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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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Next on the agenda, another five miles down the road, was the old Fossil Bone Exhibit. Dad always said there wasn't much to it, just a handful of fossils imbedded in the rock, sheltered by a small building. But it was on the Park Service wish list, so I was going to make the stop. The GPS flashed again as I approached the turnoff. This road wasn't in any better shape, but it was a lot shorter, and the parking area at the end was broad and not as overgrown. After going through the ritual of gearing up again, I hiked the short trail to the exhibit. It was just as disappointing as I'd been led to expect, a few fossilized bones under a small structure. And they weren't even the dinosaur bones that Big Bend was relatively famous for but rather some undistinguished Eocene mammals, or so my research said. The window fronting the exhibit was long gone, but whatever had been denning there was absent. The metal sign explaining the exhibit was faded to illegibility. The best part was that the exhibit was situated on a hill, and the desert vista beyond was breathtaking. It's telling that among all the pre-Rising blogs I'd found that mentioned this spot, most had photos of the desert view and none had pics of the fossils.
Back on the road, and on to the next stop. No point in even gearing up for this one aside from the helmet, as it was just a short walk from the road. Nina Hannold's grave site, the only one of the hundreds of graves in Big Bend that was maintained by the Park Service while the park was in operation. For that matter, the only one that the Park Service allowed to be maintained, although some of the others were surreptitiously cared for by friends, family members, and descendants of the deceased. Nina Hannold was also one of the few Anglos that had a recognizable burial site in the park, but that was no doubt just a coincidence. I won't speculate as to why it was the only grave on the wish list given to me for this trip. The grave was still in good shape, could stand a little clean up but otherwise intact. The original marker was stone, rather than the usual wooden crosses found in the area, and a commercial grave marker was added later.
After standing there silently for a few minutes, I returned to the LAV and continued south. The sun was headed towards the horizon, and I had one more place to visit before shutting down for the night. Another 5 miles or so down the road, the visitor center at Panther Junction came into view. I pulled into the visitor parking lot and parked, quickly raising the camera mast, gearing up, adding a grenade launcher to my assorted ironmongery, checking in with Bobbie, and stepping outside. I could already hear the moaning coming from the building. After taking out a couple of field cameras and tossing them to either side, I drew my right hand pistol and waited for the zombies to come out and play. I'll have to record most of the commentary later, but I have time to do a brief intro now.
“I know some of y'all have gotten a bit tired of all the scenery and have been hoping for a little more action. Looks like you're about to get your wish. I'm currently standing in front of the Panther Junction Visitor Center. It and the Park Service housing just out of sight behind it are home to the largest known pack of infected for hundreds of miles.”
The fake NPS vehicle pulled up alongside me, and Agent Guillen stepped out. “You sure you don't need any help?”
I sighed. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “If you want to help thin out the herd, that would be fine. But if they get within twenty feet, get back in your vehicle and stay there no matter what happens. In close combat, I need to know that anything moving is a target.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “I don't exactly want to get up close and personal with them.”
She was carrying a UMP25 Caseless SMG. Standard DEA issue, but plausible for a Park Ranger to be packing in zombie territory. I noted that she had it set on semi-auto and the shoulder stock was extended. The first few zombies stumbled out through the shattered remains of door, spreading out so that they could surround us once they shambled close enough.
“You start from the right,” I told Guillen, “I'll start from the left.”
Standard tactic for dealing with large packs, start at the edges and work your way towards the center. Unless you're on top of a building that they can't climb, in which case you start with the ones farthest away and leave the closest for last so you don't provide a staircase of bodies for them to clamber up. But at ground level the biggest danger is being surrounded, so you want them to stay in a clump. In a tight group, you can shift aim and fire faster, and there is some chance that a miss will still take out the next zombie in line.
