Bowie V. Ibarra (7 page)

They sat in silence for a few moments, meditating.

George whispered, “I guess I just feel like I tarnished her memory.”

“That’s ridiculous, and I’ll tell you why.” She got comfortable on the bed, looking into George’s eyes. “You came all this way for her, for her gift. You risked great danger to be here today, all to honor her memory. You did that. Hell, you did more for her now than most men do for their lovers and wives when they’re alive. That’s special. That’s very special!”

They sat again in silence, contemplating the comments.

George thought about his day. Leaving the apartment, the news, I-35, killing the cops, fighting the zombies, the car in the ditch.

Keri put her hand on George’s cheek and gazed into his eyes. “You’re very special, George. Esparanza was lucky to have a fiancée as sweet as you, and I’m so glad I have a friend like you. Please George, be here, be now. This moment together, to support each other, to care for each other, to love each other, might be all we have left.”

She’s right, thought George. All that lay ahead of the two was unknown. A legitimate threat would loom over their lives when they left the building, perhaps forever. George knew the importance of life, especially after today.

He also knew the importance of love. It was love for his family that sent him on his journey down the road. It was love for Esparanza that brought him here. And it was love for the beauty in Keri’s heart that brought George’s lips to hers once again.

“Thank you, Keri. Thank you.”

After a moment, they relaxed. As they repositioned themselves for sleep, George asked a question.

“Keri?”

“Yeah?”

“What in the world were you doing here anyway?”

“Entering grades. I guess I was in denial, huh?”

“No shit you were in denial.”

After taking time to find a comfortable spot in and around each other, they shared a final kiss and drifted off to sleep.

THE BACK ROADS into San Marcos looked similar to the road to Branton. Crashes, carnage, and corpses littered the path of the Cavalier. In several instances, zombies waddled from a wreck or the brush to try and take the vehicle and its passenger. But the Cavalier’s speed always kept it from any real danger. George knew things were different in San Marcos than they were in Koehl. The number of dead walking the roads was one indication, the smoke flowing into the sky from the city was another.

The morning had started pleasantly enough. George and Keri got their clothes and gear together, then had one last hurrah, (so to speak,) on the beds in the nurses office before making their way to their respective vehicles. It was a mad dash to Keri’s car, and a brief scuffle with the undead brought some tension to the moment. But their swiftness to the vehicle checked any aggression toward the two. Keri drove George to his vehicle.

Keri wanted to head back to Austin. She knew that it might be a mess by now, and the roads might be peppered with monsters if George’s stories were any measure of truth. She wanted to try to contact her family in Houston if the phones still worked before holing herself up in her apartment, or maybe with some friends. Like George, she wasn’t much for the FEMA camp idea either, and certainly didn‘t trust any member of Homeland Security.

George wanted to take a back road through San Marcos, New Braunfels, and into San Antonio to get to San Uvalde.

With a last kiss, they said goodbye before a crowd could gather, driving off in different directions.

George hit the back roads to get to San Marcos. On the drive, he ejected his tape and put on the radio station. The first station had an announcement. He tuned to another, which was playing the same announcement. A third, the same.

I guess FEMA has completely taken over the airwaves.

On his fifth try, George found a pirate radio station. He set it to his dial. The song was “My eyes adored you” -One of George’s favorites. He listened to the song to the end, then changed it when they started playing Clay Aiken.

On his seventh try he found another. He set it to the dial. This station was a stark contrast to the FEMA controlled stations. This one was actually encouraging people to hole up in their homes or someplace with their family and friends and to get as many weapons, guns, and ammunition possible. It also instructed how to find food and how to purify water.

Sweet, thought George.

The anti-takeover station continued to give information as George hit 35. It was a mess, and an out-and-out demolition derby with other drivers just to get to where he was now, a back road entering San Marcos from the east. No real damage was sustained to the black Cavalier apart from some scrapes and bumps to the exterior.

And now, this road. Dead walking. Cars in flames. Flesh being eaten. A sign of the times.

A light flashed on the Cavalier’s dashboard. Gas low.

Fortunately, there was a gas station down the road.

Post Road. A line of trees loomed over the pavement and wreckage as George worked his way down it. It was a familiar road, taken by George and his friends when they traveled to and from Austin. It was a shortcut that took them straight back to their apartments, which were near the end of the road and away from the stop lights of San Marcos.

George crossed a bridge and drove past the trailer park near his old apartment. Well, what was left of the park. Most of it was in flames.

George passed two cemeteries on the way. The cemeteries were over a century old. He remembered where they were located and accelerated just a bit faster. He wondered why, though. Skeletons couldn’t get up, could they? And with the way the dead were locked away in their coffins, a part of the coffin itself, it wasn’t likely they could even get out.

He further wondered what exactly the undead needed to be able to walk again. All their flesh or just muscles or just a brain? Wouldn’t the preservation process, the embalming, take away the facilities to live again? The brain remained connected to everything, even though the blood was drained away.

So it’s the brain, he reasoned. It must be the brain.

Up ahead was the old apartments, Mossy Mount, which brought back many fond memories for George. It was the unofficial party central of San Marcos, with weekly beer bashes commonplace. George’s friends were usually the official sponsors of many of them. Twelve kegs was a crazy idea, but came to fruition under the advice and charisma of Edwin, one of George’s wilder friends. He figured with the participation of just a few of the apartments outside of Little South Side, (the area of the apartment complex they all lived in,) then they could each have a keg or two a piece. Then, with the friend of a friend of a friend who hears word of the party, several hundred people would show up, increasing the craziness and raising the unruly reputation of Mossy Mount Apartments.

