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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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I woke up before dawn. Looking through the side vision block at Anna's truck, it appeared that she was still asleep, so I fixed myself a mug of tea and logged on to the site for a while. Bobbie was already up and working. She doesn't sleep much when I'm out in the field, but she makes up for it when I get back. After the customary lengthy and strenuous welcome home celebration, she'll usually sleep for a good 15 hours. She took a break from her work to catch me up on the latest news. She'd finished editing the video from Tuesday and had sent it to the Park Service, and they had already paid for it, plus a bonus. They really were anxious for it. Site traffic was still holding strong and revenue was the best we'd ever seen. The footage of my encounter with the zombie hiker had been posted in the evening and was quickly picked up by some of the late night talk shows. No doubt the video would get even more attention once the lawsuit was announced, dammit. The hiker had been identified, and the family was upset. The suit would be dismissed, they always are, and those same talk shows would share the legal expenses. But in the meantime, I would have to learn more about the hiker than I wanted to.
By the time Bobbie went back to work and I'd had some breakfast, it was getting light outside. The sun wasn't up over the mountains from where I was, but the peaks to the west were fully lit. I went outside and watched the sunlight gradually creep towards me. About the time the sun finally peeked over the mountains, Anna joined me.
“So, what's on the agenda for today?” she asked.
“I want to stop by the lodge while we're here, then the Hot Springs, Boquillas Canyon, and Rio Grande Village.”
“Any infected to watch for?”
“Since the Rising happened during the hottest part of the summer, there weren't many people camping there. But there was a fair sized village just across the river, and there's a ford that the infected could cross. We'll be close to the river, obviously, so the chance of infected animals is higher. No bears, but there might be anything else that's native to the area, plus possibly horses and donkeys. Could even be beavers.”
After a few more minutes we got on the road for the short drive over to the Chisos Mountain Lodge. This was not on the NPS wish list, having been a commercial operation, but I wanted to check it out. The guest room buildings were mostly intact, but showing signs of years of neglect. At the main lodge building, the large plate glass windows facing out on the Basin were shattered. I pulled around and parked outside the main entrance. All of the doors I could see were closed, a welcome sign from a safety perspective, not so welcome to a stark raving mad zombie-baiter like me. Still, the broken windows in the dining room would provide access to all sorts of critters, so there was some hope of a little action to help me finish waking up. I was back to full armor and weapons for this excursion, just leaving the M-79 behind because using it indoors is not a pleasant experience. Anna followed, her SMG at the ready, as I opened the door and stepped inside with handgun drawn. We were in a large gift shop area, and along the inside wall was a diner-style lunch counter. There had been a broad opening leading into the dining room, but the army had brought building materials and walled it off, leaving a standard size door for access.
I cautiously walked across the room to the door. It had a peephole, possibly salvaged from one of the guest rooms. I peered through and the dining room beyond appeared empty. I opened the door and entered the room. Still no sign of movement, but it had clearly been occupied recently. Dirt and sand had been blown or tracked onto the floor, inches deep in the corners, and there were clear deer tracks and bedding spots. Much of the glass from the broken windows had been scraped to the side. I figured they must be out taking advantage of the relatively cool morning. The army had added latches to the kitchen doors, which were still closed. Anna and I carefully worked our way through the building, assuring that every room was empty, and then made our way back to the gift shop. I took a good look around. The more valuable items and any perishable food or candy was long gone. Much of what was left was badly deteriorated. But in a storage room I found books, t-shirts, stuffed animals, and stacks of postcards that were all still sealed in plastic and good as new.
As I was stacking the goods on the counter and loading them into my former firewood bag, Anna said, “Isn't this looting? I don't think Target v. Taylor applies.”
“You're partially right, Taylor only covers goods that are essential to survival. Although courts have been generous in interpreting that decision, it wouldn't stretch this far. This falls under Harvey v. Amfac Parks and Resorts.”
“I haven't heard of that one,” Anna said.
“Neither had I before last week,” I admitted. “But I wanted some souvenirs so I got my lawyer doing some research. Under Amfac, this should qualify as legitimate salvage. While the lodge was operated by a private company, the building and land are owned by the government. When the company stopped paying concession fees, they legally abandoned any property they left here.”
“Wouldn't they have filed an insurance claim?” Anna asked.
“Yep. Or wrote it off on their income taxes, the lawyer is still trying to find out which. He consulted with a salvage law attorney, who says that worst case I should be able to get a 50% salvage award, but thinks I could probably settle by paying the 2014 value.”
I hauled my booty out to the LAV, then discovered we'd taken a little too long. A series of grunts drew my attention to the right, where a mule deer buck was approaching. His gaunt, haggard appearance proclaimed him as infected, and the chorus of answering grunts from the nearby trees announced that he wasn't alone. I shoved Anna back through the door and followed her, tossing my salvage across the room and drawing a handgun. She started to close the door, but I stopped her. Her instincts were just fine for more populated areas, where the best tactic is usually to lock yourself in and wait for help. But there would be no rescue here.
“Get behind the counter and get ready. I'll hold the door as long as I can and then lead them away from you.”