They were about fifty feet away, at the edge of long range for me, but I had brought plenty of ammo so I opened fire. I aimed for the head of left-most zombie and, predictably, missed. But my second shot caught him just under the right eye and blew off the side of his skull, and he fell motionless to the ground. The second zombie caught a beautifully lucky round dead center in the forehead and toppled backward. I missed the third, my next shot hit her in the jaw but bypassed the skull and spine. At least I wouldn't have to worry about her biting me. The point became moot when I finished her off with the third shot. At that point I slipped into a combat trance, hardly conscious of my actions, my responses reduced to a set of If-Then statements. If it is down, then switch to next target, else, shoot it again.
I blinked, briefly aware again when the slide locked back on an empty magazine. My right thumb hit the magazine release while my left hand had already pulled a spare out of my belt pouch. I took a brief assessment, nine zombies down for fourteen rounds fired, not bad for the range. The new magazine slid home, I released the slide, and resumed firing. Guillen had been firing all along, the forty round mag for her SMG was convenient at times like this. By the time I emptied the second magazine and reloaded, Guillen had finished her first and quickly slammed another magazine home. The pack was about thirty feet away, and clumped together nicely. The larger a pack is, the smarter it is, and this one was smart enough to learn that straying too far to the side was a bad idea. Now to teach them why staying in a group was even worse.
I holstered my handgun and unslung the venerable M-79 grenade launcher. I pulled an M1968 Anti-Zombie Grenade from a loop on the sling, dialed in the range by eye, and loaded it, closing the action and releasing the safety. The AZG is a directional grenade, sort of like a miniature flying Claymore. It detonates at the range you set it for, and aimed right it will blow shrapnel through the skulls of a whole group of zombies, I think the record is twenty-three in one shot. In desperate situations you can even set it for a range of zero, in which case it detonates as soon as it leaves the barrel, but the concussion is very painful to the shooter and it knocks the launcher back hard enough to possibly break your shoulder.
“Now would be a good time to switch to full auto,” I told Agent-I-mean-Ranger Guillen as I brought it to my shoulder and fired, the M-79 making its characteristic “bloop!” sound.
I'd gauged the range pretty close and the front rank went down, along with much of the second rank. I was grateful for the hearing protection built into my helmet as Guillen's gun fired full-auto a couple of feet from my right ear. Those high-velocity .25 HydraShok rounds are louder than you might expect. As she mowed down the center of the pack, they started spreading out again. By the time her magazine ran dry there were twenty-six left still shuffling towards us, and they were getting close.
“Time for you to retire from the field of combat, Ranger,” I said, drawing both handguns this time. “I've got this.”
“You're out of your mind,” she replied, but she got back in her Ford anyway.
Some of my detractors says that the whole 'guns akimbo' routine is just stupid. They're right. If I try to fire both guns at once, I'm not going to hit a damned thing. But I don't fire both at once, I alternate. I can move my head faster than I can move my arms, and I've practiced enough that acquiring a sight picture when switching my attention from one gun to another is automatic. Besides, for me, 1911-pattern handguns, even the Springfield Armory hi-cap versions, are ideal for short range point-shooting. Inside of ten feet, I barely need to aim. Yes my accuracy does suffer some, but the extra speed in switching targets helps make up for it. Plus, two-gun mojo looks cool, and when you earn your living this way that's important.
I backed slowly away from the vehicles, across the empty parking lot. I'd picked my path earlier, noticing a stretch of pavement relatively intact and free from encroaching plant life. The pack was gaining on me, and I returned to working the edges, alternating between my left and right hand guns. I wasn't ready to be surrounded yet. Trying to walk backwards and shoot at the same time, my accuracy sucked, but by the time both magazines ran dry there were eleven more zombies on the ground. I holstered the gun in my left hand, reloaded the one in my right, and unslung my trident as they got close.
