Bowie V. Ibarra (10 page)

A bright light began to show through the gaps in the trailer. George stood up to look through the gaps. He figured he was on the loop that circled the outskirts of New Braunfels because the lights of one of the high school stadiums seemed to be the direction they were headed.

FEMA had set up shop at the stadium. Hordes of zombies had massed around the stadium, spread out and unconcentrated, but in numbers.

Watching.

Clawing.

Waiting.

George remembered this stadium. It was the home of his personal archenemies, the New Braunfels Unicorns. George remembered in his youth when the Unicorns defeated the San Uvalde Marauders in the regional football playoffs. George was only in fourth grade, but he knew his cousin Aaron was on the team. Aaron was one of the stars of the team, playing wingback. He had sprinter speed and was skillful when handed the ball. George even kept the spirit ribbon his mother bought for him many years ago as a bitter memento of the sound defeat at the hands of the Unicorns.

George had his chance to take on his personal enemy when he was a senior in high school. Getting a chance to get a piece of the team that beat his cousin years ago was like a dream come true. George even went so far as to memorize from the scouting reports the names of the players he would be lined up against. During the game, George called out their names, promising a beheading.

The game was close, but the San Uvalde secondary was exploited by the quarterback, who kept the game in the air. The San Uvalde team was holding them on the ground, and even initiated their own ground attack. When it was over, San Uvalde had handed New Braunfels their first scoring touchdown on the ground for their season, though it wasn’t enough. San Uvalde lost 21-14.

But George got a chance to bash his personal enemies. It was a moment he would never forget.

The vehicle came to a stop by a gate near the stadium and began to open fire on the zombies near the gate. George watched them fall like slabs of meat to the ground. Once the area was clear, the gate was somehow mechanically opened, and the Hummer entered through the sandbagged and concertina-wired chain link fence, crushing the bodies of the dead. George was thrown around in the back of the trailer, banging up against the side. He knew they must be in as the jostling by the undead/dead speed bumps stopped. He sat up and watched through the gaps as the gate closed, moments before any zombie could get in. The humvee drove down a secured alleyway and came to another gate. It was opened after someone monitored the security. The gunner would have taken care of any monster that had beat the gate.

The camp, so it seemed, was secure again.

It was quite a lot for George to take in as he was led out of the back of the trailer. Along the fence line that spread all the way around the stadium were several towers, manned and armed. Spotlights shined into the darkness outside the stadium. Sandbags lined the gates, close to six feet high. The sizzle sound coming from the gates indicated to George that the fence was electrified.

George was led to the ticket booth that was the entrance to another gated area, one that ran the perimeter of the track around the football field, but immediately in front of the bleachers. The fence was high and concertina-wired. There were sandbags on the outside, but not on the inside, where thousands of locals had been unwillingly gathered. It was a fenced-off area within a fenced-off area. Civilians in the center, soldiers in the middle. Zombies, obviously, outside.

Standing by a ticket booth near yet another door with a small tower looming above, George, still cuffed, was digitally photo-graphed. Moments later, he was given an ID tag. His face, his name and his social security number were on it, along with a big read square. He was told that he was to wear it at all times. Not wearing the tag would result in neutralization.

The guard clipped the tag to the pocket of George’s flannel.

George was then led through the chain-linked door into a small fenced-off area about the size of the average bathroom. The door in front of him seemed to be locked magnetically. The door behind him was shut and locked. A guard on the other side of that door trained a machine gun on him as did a soldier in the tower right by the ticket booth and containment area. Looking ahead, George got his first glimpse of the people of the camp. There were many gathered by the magnetic door. Various voices were saying, “Fresh meat,” “We got a wetback here,” and “Another one for the Fours.” It was hard for George to concentrate on anything as there was so much to pay attention to.

“Step to the white X, please,” commanded a voice from the tower. Looking to the ground, George found the X. He stepped on it. “Face away from the gate please.” George obeyed, and a hand came through a small opening in the gate and cut the zip tie that had been bruising his wrists. George rubbed his wrists, still red from the bonds. A voice from behind told him to turn again. He was handed a blanket and a pillow.

The voice from the tower boomed, “Citizens by the gate, you have ten seconds to back away from the magnetic gate. Non compliance will result in neutralization.”

Quickly the people moved, though several made some uncomplimentary remarks under their breath. Most walked away from the gate entirely, while several stayed in the vicinity.

After confirmation of security, the magnetic gate buzzed open and George entered the camp. The gate then promptly closed behind him. Another buzz locked the door once again.

Gazing into the mass of people that littered the interior of the stadium, George couldn’t believe his eyes. There were so many people around him. It reminded him of being at a rock concert, but he figured no band would be playing today.

Several people were glaring at him as he passed them by and into the throbbing mass of people in the center. The field, from what he could see, seemed to be split into sections. At each end zone and around the track there were several large tents set up. The field itself seemed wide open with no tents but plenty of people. George noticed again how secure the bleachers were from the people on the field: electrified and razor wired. It seemed to effectively separate the people from the military. Soldiers populated the bleachers and the press boxes on both sides. Though it was assumed they should be guarding the place and the civilians, most seemed to be drinking or napping.

“New here?”

The question took George by surprise. He turned to see a large white guy standing behind him. He was wearing a black shirt, cowboy boots, and blue jeans. The shirt had a confederate flag on the front, faded, but still worn proudly.

The man continued, “You need to head over to the other end zone, ‘cause Mexicans aren’t allowed on this end.”

Taken aback by the remark, George responded, “Well, good thing I was born a Texan. But if I see a Mexican, I’ll be sure to tell them to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

The man started to stomp toward George when a girl came between them. “Josh, stop it,” she said to the big man. “Leave him alone. You’re going to get in trouble and they’ll red square you!”

