Down the Road: The Fall of Austin by Bowie Ibarra

What
the fuck?”
    “I’m thinking those must be battles from the
Civil War,” Goodson said.
    Garrison didn’t like the way Goodson answered
him. “Don’t talk to me like that, Goodson.”
    Goodson wasn’t sure why he was being
attacked, but didn’t like it.
    “Then get an education, you dumb fuck.”
    “Fuck you,” came the quick reply.
    Goodson pounced on the response, “Oh,
‘ fuck you ’. Nice comeback, you stupid, no talent imbecile
piece of shit.”
    “Stringing insults together doesn’t count,
either, faggot,” Rodriguez chimed in.
    Tensions were rising quickly in front of the
watchful eyes of statues of Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin. They
seemed to look with disapproval at the men charged with securing
the state they fought for over a century before.
    Goodson was tired of feeling bullied. He
challenged the massive Rodriguez. “Why don’t you let your little
bitch fend for himself ?”
    The moment was escalating.
    “Because I don’t like you either.”
    Goodson chuckled, turning his back to the
duo. He looked at the painting of Santa Anna’s surrender on the
wall.
    “What are you laughing at, bitch?” Rodriguez
said, angry at the defiant back turn.
    “Just wondering if they’re going to make a
painting of this crisis someday and hang it on the wall here,
too.”
    “You’d probably look like this faggot on the
wall,” Rodriguez said, pointing at a large painting of Davy
Crockett. “Put your leather chaps on and you’d look just like
him.”
    “Fuck you, Rodriguez. Davy Crockett was not a
faggot. And I left my chaps at home.”
    Goodson’s attempt at levity was successful.
The tension was temporarily broken, and the three rivals began to
laugh.
    Their laughter was cut short by a muffled
crash emanating from the hallway where the fireteams had originally
entered the building.
    “What was that?” Goodson asked.
    “Viral?” Rodriguez guessed.
    “Dunno. Let’s go check it out.”
    In his enthusiasm, Goodson took the lead.
Rodriguez and Garrison looked at each other, sharing a devious
glare. “Go with him,” Rodriguez said. “I’ll stay here with Injun
Joe.”
    Talltree silently and stoically ignored the
comment, watching the obvious ambush unfold.
    Garrison looked back at Rodriguez. Rodriguez
gave him a nod of approval, securing their advance into the hallway
filled with locked offices.
    Garrison and Goodson strolled halfway through
the hallway, guns ready, when another noise made them stop.
    “You hear that?” Goodson asked, ever the boy
scout. They both trained their weapons toward an office door they
had assumed was empty because the door was locked. But it appeared
their initial assumption was wrong.
    “What do you think?” Garrison asked, playing
his hand deceitfully.
    “This building needs to be secure,” Goodson
stated matter-of-factly.
    Respecting the antiquity of the door, Goodson
took out his lockpick tools and silently went about picking the
lock. He wasn’t as talented as Knight, but it wasn’t too difficult
to make the lock click open. Goodson stood up, leaving his toolkit
on the floor. He put his finger to his lips. Garrison shouldered
his weapon.
    Goodson twisted the doorknob and pushed the
door open. Garrison quickly entered. Goodson followed.
    Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the
large office. But a stack of discarded clothes quickly raised
suspicion. Both men could see the hint of a head behind the
congressman’s desk. They both advanced on the desk, with Goodson
taking the lead.
    Goodson jumped when he saw what was behind
the desk. Kneeling on the floor in a pair of designer heels and
thigh-highs was a woman. He could only see her back and rear end
resting on her heels. Had the naked and mangled corpse in front of
her not been there, it might have been slightly arousing. But the
situation was clear.
    “She’s a Viral,” Goodson said softly.
    The creature slowly turned her head to the
men. Her body was very pale.
    Goodson shouldered his weapon.