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Texas Zombie Reporter: Tales of the Rio Grande	By : TheByronicMan Category: M through R > Newsflesh (trilogy) > Newsflesh (trilogy) Views: 1097 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsflesh Trilogy or any of the related published works. I do not make any money from this story. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or living dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Texas Zombie Reporter: Tales of the Rio Grande

Chapter 1

It began, as it always does, with a somewhat cheesy but traditional voice-over:
This week on Texas Zombie Reporter we have a special treat for our viewers. Your intrepid reporter will be the first person not employed by the government to legally enter Big Bend National Park in nearly two decades. Big Bend is known for it's large packs of both human and animal infected, with animals ranging from small, cute, but remarkably dangerous javelina, up through coyotes, deer, burros, horses, and maybe even some black bears. In addition to the usual zombie-baiting so many of you love, I'll be packing extra cameras along so that the National Park Service can create a virtual tour of the park. In pursuit of that, I'll be hitting all the areas that were most popular with park visitors pre-Rising.
“Endit, sendit” I said, telling my system to cease recording and transmit the audio file to Bobbie.
While the true adventure begins here, the odyssey actually started several years ago, on the day I turned 25. At 12:01 AM I submitted the application to earn my A-10 blogging license. I'd grown up with my dad's stories about camping out in Big Bend, and I'd always wanted to do it myself. As Big Bend is a Level 3 Hazard Zone, I had to have an A-10 license to get in legally. Of course, to most people my age, dad's camping stories would have been a horror tale to surpass any told around pre-Rising campfires. Out in the wild, unprotected, the possibility of large animals just outside the light of the fire, no fences to keep them away, these are the things that give even the calmest kid today the screaming heebie-jeebies.
But those are the sort of things I live for. As soon as my license upgrade was approved, I started petitioning the government for permission to enter Big Bend. Sometimes I'd get lucky, and they would actually go to the trouble of denying my request. Most of the time, I didn't get a response at all. But over the last few years my reporting has brought me into contact with a few influential people (and several nutjobs) and some of those who liked my reports were willing to put in a word for me. Finally, my application was approved, and after a week of preparation, here I was rolling down Highway 90 a couple of hours out of Del Rio. The US Department of Transportation had intended to abandon this segment of 90 after the Rising, planning to restrict traffic to Interstate 10. However, a coalition of government agencies and corporations with interests in the area, notably the Border Patrol and the Union Pacific Railroad, lobbied heavily to keep it open. Though the trains are automated there is still a need for access by maintenance crews, and the rail bed is generally within a mile (and often right alongside) 90. Much of the security along the border is automated as well, considering how many people these days rarely even leave their homes, much less travel internationally. But there is sometimes still a need to put agents in the field.
I entered the ruins of Sanderson, which Dad had told me was never much of a town in the first place but had a great little Mexican restaurant that he could never remember the name of. Glancing at the clock on the dash, I noted that it was indeed just about lunchtime, but rather than stop here and break into my stock of supplies I decided to continue on to Marathon. With another hour of empty road ahead of me, my thoughts turned to the recent past.
I had just arrived home from my foray down south to the remains of the formerly popular Spring Break destination of South Padre Island. Home in my case is an apartment building that was nearing completion at the time of the Rising, an addition to an existing complex. Construction fences kept the infected out, and after the Guard moved through to clean out the area, it was the only building left standing. My parents were investors in the company that owned this complex and several others, and when the company was dissolved they got a share of the cash reserves along with the one building and the land it sat on. They turned some of the units on the ground floor into secure garages and used the rest of the floor for storage. After putting in an elevator and tearing down the exterior stairs, they interconnected the entire second floor into one huge apartment. Once I turned 18 and started getting a more or less steady income, I moved out of my old room and rented one of the units on the top floor. Once Bobbie and I got serious, she rented the apartment next to mine. After another year or so we were both living in my place and using hers for office and studio space. My folks pretended not to notice.