Josh glared at the girl, then looked at George. “You watch your ass.”

“Aw, fuck off,” said George as he turned around and walked away.

After an hour or two of wandering around the place, (and losing his blanket and pillow in the process,) George figured he found the area where food was served. It was along the track on the visitor side under a large blue tent. He also figured out where the medics would be, on the home track under a red tent. Most of the other tents were for the military and internal guards. He noticed several packs of soldiers patrolling the area, machine guns at ready.

George was a bit discouraged, standing near the thirty-yard line on the home side. Finding a place to sit or lie down wasn’t easy, as many people in the facility had already claimed a spot in what seemed to be a sleeping area near the forty-yard line on the visitors side of the field. Instead, George looked around at all the faces. Many young and many old. Many seemed sick or hungry. Even in the cool spring night, the wind couldn’t blow away the body odor.

Behind each of the end zones near the gates were five portable restrooms. Deciding he would need to explore more to find a place to rest, George started walking again.

Just as he began his stroll, a voice called to him.

“Hey, you. In the flannel.”

George turned and saw the girl who had kept Josh at bay almost two hours earlier. She had short bleached blond hair, very thin, but a complement to her elfish face. A small curved nose sat below two bright blue eyes and above her thin lips. She was slender and her body was soft. She was wearing a light blue overall outfit that was cut short. A white shirt was underneath. White shoes and lacy ankle socks rounded out her attire. She was very cute, though seemed very young.

After a moment of taking her in, George quickly responded, “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“No trouble. Just thought I’d apologize for my brother. He’s kind of a prick.”

Wanting to comment on that remark, George instead said, “I accept your apology. I forgive your brother.”

She extended her hand to George. “I’m Misty.”

George accepted her soft hand. “George. Charmed.” He gave a small, chivalrous nod in lieu of a bow, then motioned around and asked, “So what’s the story here, Misty?”

“It sucks, that’s the story,” she replied.

George chuckled politely. They began to stroll around and among the people in the stadium.

Misty explained, “At first the soldiers and medical people were real nice. People started coming in around three days ago. A lot were gathered by the military that afternoon.“

George passed two kids. One was playing a hand-held video game. The other was watching.

“Anyway,” continued Misty, “They were very helpful and nice to everybody. But yesterday the medical people just up and left. There’s some sick people in here, too. A couple of people had been bit and were very sick.”

“You mean they’re still in here?”

“Yeah. They’re with their families.”

“Misty, don’t they know that they’re dead already? The bite gives them the infection.”

“I know, but the family won’t let anyone near.”

“Fuckin’ stupid if you ask me.”

They strolled in silence for a second, watching the people bustling around them. “So what else?”

“Well, along with the medics, soldiers started leaving too. There’s not as many now as there were before. We don’t feel so safe now. Especially…” Misty paused.

“Especially what?” asked George.

They passed a young girl who was in the embrace of her mother, both wrapped in a blanket, both weeping.

“Especially when they started taking girls. Little ones, teenagers, ones that wouldn’t put up a fight. Ones without families to stick up for them.”

“What are you talking about?” asked George, though he knew the probable answer.

“They’d take them to the locker rooms over behind the fence. Over there by the port-a-potties.”

“Aw, fuckin’ shit, man,” said George, “That’s bullshit. How can the people stand for that? The way it seems, we could take them if we wanted to.” He gestured at all the people.

“They’ve got so many guns, we couldn’t do anything without getting shot. And anyway, everyone still feels safe. Except for the…,” Misty stopped again. She looked at George’s ID tag.

“Dammit, Misty, just tell me, alright!”

“Except for the red squares. Every couple of times a day, the inner guards round up a few, take them up the bleachers, and toss them outside the gate from the top of the press box. My uncle Brandon says they‘re saving ammunition.”

George looked at his tag and gulped. After a moment, he changed the subject. “The way it looks to me, though, is that everyone is either sick or hungry.” They passed an elderly couple. The old man was helping the old woman drink from a tin water cup. Misty nodded her head in agreement. George asked, “What about food? Do they still feed ya’ll?”

“They put food out under those tents,” Misty replied, pointing. “But stronger people get in first, bullying people in line, leaving little to nothing for us. The weak want to leave, but can’t. The strong want to stay for as long as possible.”

“Won’t be long at this rate,” George mumbled.

“What’s worse is the people in here have started forming gangs. From day one. They’ve claimed sections of the field. The big ones are in each of the four corners of the field.”

“What do they do?”

“They’ve been beating up people, taking their food and money. It sucks.”

“Your brother?”

“He’s a three.”

“Three?”

Misty pointed in the general direction of the corners. “One, two, three, four.”

“Oh, okay,” said George.

“The Ones are mainly regular people who don’t want any trouble. Most of the people officially or unofficially belong to them. The Twos are blacks, Threes whites, Fours ‘meskins’.”

George winced at the dialect.

“The middle of the field is supposed to be neutral ground. But mostly they all just pick fights with each other.”

“And if you don’t want in?”

“Then you get fucked up anyway,” boomed a voice from behind them. It was Josh. “You need to keep your wetback ass away from my sister and head over to the Fours if you know what’s good for you.”

An Asian guy walked by George. George grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey man, what’s your name?”

The man was a bit rattled, but responded, “Eric.”

George then looked at Josh. “What about Eric? Where does he go?”

Josh was dumbfounded for a moment. “Uhh…”

Misty chuckled.

Josh backhanded her. “It’s not funny, Misty!” he yelled.

George delivered a solid shot to Josh’s crotch, burying his knuckles deep and doubling the big galoot over. As an afterthought, George clutched Josh’s head and drove two fierce knees against his skull. The second one sent Josh to the ground.