I wouldn't admit this on my blog, but one reason I like coming out to the west Texas desert is that desert zombies are just a little less dangerous. Their skin and underlying tissue is usually so dry and brittle they don't spray much if any blood when you hit them. They get clumsier as the smaller muscles and tendons dry out, and slower when they've lost enough moisture that the major muscle groups can barely function. There have been several cases of zombies that had dried out so much that they were completely inanimate, the only water left in their bodies was in their blood, brain, and major nerves. There were even a few reports during the drought of 2037 that zombies had been found completely desiccated, no moisture left in their bodies at all. Supposedly, the CDC took them away for experimentation to see if they would reanimate if the bodies were rehydrated. Hell, I even got bitten once and survived, all I can figure is that it was too dried out to produce saliva to carry the live-state virus. I felt like I was going into viral amplification, but that must have been a panic reaction. By the time I got back to the LAV and got a field kit, the feeling had passed and I tested clean.
I got three more head shots with my handgun before they closed in and I had to start moving. I threw a low kick at the first one that came at me, the steel toe of my boot destroying his knee, and spun out of the way as he fell. I continued the turn, using my trident to sweep the legs out from under another one, shattering her shin in the process. The trident is primarily a stabbing weapon, but it's forged from steel and makes a decent bludgeon as well. I fired the .45 at the next one that came at me, missing the first shot but putting the followup through his eye. I feinted a move to the side of one zombie, quickly shifted direction as he lunged towards the spot he thought I was headed for, and rammed the center blade of my trident through his neck, severing the spine. Zombies are suckers for misdirection, which is why it's one of the central techniques of 'Zombie-Fu.' There were eight zombies left standing, and they'd managed to flank me. I went into a blur of desperate motion, kicks, swipes, shots. My gun went empty and I dropped it, using my newly freed hand to give a little assist to a zombie that lunged past me, sending him sprawling on the pavement. I drew my bangstick and rammed it into the back of his head, sending nine 00 buckshot pellets through his brain.
I saw motion out of the corner of my eye, saw a zombie mouth headed for my shoulder, and twisted out of the way. He ran into another zombie attacking from the other side, and in the confusion they bit down on each other. I backed away, looking on dumbfounded as they continued to feed on each other. Then I realized they weren't after meat, but blood. As a rule, the infected don't attack each other, but I guess these two were so desperate for any kind of liquid that once they found some they couldn't stop themselves. I laughed a bit maniacally for a moment, then ended the bizarre tableau by drawing my left side gun and putting a round through each of their skulls.
I recovered and reloaded my other handgun, then went around finishing off the crippled zombies. I picked up any empty magazines that I could find that weren't visibly splattered with blood. Finally I recovered my field cameras, folded up the telescoping legs, and stowed them in my pack before returning to the LAV. I dropped the empty magazines, trident, and bangstick into the sterilizing bath and quickly swabbed myself down with a couple of bleached wet cloths.
Guillen leaned out the side window and commented, “I still say you're crazy, but that was amazing.”
“Always glad to get a new fan,” I said, “But right now we need to boogie on out of here.”
“Why's that?” she asked.
“Because that was only about a third of the pack, the rest are in the housing area just over the hill, and by now they should be headed this way.”
As if on cue, a new wave of moaning filled the air. I hurried into the driver's seat, retracted the camera mast, hit the ignition, and barreled out of the parking lot. Hitting the road, I turned right, driving past the Visitor Center. As I passed it, I could see the road leading back to the NPS housing. Well over a hundred infected were trudging down the road. Much as I hated to disappoint them, I was running out of daylight and could really use some rest.
Agent-I-mean-Ranger Guillen called me on the radio, but since I had set it back to silent I got text on the monitor instead of her voice.
Sew we're headed two Doug out wells write?
The voice to text software on my system isn't the best. It takes a while to adapt to new voices. It can transcribe Bobbie almost perfectly, but other people, not so much. I toggled the radio to audio output.
“Yes, we're going to Dugout Wells. Glad to see you did at least some research,” I said.