I drove through the first of the double gates, waited while it closed behind me, then waited a bit longer until the screamers were satisfied that no infected had followed me in. The inner gate opened and I drove through to my garage, the door opening as it picked up the transponder on my LAV and quickly closing behind me. After getting out of the driver's seat, I slid my hand into the testing unit by the door, and the electronic lock opened when the test came up green. Access to the hallway leading to the elevator requires going through a decon shower, and the exit door won't open until the shower has gone through a full cycle. So I stripped down, dropped my clothes in the hamper, grabbed a sealed package of sterilized clothes, and stepped into the shower to endure the bleach, hot water, UV lights, and a vigorous blast of warm air to dry me off. Getting dressed, I stepped out into the hall and entered the elevator. Another test unit waited inside, one that not only checked for live-state virus but also took my blood type and checked my fingerprints. The elevator won't work for anyone whose biometrics are not programmed into the system unless authorized by a resident. For that matter, once I moved into my own place my parents revoked my access to their floor without their invitation or my use of an emergency pass key.
Having passed the test once again, I rode up to our floor and stepped in to our apartment. I was greeted by the sight of our dining room table decked out with linens, candles, and wine glasses. The aroma of the last of our alligator steaks grilling wafted from the kitchen. As the door closed behind me, Bobbie stepped into view carrying a bottle of my favorite wine.
“Wow! What's the occasion?”
Bobbie grinned at me, “They said 'Yes'.”
I stood dumbfounded for a moment, “You're kidding. I'd just about given up hope.”
“That's one of the few things I wouldn't kid about, you're really going to Big Bend,” she replied. “Now sit down, dinner will be ready in a minute.”
I moved closer, taking the bottle from her hands and setting it on the table, then pulled her close and kissed her. She returned the kiss with enthusiasm, full of promise for later. Finally breaking the embrace, I sent her back to the kitchen with a swat on the butt. She giggled and wiggled as she went on her way.
The steaks were grilled perfectly, though I was so excited I'm not sure I wouldn't have enjoyed them just as much if they'd been raw. Much as I enjoy visiting the Traugott ranch, I hope that the FDA and CDC approve the sale of alligator meat soon, so that I can get it at the store instead of having to drive out into the Hill Country to get it from the source. Dinner conversation consisted of making plans for the trip, discussing possibilities that got increasingly silly after the 3^rd bottle of wine.
In the midst of dessert, I dropped my fork and it clattered to the floor. Bobbie giggled again and ducked under the table to retrieve it for me. She must have gotten lost, because she found my zipper instead. She slowly pulled it down, then moved my underwear aside and took out my cock. It was already half hard, and her talented lips and tongue soon had it standing straight. She sucked me deeper into her mouth, one hand gently massaging my balls through my pants. When her lips reached the base, she pulled back, her teeth lightly scraping across my flesh. After about a minute of devoting her full attention to the head of my cock, she took my full length again, faster this time.
Her attempt to give me a vigorous blow job was hampered by the confined space. After bumping her head on the underside of the table a couple of times, she gave up. Instead, she pulled off my boots and socks, then started on my pants. While she did that, I hurriedly stripped off my shirt. Once I was naked, I scooted my chair back and she emerged from under the table to stand before me. I watched, mesmerized, as she unbuttoned her skirt and let it drop to the floor, revealing that she was wearing stockings and garters. She teasingly drew out the process of removing her blouse, slowly undoing each button in turn. I could already tell she hadn't worn a bra, and finally the last button was opened and I could see that she hadn't bothered with panties either.
She let the blouse slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor, then slowly turned around and leaned on the table, pushing her lovely ass back at me. I stood up, grasped her hips, and pulled her towards me, my cock slipping between her thighs. She leaned forward, resting her head on the table, wiggling in anticipation. I slid my cock back and forth across her clit, then pulled back enough to thrust into her cunt. She was already so wet that I slid in easily. I fucked her hard and fast, and she screamed in pleasure. I was so lost in the moment that I didn't realize that I was having to step forward a little with each thrust until the table bumped into the wall.
I pulled out of her. “I think we need to take this act to the bedroom.”
She took a moment to pull herself together, then stood up and turned towards me. I couldn't help but laugh, the remains of my pie now covered her left breast. She looked down and joined in my laughter.
