Free Down the Road: The Fall of Austin by Bowie Ibarra Page A

Viral,
punching through the body like a stone through water. The Viral
stumbled and fell to the ground face first. Its face, punished by
lead, smacked against the floor like a wet towel filled with eggs.
Blood splattered in a tribute to Jackson Pollock, spreading brain
and bone across the marble floor in an abstract portrait of
vengeful misery.
    Before Garrison could train his weapon on the
second monster, three more Virals turned the corner. Garrison was
filled with an urge to panic, but maintained his control. His own
survival instincts were focusing his perception, creating a tunnel
vision at the approaching beasts, an intense concentration provided
by the body for its survival.
    Garrison shouldered his weapon, aware that
prolonged bursts would waste ammunition, and he wasn’t sure he
could get to another clip in time. With precision, he began to pick
off the advancing ghouls. He hit two, sending them to the ground to
contribute to the abstract work on the floor. But his nerves were
put to the test as two more Virals turned the corner. After the
short blast to the first few Virals, Garrison was unaware of how
many rounds were left in his weapon. One more Viral was picked off,
then another. A missed bullet flew across the rotunda and cut a
portrait of the late Governor Hobby.
    It took two shots to level the next, and two
more for the next. Garrison was folding under the pressure and just
knew the next round would be his last.
    Three Virals remained and shuffled towards
him, stepping over the prone bodies of the fallen. Two wore classy
suits soaked with blood. The other wore a security uniform.
Garrison aimed, but could feel his body tensing up. His breathing
was severely erratic now. He began sobbing. No breath he took, no
matter how hard or how fast, seemed to provide enough oxygen. So he
breathed harder. And faster. His hands shook and his aim was as
untrue as a mainstream news report.
    Garrison put his gun down and tried to steady
himself. The Virals advanced closer. He knew he needed to control
his breathing—stop the hyperventilating—or face his doom.
    The creatures edged closer as Garrison took a
deep breath, feeling his breathing was as under control as it could
get at the moment, and shouldered his weapon again. One trigger
pull split the skull of the closest beast, spraying the one behind
it with blood. That one was put down by another perfectly placed
shot to the head. As the third was put in the sights of the weapon,
Garrison was greeted by a harsh, yet anticipated reality. A
realization he dreaded.
    No bullet was sent forth.
    He was out.
    The Viral was only yards away.
    Garrison had spare mags for his primary
weapon, but they were stuck in his backpack. So he fumbled for the
pistol in its holster on his hip, and in his panic, it clattered to
the floor. The gun clicked across the marble tile like Sammy Davis,
Jr. tap dancing on a stage at The Sands. Eventually the weapon came
to rest near the feet of the Viral.
    Garrison yelped and took a step backwards. He
bumped into someone, flinched in fear, and fell to the floor. With
hopelessness overtaking him, he curled up in a defensive position,
covering his head, waiting for a hand to grab him or a mouth to
bite him.
    A gun blast popped his ears, and he yelped
again in fearful surprise.
    He opened his eyes and saw Sgt. Nickson
hovering over him. He offered his hand and Garrison accepted,
trying to pull himself together for his superior.
    “C’mon, Garrison, you cunt. We need your
help.”
    Humiliated, Garrison followed Sgt. Nickson
onto the balcony where Sgt. Arnold was communicating with the
senators and pages below. “Are there any more of those things down
there—where we can’t see?” he asked.
    “We don’t know!” one of the senators yelled
back.
    Sgt. Arnold turned to Sgt. Nickson. “We’re
going to have to stay in the senate chambers and babysit.”
    “That’ll work,” Sgt. Nickson said,
begrudgingly. He still couldn’t get himself to accept