Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (13 page)

Having hesitated just long enough, Mike was
in deep trouble as the compact Chevy Death Dealer was aiming for
him. Shocked into disbelief, Mike stood frozen, his mouth agape.
His ex-girlfriend owned a blue Cavalier of the same year. He
momentarily thought it was her as the morning sun was in his face.
But his brain, desperate for survival, kicked him back to reality,
and he regained his senses in time to spring up into the air away
from the car.

His evasive maneuver was just enough to avoid
Derek’s fate, but not enough to remain uninjured. The front end
clipped his ankles. It propelled him in the same direction he had
leapt to, but spun him like a pinwheel. He fell to the dirt and
pavement with a scrape-inducing slide. Mike groaned in pain not
only at the unsightly scrapes across his arms, the unforgiving and
gravel-strewn road claiming pieces of his skin as their own, but
for his severely sprained ankles. He rolled just in time to avoid
the big maroon Dodge.

He immediately rose to a knee. Rocks dug into
his kneecap, and the weight on his ankles sent lightning bolts of
pain through his body.

A blonde woman, driving the Maxima, rolled
down her window. She screamed, “Asshole!”

Gritting his teeth in a rush of anger and
adrenaline, Mike yanked his pistol from its holster. He fired
several bullets toward the rebel vehicles. Only two met their
target, both lodging themselves in the tailgate of the Dodge. Mike
fell on his ass and scooted away from the race.

“Help us!” screamed the bound family on the
side of the road. Mike looked up and watched as what was obviously
an infected man was pursuing the family’s helpless children,
snarling and groaning.

Painfully, Mike took aim with his piece and
fired a bullet that punched through the infected man at the base of
his head, shooting its throat out onto the ground. The man crumpled
to the ground like a doll. Paralyzed from the neck down, he
stubbornly continued to chomp toward the now distant family in a
futile attempt to consume them. With no control of his body below
the neck, it simply bit and chomped in the general direction of the
family, dreaming of taking chunks of their flesh and blood into his
mouth.

“I want to help you,” Mike said, almost in a
groan. He walked to the family, straightening out his limp.

“Help us? Yeah right,” the father said.
“Prove it. Give me your fucking gun.”

“What?”

Rule change.

It was a bad move. Mike knew it. But in an
effort to gain their trust, Mike obliged. He tossed his piece to
the still bound father. Mike then pulled out a modest pocket knife
and released the family from their plastic bonds.

After the family was standing and brushing
themselves off, Mike gestured to the father to return the gun. But
instead Mike found himself staring down the barrel of his own
weapon.

“Sorry about your luck, officer. But I’ve got
to look after my family. Can’t trust anyone now. Even the cops.
You’re proof of that.”

“I’m not...”

But Mike didn’t finish. He didn’t have the
energy to try to justify himself. Injured and contrite, Mike simply
nodded.

The family traversed the deadly access road
and climbed back into their vehicle. Before long, they joined the
wave of automobiles heading out of Austin.

Mike caught sight of Derek’s remains. By this
point his body had been run over and squashed several times.
Entrails had been ejected out of his mouth and stomach. His head
had been squished into a chunky pulp. His entire carcass looked
like the roadkill found on Texas highways across the state.

Mike turned away. He was so appalled he could
not even consider retrieving Derek’s sidearm from his remains.

He had to leave. The city had dismissed the
white knight.

He looked where his cruiser once was. It was
gone. The citizens were smart and opportunistic. The other cruiser
was still there, but too far for Mike to take a chance with.
Somebody would probably beat him to it at this rate.

Rule change.

Mike whimpered. The panic attack was punching
him in the heart and mind. He was not necessarily crying over the
massacre of his partner. His tears were flowing down his cheek from
the realization of the cold, hard fact that he was alone. Mike was
alone in a world that now had no qualms about running over a human
being in an effort to be free, to survive. A new world was forming
where ghouls were appearing and attacking people. It was a world he
was going to have to manage with two severely injured ankles,
pepper spray, a collapsible baton, and a tazer.