“If you want the rest of your dessert you'll have to follow me.”
With that, she turned and walked away. As I followed her swaying butt to bed, I reflected on how lucky I was. She was smart, sensual, and uninhibited. She wasn't at all jealous of the swarm of groupies than any halfway popular Irwin attracts, and loved to join in on the rare occasions that I brought one home. She had other men she saw when I was in the field, but she was always waiting and ready for action when I returned. I was hopelessly in love, and couldn't imagine not spending the rest of my life with Bobbie.
When we got to the bedroom, she turned me around and shoved me down onto the bed. I scooted back and watched as she crawled towards me. She used a finger to scoop some of the pie filling from her breast and place it on the head of my cock, then slowly licked me clean. Then she moved up and straddled my thighs, gradually taking me into her cunt. She rode me with a gentle rocking motion of her hips, occasionally leaning forward just enough to bring her breasts within reach of my mouth. Soon, I had finished my dessert and was ready to return to the main course. My hands went to her breasts, holding her upright. I pinched down on her nipples as I thrust up into her. She quickened her pace and I matched it until we were both in a frenzy. She screamed out one orgasm, then a second one. When her third one hit her pussy clamped down on me so hard it took me over the edge. Only my shoulders and heels were touching the bed as I came deep inside her.
She collapsed on top of me and then rolled to the side. I took her in my arms and held her close as we drifted off to sleep.
The next week was spent in a flurry of preparation. I contacted the National Park Service to get maps that were more detailed than anything available on the web, and in exchange agreed to provide them with video of my trip at a steep discount. I restocked the LAV with food and other supplies for the trip. I also stocked up on the most critical spare parts, since I would be hundreds of miles from the nearest repair shop or parts store of any kind, much less one that can get parts for military surplus vehicles. I spent hours going over my gear, making sure every camera and weapon was in perfect working condition. I spent more hours going over my armor, replacing any suspect link in the chainmail and repairing a few tears in the leather.
I also made the time to make three trips to Master Vega's school to touch up my technique. Master Vega has been teaching various martial arts for over 40 years, and since the Rising has developed a variant of Hapkido specifically for dealing with the infected. It emphasizes a high degree of situational awareness, misdirection, pass-by throws, and low kicks. The main purpose is to get the zombie on the ground to give you a better chance to escape. Advanced students learn to incorporate weapons ranging from short clubs to firearms. It has been universally derided by the legacy media as 'Zombie-Fu', a name that Master Vega's students have adopted with pride. There are no ranks, students wear a simple white belt with a knot for every zombie encounter they've survived. I've got more knots than anyone but Master Vega himself, because I'm the only one of his students crazy enough to go out looking for zombies to play with.
Returning my full attention to the road, I estimated that I should soon be reaching the ruins of Marathon. Sure enough, within minutes I saw the Marathon Truck Stop come into view ahead, the only surviving outpost of civilization between Del Rio and Alpine. It covered nearly a quarter mile of highway frontage on the south side of 90, bounded by the railroad tracks to the south and Highway 385 to the west. I drove past the truck parking, with its individual fenced enclosures for each rig, and turned into the gate leading to passenger vehicle parking. No automated security here, an armed guard held out a testing unit for me to use and checked to see if I had any passengers while two more guards kept their handguns in a low-ready position. After the test came up green the guard addressed me.
“Have you exited your vehicle outside of a secure area?”
“No,” I replied.
“Enjoy your visit, sir,” he said, handing me a magnetic card. “This will allow you to bypass the showers.”
The inner gate opened and I drove into the lot, past a sign advising that if I remained on the premises more than two hours I would have to be tested again. The rules here are strict but they've never had an outbreak inside the secure perimeter. A couple of truckers have died in the night and gone into viral amplification inside their sleepers, but the enclosures around the trucks serve to keep the infected in as well as out.