The wildest of the group of revelers would always be George’s friends from the theatre department. Lots of alcohol, some pot, and cute girls all around. George let the pot users do their thing. His roommate, Robert, a grad student, usually entertained several times a night during a party in his room in their apartment.

But George liked the beer. The beer and the girls. One night, one of the flirty aspiring actresses offered to share her leg strength with George that she gained through years of formal ballet training. She wrapped her legs around him and squeezed for several seconds. It hurt, but was cool. Very few girls did anything like that for George in his early days of college. Hell, even in High School. He was always kind of a dork, even though he knew everybody and got along with everyone.

For George, it wasn’t that the girls weren’t there or that he didn’t have any opportunities. His chivalrous manners and schoolboy charm attracted the fancy of many the high school and college co-ed. Lots of kisses, some playful groping, and the occasional flash made college time and studying more interesting. But George would always hold back, convinced choosing chivalry over debauchery would help him find the dream girl who could satisfy him for the long term.

It almost did.

Since Esparanza’s death, George decided he would not pass up on any opportunity for sex. However, his chivalrous and true nature would not change. That was just the way he was. But when an invitation presented itself, George would accept it -and in a chivalrous fashion -take it as far as it would go.

Hence the lustful encounter at the Junior High.

He would always love Esparanza, he knew, and even though there was a tinge of guilt after his encounters with other women, it still made the pain of Esparanza’s absence just a little less intense, even if only temporarily.

Past Mossy Hill and along the road was a train track. To his left, George passed the fiery remnants of a derailed cargo train. He could see in the clearing there were shadowy figures moving around the wreckage and some in the adjacent neighborhood. Deciding those figures probably weren’t friendly, he accelerated ahead.

As he neared the gas station he noticed a large barrier in the middle of the road. A crude blockade of dumpsters, wrecked cars, couches, and mattresses stood between the Cavalier and the gas station. Several figures stood on and around the makeshift barrier. It didn’t look too official, so George slowed to a stop. He was close enough to scope it out, but far enough to drive away if needed.

Two figures approached the Cavalier. Both had rifles. They waved, holding the rifles in a non-aggressive manner. They seemed to be smiling, so George repositioned the vehicle to turn the other way and rolled down his window.

He called out, “Who are you guys?” as he stealthily put his gun in the back of his pants.

“Hello,” one called back. He was a white guy in dirty overalls and a green t-shirt underneath, sporting an orange trucker hat.

“Hello,” replied George, figuring they didn’t hear him. “Who are you guys?”

“We’re here to help, if you need it.” They edged closer to the car. “My name’s Jeff. That’s-”

A shot rang out from the barricade. The two guys ducked. George almost went for his gun while ducking in the car, but realized it was in his defense. A zombie fell on the other side of the car, a large hole in the back of its head.

“Goddammit, Arnold, you asshole!” yelled Jeff’s companion. “Use the megaphone and tell us you’re firing!”

A loud sound of electric feedback was heard and Arnold replied from the barricade an artificially projected, “Sorry ‘bout that!”

Jeff moved by the Cavalier, his rifle over his shoulder. He leaned on the hood of the car. “As I was saying, I’m Jeff and that’s Michael.” Michael smiled and waved, pointing his rifle to the ground.

“I’m George.”

They shook hands.

“Clear!”yelled Arnold from the barricade. All ducked, a shot rang out, another zombie fell.

“You in charge of the pumps now?” asked George.

“You got it,” replied Jeff. “Always have been. You want some gas?”

“Sure do.”

“Thirty bucks for a full tank, no questions asked.”

George was a bit of a cheapskate. Thirty was double what he would usually pay, but a full tank would be plenty to get him back to San Uvalde and beyond. After a moment he replied, “You got a deal.”

Jeff turned back to the barricade. “Open it up!”

George gassed up, paid Jeff the thirty dollars, and chatted it up with him and Michael inside the convenience store.

The little commune had a unique setup, reminiscent of a fort. The walls were dumpsters, various large objects, and an unusual amount of cars, all set up in a kind of half moon from the road where George entered, then running parallel to the train tracks all the way to the entrance of an elementary school across the street from the convenience store. Along the barrier were many men and women with guns. Every now and then a shot would be fired as a creature would find its way to the barrier and try to penetrate it.

Inside the elementary school were locals from surrounding neighborhoods. Figuring there was strength in numbers, people gathered their supplies and families in the school. Most everyone had a gun or some other form of weapon, as they knew some zombies still found ways to sneak in. Once shot in the head, those zombies were disposed of in the back of the school where they would be piled up and set on fire at the end of the day.

For the most part, the women and children were encouraged to stay in the elementary school. Older people were also part of the commune, and the ones that had a hard time helping outside were also encouraged to stay in the school.

George was sitting against the ice cream freezer under the front counter of the boarded-up convenience store. Large boards covered the usually transparent windows. The store itself was a bit of a mess, but still had large quantities of supplies, and even more in the storage room in the back. It seemed like most of the mess was empty beer cans and bags of chips. There was stuff all over the floor, but Jeff seemed to want to keep it relatively organized. He sat in a chair near George as Michael stood looking out the door at the barricade.

Jeff was the proprietor of the store. His family and his buddies had joined him when the shit started hitting the fan. Most of his family and friends brought their own weapons.

“It was crazy,” explained Jeff as they both ate a nuked hot dog and a bag of chips. “Two days ago was when it really started affecting people here, and attacks by those creatures began to happen all over town, especially on the college campus. All the college types that lived down the way hit the roads -and the pumps -pretty hard. Good thing the tanker truck came by the day before. Well, the same day, people decided they didn’t have to pay for gas anymore.”

“Fuckin’ Betas,” chimed in Michael as he handed George and Jeff a Coke. “Spoiled rich-assed brats thought they could take what they wanted.”