Looking back up the road, he saw an apartment
complex. It could be his only chance.

Officer Mike Runyard, alone and injured,
hobbled toward the building in immense pain. The cars, trucks, and
various escape vehicles honked, swerved, and sideswiped each other
in the background as he shuffled toward the apartment complex.

After a short and painful walk and two near
misses by vehicles, he entered the complex through a side gate. He
was fortunate no one was really around, as he could have been taken
advantage of very easily. Even the apartment complex seemed
abandoned.

He walked to an apartment door and twisted at
the doorknob.

Locked.

Another door.

Locked.

He was going to walk across the building to
another ground level room when he saw stairs. Grimacing through his
pain, he wondered if the creatures could maneuver up the stairs.
Would they even consider trying? Perhaps, he thought, if given the
proper motivation. Being on the top floor could provide a tactical
advantage, and his limited mobility might profit from being up
there.

He needed to get to the top floor. In spite
of the chances of all four apartment doors on the top third floor
being locked, he took the risk.

Slowly, he began to climb.
A journey of a
thousand miles begins with a single step
, he thought. The man
that came up with that expression never considered what it could be
like taking that first step with two severely sprained ankles. The
meaning was still the same, though. The stairs were tall and he had
to find something else to concentrate on as he climbed to ignore
the fiery pain burning in his ankles.

Dead dogs.

Dead Derek.

Dairy Queen.

Dialogue from
The Big Lebowski
.

“
Shut the fuck up, Donnie
.”

“
Man, if my fuckin’ ex-wife asked me to
take care of her fuckin’ dog while she and her boyfriend went to
Honolulu I’d tell her to go fuck herself
.”

Mike began chuckling and took a moment to
enjoy the laugh halfway up the stairs. A subtle shift of his weight
put pressure on his sprained ankles and the bolt of pain shooting
through his body stopped the laughter.

In the distance, groans of pain painted the
wind with woe. Gunshots scattered in the distance, complemented by
screeching tires on the nearby highway. Taking a deep breath, Mike
continued up the stairs. His torn and bloody arms left blood, flesh
and fluid on the railing. All along the way, he assured himself he
was going to survive.

Arriving on the second floor landing, Mike
saw the two doors matching those from the floor below standing shut
nearby. He looked at the flight of stairs to the third floor with
misery and opted to give the doors a shot.

First door: locked.

Turning around to face the next door took
effort, but he did it and moved toward it.

Locked.

“Damn.”

Mike hobbled to the railing in intense pain
and leaned on it. Peering over the rail, he saw on a sidewalk below
a creature that appeared to have been a homeless guy that lay
sprawled on the pavement. A large puddle of blood had formed around
its head like the halo of some religious icon. Its head appeared to
have been stomped in.

His initial thought was correct: even this
place was not safe.

Mike trudged up the stairs again, not wanting
to cross the landing toward the other two doors on the opposite
end. Extremely anxious, he tried to figure out how he was going to
manage to survive, even if he did find an open door. His ankles
throbbed with pain, and he knew if he was to remove his boots, his
ankles would be swollen.

He tried to take his mind off his ankles
again.

“Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?”

“You mean coitus?”

One third of the way.

Sex. His first girlfriend. His last sexual
encounter.

Two thirds.

“’Nuther Caucasian, Gary.”

“You got it, Dude.”

He was now very close. The pain felt like his
ankles had been put in a vice that was twisting and crushing
them.

“Nothing is fucked here, dude. Nothing is
fucked. You’re acting very un-dude.”

Mike leaned on the rail of the third floor
landing, sweaty and panting like a dog.

Two more doors. Two more chances. Two chances
at salvation. Two chances at failure.

He took a deep breath.