I detoured over to the fuel pumps, this being the last place to get diesel I was going to see for the next several days. Just as the cowboys of old were reputed to take care of their horses before themselves, the modern traveler makes sure his means of transportation (or escape) is ready before doing anything else. Unlike the gate, the fuel island is automated, though the first time I stopped here the attendant had to intervene to assist the refueling system. Since then, they've added LAV-300 schematics to the database. Once I was fueled up and had transmitted my gas card number for payment, I found a place to park. Climbing out of the LAV and heading to the main building, I happened to note a Ford Survivor with government plates parked near the entrance, solid black rather than the usual green and white color scheme used by the Border Patrol.
I walked past a dozen doors leading to showers and inserted the card into a slot which promptly swallowed it, unlocking the main door. I stepped inside and headed for the restaurant, flashing my OOIDA card for access to the driver's lounge. Several years ago, I did some ride-alongs with truckers for a story about independent owner-operators, one of the few remaining careers where people regularly venture alone outside secure zones. After the story was posted, along with some video of me helping one trucker fight off a small pack of infected, I was given an honorary membership. As soon as I sat down at a table, a waitress I vaguely recognized was there with a menu.
“Hey there,” she said. “Haven't seen you out here in a while. What brings you out this way?”
“Let me put it this way, when I leave you'll be able to watch me drive away through that window,” I replied, pointing to a window looking south.
“Wow, I heard they were finally letting a reporter into Big Bend,” she gushed.
She belatedly offered me the menu, but I waved it off. “I'll have a double ostrich cheeseburger with fries, and a Dr. Pepper.”
She tapped the order into her pad. “It'll be right out.”
I admired the view as she walked away. One of the perks of the driver's lounge is personal service. Lesser travelers have to make do with entering their own order on a table screen and picking it up from a window. As I pulled out my pocket computer to get a little work done, I noticed a disturbance at the entrance. A woman dressed for desert hiking was arguing the hostess, apparently trying to get into the driver's lounge. I couldn't make out what they were saying but she seemed insistent, and after further argument she stalked away angrily.
I returned to writing a somewhat melancholy blog entry for today, taking a long swallow of the drink that had arrived without my noticing. My meal arrived a few minutes later, and the waitress saw that I was busy and left without any chitchat. I shifted to keying with my left hand and eating with my right. Yes, I am adept at typing one-handed, a skill just as useful in journalism as it is purported to be in certain recreational online interactions. Finishing my burger, I pushed the plate aside and completed the blog entry, posting it online.
When I sat back, my waitress returned and presented me with her order pad showing my bill. I swiped it with my card, adding a nice tip, and returned it. She printed out my receipt, smiled, said “Thank you. Hope to see you again soon.” and walked away with a little extra shimmy in her step. I glanced down at the receipt and saw that she had added her name and phone number. I sighed and tucked it into my business expenses folder, figuring Bobbie would get a chuckle out of it when she did our taxes. Any Irwin with a halfway decent viewership attracts groupies. For some reason I appreciate but don't quite understand, Bobbie chooses to consider the female attention I get to be a compliment to her. As I exited the driver's lounge, the angry young woman from earlier approached me and glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot.
“Mr. Phillips? Agent Antonia Guillen, DEA,” she said quietly, discreetly flashing a sure-enough DEA badge at me.
“What can I do for you, Agent Guillen?” I asked.
“I've been ordered to accompany you on this trip.”
“I'd rather you didn't, but I guess I can't stop you from following me. Though if that's your SUV out front, I wouldn't count on it being able to handle some of the back roads I plan to use.”
“You misunderstand me,” she said. “I'll be riding with you, posing as an assistant.”
“No, you won't,” I replied. “I can carry enough supplies for one person for a week. I plan to spend five days in Big Bend. I don't have room to carry much more than that, nor do I have room for more than one person to sleep. So unless you plan on sleeping unprotected on the ground, eating cactus, and scavenging for water, it's not going to happen.”
“I can arrest you for obstructing an investigation.”
“And the video feed of that arrest and this conversation will be offered gratis to every major news site within five minutes. That should pretty much end any chance of you conducting undercover operations in the future. Not that you'll keep your job anyway after having your ass handed to you in court. I cannot be legally compelled to aid your investigation in any manner other than answering questions which do not compromise confidential sources.”