“Hey, first I heard about this trip was when they pulled me off duty at, um, Carlsbad Caverns and flew me to Alpine,” she explained. “Went straight from the plane to this truck and on the road to Marathon. Don't know how the Ranger that drove me to the truck stop was supposed to get home. I got a ten minute briefing on the way and spent the rest of the trip online learning what I could.”
Whoops, forgot we were talking in the clear. Good to know she's a quick thinker, Carlsbad Caverns is the only National Park in this area that's still operating. Bats are too small to go into viral amplification, so as long as you don't pick up the dead ones you're fine. Reading between the lines, I figured she must be out of the DEA office in El Paso.
As I drove, I grabbed a liter bottle of water, careful not to touch the spout with my hands, opened it with my teeth, and drained half of it in one long gulp. Bobbie hadn't contacted me yet, but I knew she was busy. I have to share all the scenery with the Park Service, but any zombie video is all mine, and Bobbie would want to get some teasers edited and posted as soon as possible.
After another five miles we got to the turnoff for Dugout Wells. The Texas National Guard had set up a fortified outpost here just in case it was needed. They built a secure building, fenced off the area, and built a large water tank that's kept filled by an old windmill. The area outside the fence is covered by automated sentry guns. The guns target anything within 100 yards of the fence that's moving and is large enough to mass more than 40 pounds. The animal rights groups demanded that they add infrared sensors to discriminate between infected and living animals, but those would be useless on a summer day around here. Besides, the place is usually ringed by dead critters, so the living animals tend to stay away. The National Guard sends a platoon down here every three months or so to make sure everything is working right, restock any supplies that have been used, reload the guns, and burn the accumulated carcasses. Other than that, the place doesn't see much use. It's illegal for civilians to be here without a permit, and I was the only one who had gotten a permit in decades. Anyone out here illegally is not likely to advertise that fact by entering a monitored government facility.
As I turned off the main road, there was a sign advising me not to go further without deactivating the guns covering the road. Since this safe house was intended to be available for anyone in trouble, there are several methods listed on the sign, including texting “Off” to a particular phone number, going to a specific page on the National Guard website, keying the mike five times at 1 second intervals on CB channel 9, or beeping your horn in the same pattern. I got out my pocket computer, entered the website, clicked the “Off” button, and waited until I got an acknowledgment. Agent-I-mean-Ranger Guillen started to drive around me, but I motioned for her to stay back. If there was a malfunction, my LAV could stand up to the guns better than her SUV.
As I approached the gate with Guillen riding my back bumper, it opened and I drove through. Once I cleared the gate she swerved around me and sped towards the building, skidding to a halt next to the door. She jumped out of the driver's seat, slammed her hand into the testing unit by the door, and stood there with her knees pressed tightly together while the lights flashed. Ah, that explained her hurry. As soon as the lights came up green and the door unlocked, she kind of hobbled inside. I parked next to her SUV, grabbed a bag of food and a change of clothes, and stepped outside. I hit the switch on the sterilizer to drain out the bleach mixture and put it into autoclave mode. Then I put my own hand in the testing unit, waited until it came up green, and strolled inside.
Setting my stuff down on a table and sticking the perishable food and a sixpack of Dr. Pepper in the fridge, I checked the monitors, seeing that the water tank was full and the batteries supplied by the solar array on the roof were fully charged. After flipping the switch to turn on the swamp cooler, I carried my fresh clothes to the shower rooms. The door to one was closed, so I chose the other. After stripping down and stepping into the stall, I found that I even enjoyed the bleach portion of the shower. It had been a hot, dry, dusty day, hotter than the average for this time of year, and even my summer armor makes me feel like I'm stewing in my own juices after a while. After drying off, I put on a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt. Not expecting to have company on this trip, I hadn't exactly packed along any casual evening wear, and after the heat of the day I wasn't going to wear any more clothes than I had to. Going back into the main room, I found that Guillen wasn't out of the shower yet, and the swamp cooler was already bringing the temp down to a tolerable level. I dropped my armor and underclothes in the clothing sterilizer and sat down for the meticulous task of cleaning my guns and electronics. After a few minutes, Guillen came out wearing shorts and a nicely filled-out tank top, sat across from me and proceeded to clean her gun. Since she didn't get close to the zombies she didn't have to worry about contamination, just basic maintenance, and she finished quickly. After a while, I noticed she was eying my bag of food.