Looking down from the third floor of the
apartment building, he suddenly felt like jumping, diving head
first to the pavement below. It would be an end to the pain, the
fear. In a way, considering the situation, it was a rather
practical thing to do. The injury was going to make him like a
wounded gazelle on the African savannah. He could fall victim to
looters or those beasts. He was lucky none had been around on his
journey to the apartment in the first place. With just the tazer to
arm him, he clearly would not have lasted long.

He looked down again. If he fell head first,
his death would most surely be quick.

The prospect was becoming more and more
viable. Perpetually single and with a family that was safe and
protected in Three Rivers, would it be worth fighting through the
uncertainty of a foggy future?

He looked down again.

He closed his eyes.

He gripped the railing, feeling himself fall,
his pain ending, but his eternal life beginning.

Or would he just turn? Would he become one of
the mysterious masses rising from death and going berserk?

Would it matter?

Slowly, he began to shift himself up to
propel himself over the edge.

His ankles throbbed in pain.

He was going to jump.

Seconds away from committing to the suicide
solution, a stream of warm and chunky fluid fell on his face, nose,
and lips. He fell from the railing back onto his feet, his ankles
stabbed with pain. He stumbled on his ass just away from the
stairs. It tasted like dirt, but smelled putrid. The only thing
Mike could figure it could be was bird poop. Somewhere in the sky,
some bird, totally oblivious to the moment and choice Mike was
making, released its hot, chunky load in mid-air, dropping at the
speed and angle of its release, plummeting earthward like a meteor
on entry into the earth’s atmosphere. It had a million to one
chance that it would actually connect, hitting a target it was by
no means aiming for. It was a target that needed a sign—a man who
was hopeless. Mike was a man needing help, help that came in the
form of random excrement that was now being wiped off the face and
lips of its unintended target: Officer Mike Runyard.

Mike immediately gagged and leaned near the
railing to expel some of his own inner juices.

No birds were below to get his
You Can’t
Do That On Television
slime treatment.

He wanted to clean himself off. Two doors
were yet to be opened. He knew they must be locked, but needed to
try. He wanted a bath.

Hobbling, he moved to a door.

Locked.

Mike exhaled in frustration and hobbled to
the next door. Perhaps he would still jump if this door was
locked.

He reached the door and twisted the knob.

Click.

Unprepared for the unlocked door, Mike fell
on the carpet of the living room as the door swung wide open. He
crashed down on his scraped and scabby arms. He yelped in pain and
rolled on his back.

In spite of his pain and the possibly of
locking himself up with a monster, he slid to the door, closed it,
and locked it.

He let out a quick and joyous victory yell,
but quickly clasped both hands over his mouth.

After a moment he said to the empty air,
“Anyone home?”

No answer.

Of course nobody was home. People were
evacuating, and not even bothering to lock their doors behind them.
Rule change
. Things were bad and were never going to be the
same again, and people knew it.

But Mike was safe.

A wave of happiness overtook his senses.

Looking at a rack of DVDs through the open
bedroom door restored his faith in life. On the rack sat one of his
favorite movies ever:
The Big Lebowski
.

He hobbled over, plucked the DVD from its
case, and slid it into the nearby player. As he fumbled for the
remote to turn on the television, something began to swell in his
heart and soul:

Hope
.

9:26 AM

Branton Junior High

Koehl, Texas

Just as she figured most other people did
when there was little else to keep focused on and their minds would
wander and give themselves over to philosophical meanderings, Keri
Lawrence sometimes pondered what the end of the world would be
like.

Many ideas came to mind: Nuclear
annihilation, all-encompassing global conflict, a cosmic rapture by
a spiritual deity or some other climax predicted in some grand
scripture, theoretical concoction or ancient belief system. The one
common thread between all these speculations, she noticed, was the
predicted swiftness of it all, the ultimate finality. The bomb
explodes, everyone dies. An asteroid impacts the earth, everyone
dies. A god arrives and provides the people a pass to heavenly
glory. The end.