And I knew the video would be on most news blog sites within no more than half an hour, on TV later in the evening, the audio would be played on news radio stations, and that stills and a transcript would turn up in newspapers the next day. While those in the legacy media don't really like bloggers, they grudgingly accept us as being journalists of a sort, and any credible story of reporters being harassed by the government gets a lot of play.
“You're recording me?” she snarled.
“Not yet,” I explained. “The feed goes into a buffer and I've got an hour to decide whether to save it or let it drop into the bit bucket. Or my partner back in San Antonio can save it.”
“Hold on a minute,” she said, then tapped her ear cuff phone. “Told you he wouldn't go for it. Besides, any idiot with a web connection could find out he works alone in the field. Plan B.” Turning back to me, “Mr. Phillips, I'll see you outside in a few minutes.”
As she turned and walked away, I headed into the store. There are a couple dozen families that still live out here in fortified homes. Since the truck stop is the only local employer, anyone who isn't cut out for a career in retail or food service either commutes the 30 miles to Alpine or works from home. Most of them supplement their incomes by selling homemade food items, mostly cactus fruit jellies and honey. I did a story on them last spring, and joined them on a trip into the wilds to harvest prickly pear fruit. The older folks reminisced about the days when the biggest dangers of fruit picking were cactus spines and the occasional rattlesnake. They sent me home with several cases of product, which my family and I used up in a couple of months. Fortunately, the truck stop carries their wares. I bought a couple of hundred dollars worth, and rented a small storage locker to put it in until I was headed back home. Last trip through I missed out. Sometimes a trucker will buy out the entire stock to sell to specialty shops along their route.
Exiting the store, with one jar each of prickly pear jelly and mesquite honey for the trip, I saw Agent Guillen waiting by my LAV. Her Ford was no where in sight. She'd added a light Kevlar jacket, tan and bearing the National Park Service logo, to her ensemble.
“I thought I made it clear that you aren't riding with me,” I said.
“You did,” she replied. “My ride is going through the car wash, it'll be out in a minute.”
Speaking up so that passers-by could hear, she added, “Mr. Phillips, I know this wasn't part of the original plan, but Director Mather wants to ensure you follow all Park Service rules and regulations, so I'll be your escort.”
I mumbled something mildly obscene under my breath, but refrained from commenting out loud. As I glanced over at the car wash, the Ford Survivor emerged, now decked out in green and white and sporting the NPS logo on the driver's door. Apparently it had been equipped with programmable paint, something I'd been saving up to get for the LAV. Changing its colors while hidden in the car wash struck me as about on par with Clark Kent ducking into a phone booth.
I turned back to Agent, sorry, 'Ranger' Guillen. “If you're going to insist on following me, please stay at least a mile behind me on the road, and try to park out of view when we stop. The Park Service is paying for a clean video recording, so it would really help if you'd make it easy to edit you out.”
“To keep cover, I'll need to be with you when you're on foot to make a show of seeing to it you don't damage important historic or ecological treasures,” she said.
I sighed. “I'll give you access to the raw feed from my cameras, you'll be able to watch me like you were standing on my shoulder. I'll even make a point of complaining about it on my blog. Or even better, I'll get Bobbie to do it.”
“Okay, that should work.”
I stowed my purchases, then climbed in through the driver's hatch, securing it shut so I could use the A/C. Even in early April, it gets a bit hot in this part of the state. Starting up the engine, I headed out through the gate and turned left onto 90, quickly followed by another left onto the cracked, unmaintained asphalt of 385. Driving past the side of the truck stop and across the railroad tracks, I stopped at a heavy steel gate blocking the road. I sat there for a moment. I've traveled this stretch of 90 a number of times, but I'd never been able to turn south from it until now. Shaking off my revery, I took out my pocket computer and transmitted the access code that the Park Service had provided me. The gate opened, and I drove through.
After clearing the gate, it was another 39 miles to the park boundary. I activated all the outside cameras, the uplink sending the feed to my home system and a redundant copy to some space we lease at a server farm. A surveillance camera at the gate swiveled to follow me. That would be Bobbie using another access code the Park Service provided in order to get the customary exterior shot of me driving by.