“Um, you did bring some supplies along?” I asked.
“Yeah, there's a case of MREs and a couple of cases of water in the truck,” she replied.
“Tell you what,” I offered, “I can spare a meal or two. If you're willing to cook, I'm willing to share.”
“Deal,” she said, grabbing the bag and heading to the kitchenette.
I do most of the cooking for me and Bobbie, and naturally all my own cooking in the field, but it was nice to have a break from kitchen duty. While the pleasantly domestic sounds and aromas filled the room, I continued my necessary chores. I had just set aside the last of my field cameras and leaned back when Agent Guillen set food in front of me.
As she set down across from me, I spoke up, “Oops, forgot to mention, you might want to avoid the chili.”
“Hey, I grew up in New Mexico, I can handle hot food,” she bragged.
“It's not that,” I explained. “The larger chunks are alligator, and a lot of people don't want to take a chance eating even non-mammalian carnivores.”
“I didn't think alligator was legal to sell. Where do you get it?” she asked. “And what possessed you to put it in chili?”
“It's not commercially available yet, but I get it from a ranch north of San Antonio. If you go through my archives you'll find out where. Hell, the gator that supplied it might even be on camera, but I'm assured it's not the one with the interesting chew toy. The chili is the last of a batch I made last month for 'Eat a Tasty Animal for PETA Day.' That same report will explain why I felt the need to include alligator. The rest of the meat is ordinary turkey and ostrich.”
She tried a spoonful with obvious trepidation, then dug in with relish. The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence. After washing the dishes, I grabbed another Dr. Pepper and sat back down for a more serious talk.
“Okay Agent Guillen, all cameras and recorders are off. I won't report anything without your approval, but I reserve the right to cancel this trip and go home,” I bluffed. “Level with me, what are you up to down here?”
“I'll tell you what I can. I'll guarantee that it's all true, but not the whole truth. Anything I withhold is for the safety of other agents, and for your own safety. And by the way, please call me Anna.”
Hmm, I'd been betting on 'Tony', the better to fit in with the masculine world of federal law enforcement. “Okay, Anna, I'm listening.”
“One of the drug cartels has been smuggling drugs and sex slaves in through Big Bend. Enforcement along the inhabited parts of the border has been stepped up enough that they're willing to risk going through a Class 3 zone. They were taking their 'cargo' up to the Marathon Truck Stop and putting it on trucks there, but with the cooperation of the owners we put a stop to that. We caught a couple by using drone surveillance along 385 and 118, and stepped up patrols along 90. Now all indications are that they are cutting cross country all the way up to I-10. That's a lot of territory to cover, so our best bet is to find where they are crossing the border. My task is to look for signs of traffic. A full DEA or Border Patrol search would be noticed. But your trip down here has been well publicized, so the idea was for me to tag along in a way that I could blend in. I'm expressly forbidden from seeking out or confronting the smugglers myself, I'm just supposed to follow you and keep my eyes open.”
I pondered that for a minute. “I see. And I suppose I'd be just as likely to stumble across a smuggling caravan without you as with you. I presume you have a plan for that.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “If we can't avoid them, I get on the radio and scream for help. There's a tactical squad with a helicopter standing by at an isolated farm house between here and Alpine. They can be here in half an hour.”
“I guess that settles it,” I said, leaning back with my drink.
Anna leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand. “You know,” she said, her other hand idly tugging at the neckline of her top and giving me a better look at her generous cleavage, “Since the cameras are off....” She trailed off, smiling coyly.
