and Derek Tucker, was stabbing the officers in the
heart like a jagged knife of fear. It was clear to them this
problem was spreading and no one was telling them what they needed
to do.
    “Clark, how’s Roland?” Mike asked over the
CB.
    “He’s not looking so good,” came the
reply.
    “Just keep talking to him. Keep him
concentrating on something.”
    Pot smoke wafted into the front of the car
again as Charlie exhaled. Charlie and the girl were relaxing,
shoulder to shoulder, in the back seat. The weed diluted their pain
with waves of Caribbean ease and a reggae beat.
    “I guess ya’ll are doing just fine,” Derek
commented. The second hand smoke was taking an effect on him as
well, tempering his fear with a dash of paranoia. There was a time
when they would have never tolerated smoke from the back seat.
Tonight saw that stern guideline tossed to the wayside. Besides,
the passengers were placated by the cosmic bud, despite their
intense pain.
    “Things are very good, sire,” came the reply
from the girl.
    “Sire?” Charlie chuckled. “Sir.” They both
laughed. “What are we, serfs on the fife?” The laughter continued,
a gentle melody in the growing chaos outside the car.
    “A fife’s a flute.”
    “No, it’s not.”
    Laughter.
    As the potheads laughed it up, Mike and Derek
observed the outside world on William Cannon. It was a bizarre
combination of regular life and intense chaos.
    On one city block, people waited for the
arrival of a late night Capitol Metro bus. On another corner, the
fire department was handling a situation at a gas station. Further
up the road at another bus stop, a fight was underway between
homeless people. At the Whataburger by the highway, a large crowd
had gathered around the restaurant, looking inside.
    It was becoming perfectly clear to the two
officers that the world had been flipped head over heels into the
l9th ring of hell, and it was only going to get crazier.
    The girl, who no one cared to ask her proper
name, took a long final hit