Though the desert around me seemed as dry as ever, there had been some rain in the past week and the roadside was decked out in blooms. From the oranges and yellows of the prickly pear cactus, the deep, almost blood red of some of the barrel cactus, to the brighter red of the Indian Paintbrush, the desert gave a rare show of color. A few miles farther along, the Big Bend Lupine predominated, a larger cousin of the Bluebonnet. It's only found in this small corner of Texas and the equally inhospitable region just across the border in Mexico. The video of this drive will give a nice little boost to our cash flow between click-through traffic from wildflower blogs and sales to TV shows. Fortunately, my contract to provide video to the Park Service doesn't kick in until I cross the park boundary. Farther in the distance, the occasional ocotillo added some green foliage and red blossoms to the landscape. 99% of the time, ocotillo look a cluster of dead, dry, spiny sticks. Add a little rain, and it comes to life.
Checking the feed from the rear camera, I noted that Agent, I mean, 'Ranger' Guillen was complying with my request to stay a mile back. Not that she had much choice at first, my six tires and low center of gravity allowed more stability at speed over the crumbled asphalt than her four-wheeled SUV. After a while, I slowed down so she could keep pace more easily. At some point soon she's going to have to level with me, give me at least some idea of what she's up to.
Finally, I arrived at the boundary. The NPS sign by the road was in surprisingly good shape, weathered but readable. A mile or so farther along, I came to the ruins of the entry station. Fortunately, somebody had cleared the rubble off of the road, saving me from having to cut a path through the brush for Agent-I-mean-Ranger Guillen's Ford. Desert zombies are subject to many of the same challenges as living people. Dehydration is a problem for them, though they will remain animate in a dehydrated condition that will kill a living person. A pack of a dozen or so is generally smart enough to seek shade in the heat of the day, and had the entry station been standing I could expect to find some infected sheltering inside. But what little was left could barely shade a jackrabbit, much less anything big enough to amplify. The latest satellite images show that the Panther Junction Visitor Center and the NPS housing behind it is still largely intact, so there is some hope for later in the afternoon. First, however, I have some stops to make.
After about another twelve miles or so, my GPS began flashing to get my attention. I tapped the screen to acknowledge, and slowed down to look for the turnoff. I probably would have missed it without the GPS highlighting it, as it was never more than an infrequently-maintained gravel road and hadn't been graded in over 25 years. Whatever sign had indicated it was long gone, and the only visible clue was that the brush in the former roadbed was even more sparse and stunted than that in the surrounding area. I set my GPS to project a Heads Up Display on the monitor for the forward looking camera, highlighting the course of the alleged road. As I turned off of the crumbling pavement, 'Ranger' Guillen caught up to me. My dashboard comm system lit up with a secure link request, accompanied by what was presumably Guillen's public key. I had my system use her key to send a session key, and toggled the radio for audio output. Normally every system is set for silent alerts and incoming calls go through voice to text software for display on a monitor. I frequently dictate commentary while driving and don't need extraneous noises interrupting me.
After a moment, Guillen's encryption-distorted but recognizable voice came from the speakers.
“Where are you going?”
“For someone who was planning to masquerade as my assistant,” I replied, “You're not very well informed about my published itinerary.”
“I knew that wouldn't fly,” she said, “So I didn't waste much time planning for it. The question remains.”
“Apparently you didn't do much planning for your clearly-misnamed 'Plan' B either,” I pointed out. “My contract with the Park Service requires me to try to get out to Dagger Flat and record some video.”
“They're willing to let you go charging off across the desert?” she asked incredulously.
“There used to be a road here, and I'm expected to follow it as best as possible. You might as well wait here, I'll be back within a few hours. I'm not sure it's passable for me, I doubt very much that you'll be able to make it.”
With that, I ended the conversation and continued down the barely visible remains of the Dagger Flat Auto Trail. Stubbornly, Guillen followed me. Unfortunately, my wider wheelbase meant she couldn't stay in the crushed paths left by my tires, and the lighter weight of her Ford meant she bounced over brush that my LAV had no trouble smashing flat. Luckily for her the Ford Survivor has steel plates protecting the undercarriage or she'd be in danger of getting a punctured gas tank or getting some of these tough desert plants wrapped around her drive shaft.