I knew where she was coming from. Fighting for your life and surviving gets the hormones surging. There's something about it that makes you want to do something to prove you're still alive. It wasn't my irresistible charm. Substitute any male that was reasonably close to her preferences and she probably would have felt the same way. Or female, if Anna swings that way. But I've been there often enough to have learned that the aftermath isn't always pleasant.
“Sorry, but the cameras have to come back on for that,” I explained. “Bobbie likes to watch. But she won't record without your permission.”
Anna angrily pushed herself back from the table, muttering “You really are crazy” as she stalked off to one of the bunks and climbed in.
I smiled inwardly, having seen that reaction often enough before. It's proven to be the best tactic for fending off advances from groupies. On the rare occasions when one of them isn't fazed by my girlfriend watching, well, Bobbie and I have agreed to give each other a little room to roam, and she really does like to watch.
Well, no rest for the wicked, at least not yet. I got out my pocket computer, logged on to the server, and downloaded Bobbie's cleaned up copies of today's video so that I could add some commentary. After that, I started writing a blog entry to be posted in the morning. I refrained from looking at the site stats, knowing Bobbie would be giving me any good news shortly. As soon as I transmitted the entry, Bobbie pinged me with a text.
Guess what? I posted a teaser of your little play date with the zombie pack, that bit near the end where the 2 zombies were going all vampire on each other. It's already gotten 1.7 million hits, the page view counter is spinning so fast that the last 2 digits are just a blur. I had to set up 2 mirror sites and buy extra bandwidth just to keep up with demand. So far I've heard from 47 TV stations and 8 broadcast and cable networks wanting to buy the rights to show it, and I've got click-through revenue agreements with 17 major news blogs. Nobody has seen anything like it before.
Now that Bobbie had given me the top news, I could check the rest without stealing her thunder.
I figured that would do well. And now I see that we're getting good numbers overall, and the Park Service seems especially pleased.
Yep. Things are just humming along here, but your mom says you should be more careful. By the way, how are things going with your little friend? I looked her up on Facebook and she looks hot in a bikini.
I opened up another window and did my own search. Bobbie's right, Anna does look pretty good in a bikini.
Well, she did try to seduce me a little while ago, but the 'Bobbie likes to watch' routine sent her off in a huff.
Ha! I bet you a back rub that by the end of your trip she'll decide she doesn't care about the camera.
You're on.
What the hell? Even if I lose, I win, both here and at home. It's not like giving Bobbie a back rub is some kind of hardship.
Now you go get some sleep, you need it after today. Love you.
Love you, too.
Bed suddenly seemed like a really good idea, so I found a bunk and promptly passed out.

Just a short entry, because I've had a grueling day and the one ahead of me doesn't look any easier. I have danced with the dead yet again, and survived to post about it. The video from that and the rest of the day should be going up soon, and the segments Bobbie has already posted are proving to be very popular.
Next up, the Basin.
- From Anthropological Curiosity,
- the blog of Rob Phillips, April 4, 2040
You know what makes me sick? You know what makes me so angry I could chew cactus and spit needles? I've been editing Rob's video from his first day in Big Bend National Park, and it's absolutely beautiful. But this is the first time in decades that anyone but government employees has been allowed to see it. It should be cleaned out and opened to the public again, at least for guided tours. It wouldn't be that hard. Hell, Rob took out a third of the largest pack in the park by himself, imagine what a couple of platoons could do. Well, I admit he did have some help from his Park Circus nanny, guess she didn't turn out to be completely useless after all.
Consider this: the government has gone to the trouble to keep the Grand Canyon open to tourists, and once you get over the big hole in the ground, there's nothing there to see. The average tourist spends less than an hour and a half there, and most of that is taken up by lunch. And that figure has held steady since before the Rising. After 18 hours in Big Bend, Rob has barely scratched the surface. But the federal government doesn't care about Big Bend, and our state government is no better. Governor Tate would probably order the whole place napalmed if he could. Part of me hopes the voters actually do send him to DC, because that seems to be the only way we'll get his worthless ass out of the Governor's mansion.
- 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