It was slow going. Even when this road was sort of maintained, the 15 mile round trip generally took close to two hours. After about 15 minutes, I passed the turnoff for Old Ore Road, which was only passable to four-wheel drive vehicles even when the park was in operation. Shortly after that was the first major obstacle, a substantial dry wash that drained a fairly large area. As I'd expected, decades of erosion had eliminated any trace of the road, leaving some pretty steep slopes to navigate. I got on the radio and sent a call in the clear to my shadow.
“Ranger Guillen,” I said, taking care to keep any trace of emphasis on her assumed title out of my voice, “You're going to have to wait here. There's no way your truck will make it across this and I don't see any better route around it.”
“Fine,” she replied, “I could use a break anyway.”
With that, I popped the hatch and stood up to get a better view. I spent a few minutes picking out the best approach, then hunkered down and put her in low gear. I had to chuckle, pondering the oddity of driving an amphibious vehicle through the desert, while thinking this would be a lot easier if the wash was full of water. I carefully made my way down the side, taking it at an angle to avoid burying the nose in the opposite slope and getting myself well and truly stuck. I had to drive along the bottom for a few hundred feet before I got to a good spot to climb up the other side. But I made it, and after a few minutes I was back on the remains of the road. The drive was relatively easy after that, the road tending to follow the bottom of the washes, entering and exiting them at fairly wide, shallow spots rather than crossing them directly. Erosion left the road rather bumpy but not all that hazardous. Not a good place to be caught in a flash flood, though.
Another half hour of driving brought me to Dagger Flat, named for the Giant Dagger Yucca. Other than a solitary specimen found here and there, this small piece of landscape is the only place in the US where this particular species is found in the wild, and it's no more common across the border in Mexico. Here, however, there is a veritable forest of them, the tallest desert plants for hundreds of miles around. Named for their size and the long, stiff, pointed leaves at their crown, they typically rise about 10-20' high, and I saw a number of them that had to top 25'. And that's not counting the white-flowered stalks that rise from the top. I'd come at good time, most of them were in bloom. Too bad I had to give the video to the Park Service, but I retained the right to use excerpts for myself and I'd get at least some traffic.
Parking at the edge of the road, I hit the button to raise the camera mast, the 3^rd most expensive (and most recent) modification I've made to the LAV. It's worth a lot more than I paid for it, but the guy who does my custom electronics sells them to me at cost because he says I present him with “interesting challenges.” In exchange, I give him free advertising on my site. Plus, my webcast often acts as a showcase for his work, allowing him to sell the stuff he designed for me to others at a nice markup. The cameras at the masthead function in much the same way as my portable field cameras, with three wide-angle cameras providing a full 360 degree view and one rotating camera that stays locked on me.
I swiveled my chair and opened the door into the rear compartment, the door being my vehicle's 2^nd most expensive mod. As it came out of the factory, the driver compartment of the LAV-300 is isolated from the rest of the vehicle, handy for containing battle damage, not so handy for surviving in zombie-infested territory. Stripping out of my street clothes, I took the opportunity to use the most expensive addition, the flash-sterilization toilet necessitated by my nephrotic K-A. I have a reservoir condition consisting of a colony of live-state Kellis-Amberlee in one of my kidneys, and there is a slight chance of live virus in my urine.
And then I started gearing up to go outside. First, the alligator-hide pants and jacket, obtained from the same source as the steaks from that memorable homecoming dinner. I brought my summer armor, dyed a dusty white with numerous chainmail-protected vents to keep me from cooking inside it. Hopefully the fashionistas will forgive me for wearing white before Memorial Day. I eschewed my usual tactical vest for a daypack full of field cameras, water, snacks, and spare ammo. With the addition of my helmet, thin Kevlar-weave gloves, and thick leather steel-toed boots I was armored enough to step outside. Now I just needed weapons, so I buckled on my gun belt with its pair of holstered Springfield Armory .45s with 14-round magazines, hung my bangstick in its place, and slung my trident over my back next to the daypack. I catch a lot of flack from some people because I wear too much armor and carry too many weapons to be a 'proper' Irwin. But while I may never win the Golden Steve-O, I get some respect from a lot of my fellow Irwins, because I regularly go out with no backup. Even when I do have someone else along, it's generally people I've only just met and never worked with before.
Activating the cameras attached to my helmet, I blew into the microphone and said, “It's showtime.”
“I'm here,” Bobbie whispered in my ear, “Have fun.”
“I plan to,” I said, opening the rear door and stepping outside.
Bobbie doesn't talk to me when I'm in the field unless she sees something I really need to know about, but she's always watching. Her warnings have saved my life more than once, and she never distracts me with idle chatter.
And so I took a stroll through the Giant Daggers for about half an hour. The extra cameras on my helmet, modified for this particular trip, recorded a nearly spherical view around me except for a 10' circle of ground centered on my feet. In a few months or so, people would be able to experience the sights from the comfort of their homes, which is as close to the great outdoors as most folks get these days. Sadly, no infected people or animals interrupted my walk, though I did startle a few birds. After completing my circuit, I returned to the LAV, sealing myself up inside and stripping off just enough gear that I wouldn't be too uncomfortable in the driver's seat. No, I don't bother with testing myself for viral contamination before entering. The capability is there, I just leave it turned off except on the rare occasions when I have a passenger. After retracting the camera mast, I drove back the way I came.
While the driving was still relatively easy, I called Bobbie. “Tell me the video came through okay.”
“It's fantastic,” she replied. “I sent about 30 seconds of the raw feed to the NPS, and I've already heard back from them. They're just thrilled.”
“Good,” I said. “I hope the rest of the trip goes this smoothly.”
“No you don't,” she said. “I know you're itching for some action.”
“True,” I conceded. “Okay, I need to pay more attention to my driving, I'll talk to you later. Miss you.”
“Miss me all you want, just don't miss any zombies.”
The rest of the drive was routine. I arrived back where I had left Agent-I-mean-Ranger Guillen, the return descent and climb going easier this time now that I had already done it once. I found her waiting impatiently for my return. Apparently whatever she was looking for was not at Dagger Flat and she was anxious to get moving again. Driving back to the main road, I took pity on her and shifted my path a bit to the side, flattening more of the brush to give her a smoother drive. When we finally got back to 385, the crumbling asphalt seemed almost luxuriously smooth in comparison. Turning south once again, Guillen dropped back behind me and we continued on towards Panther Junction.

Today is both a happy occasion, and a sad one. Today I begin a five day odyssey through Big Bend National Park. My regulars are familiar with the years of trials and tribulations that brought me here, so I won't bore anyone by recapping them. Suffice it to say that I consider this the Crowning Moment of Awesome for my career. I only wish Dad were still alive to see this.
You see, today is also the anniversary of his death. Unlike many these days, he died peacefully, in his sleep. Unlike many these days, he stayed dead. As his passing was anticipated, he died in a hospital, where his brains could be neatly scrambled with powerful subsonics after his heart beat for the final time. But he was still a victim of the Rising, one of the ones we don't talk about much. My father died of liver failure, a side effect of his blood pressure medication. Before the Rising, organ transplants were becoming routine, saving many thousands of lives. Today, giving one person an organ harvested from another, living or dead, would doom that person to immediate viral amplification.
But he is with me today, and not just in spirit. In accordance with his dying wish, his cremated remains ride with me on this journey, one last trip to Big Bend.
- From Anthropological Curiosity,
  
  the blog of Rob Phillips, April 3, 2040
Well, the National Park Circus has pulled a fast one on us, saddling Rob with a nanny trailing him everywhere. That's going to mean hours of additional editing time to cut her out of the video so that it meets the standards they insisted on. And you can bet they'll get a bill for the extra work.
- From Yes Sir! F*** You Sir!,
  
  the blog of Bobbie Cardille, April 3, 2040
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Texas Zombie Reporter: Tales of the Rio Grande