The lead buck reached the entrance and I put a round through his skull, then kicked his body out of the way before he could collapse in the doorway. I looked out at the other deer. They were scattered and strung out, so that they would reach me one or two at a time, and as long as I held the door they couldn't surround me. The first ones were within ten feet but moving slowly, so most of my shots were right on target. A couple of them took two shots, and unfortunately my magazine ran dry on a miss. I backed away from the door, hurriedly drawing my other handgun and my trident. Anna shot the first deer that followed me in, and I was ready for the next. The herd was down to four by then, and we calmly picked them off as they shambled through the door.
Once we were sure there were no more coming, I pulled a couple of test kits out of my pack. After we tested clean, we bagged them up and I dropped them in the biohazard bin in the LAV. After a precautionary field scrub down, I loaded up my new souvenirs and we headed out. As we drove back to the road out of the mountains, Bobbie pinged my headset to let me know she wanted to talk.
“Go ahead.”
“You forgot something, hero,” she said.
“Yeah, I know, the field cameras. I was in kind of a rush.”
“No biggie, between your helmet and the cameras on the LAV, I got enough coverage. But don't let it happen again, unless you have to.”
“I'll pledge my life to get you better footage in the future.”
“Don't go that far, I want you back in one piece. And on that note, I'll leave you to your driving. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The climb out of the Basin was a little less nerve-wracking now that I knew what to expect. After a careful ascent up to the pass, the drive was pleasant and we made good time. We turned right once we got down to the main road, and soon passed Panther Junction. None of the remaining pack was in view. Besides, there wasn't time to stop here and play with the zombies, so we continued on. After consulting with Anna, I decided we did have time to stop at the Dugout Wells outpost for a quick shower and some laundry. Once that was accomplished, we got back on the road and entered new territory. The road was a straight ribbon of broken asphalt stretching through unrelieved desert. But there was still life out here. The wildflowers and cacti were blooming. In the space of a mile I saw two roadrunners and a coyote. No, the coyote wasn't wearing rocket-powered roller skates, and he wasn't chasing either of the roadrunners.
About ten miles from Dugout Wells, the road finally gained some noticeable curves. We passed the turnoff for River Road East, which we would be taking tomorrow, and arrived at Tornillo Creek, which drains most of the eastern half of the park. And it was crossed by the only real bridge in the park, supported by piers across the nearly quarter mile wide creek bed. Rather, it used to be supported by piers, but now three sections of the bridge had collapsed. Fortunately, the bed was fairly level, more like a sunken section of desert than a watercourse. After a few minutes to pick the best spot to descend, we drove across the creek and back up on the other side. Once back on the road, another minute or so of driving brought us to the road to the Hot Springs, my next planned stop. We made the turn, and the road was in decent shape. Unfortunately, even if they'd just finished building the road yesterday I'd have had a problem. My original plan had been to take River Road East and walk across Tornillo Creek. But the addition of Anna to this expedition meant I had another option. About halfway down the road, I pulled off to the side and got into my hiking gear. I got out of the LAV and stood next to it, sticking out my thumb. Anna had started to get out of her Ford, but instead she started it up again and pulled up next to me.
“Hey lady,” I said, “Can I bum a ride?”
“I dunno, Mama always warned me about picking up hitchhikers. But I guess you're cute, so hop on in.”
I hit the remote to activate the LAV's security system, then got in next to Anna and placed a camera on the dash to catch the view ahead. Anna drove carefully, habit making her take the right fork when the road split. She slowed down further as the road narrowed. Past this point, it was cut into the wall of a steep ravine, and I could have reached out and touched the rock wall outside my window.
“Wow, I see why you couldn't take your truck down here. No way it would have fit.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “Even when this road was maintained it was impassable to anything larger than a van.”
“What would you do without me?” she asked, grinning.
“I'd have hiked it.”
After more than half a mile of difficult travel, the ravine flattened out and the two roads reunited. A short while later we got to the parking lot, parked, and got out. A small stone-walled house stood next to the parking area. The roof was long gone even when Big Bend was in operation, but we checked it out just in case. We moved back past the vehicles and towards the J.O. Langford store/post office. It was large fieldstone structure, with minor architectural flourishes not seen in other local buildings from the early 20^th century. There were shallow arches over the doors and windows, and the facade extended above the roof line. A tall palm tree stood at the right front corner. As we got closer, I could see that much of the roof had collapsed into the interior. The Park Service had taken care to maintain the roof in order to protect murals painted on the interior walls. I was a bit saddened to see how much further they had faded, compared to pictures from before the Rising, since being exposed to the elements. The remains of the roof provided potential shelter, so I tossed a rock into the center of the room and waited for any reaction. When nothing came out and tried to eat my face, we moved on.
Although we'd be seeing it again later, I detoured to check the hotel building. Not much to see there, just a rectangular structure divided up into a handful of rooms. I turned around and led the way to the trail up to the top of the bluff. It was about a quarter mile to the Langford house, located near the cliff above the springs. The house was in poor shape, being located on top of the hill where it had no protection from the occasional high winds. Several of the walls had collapsed. After looking around for a minute, I found a feature that was not found on the official NPS trail guide, but something that my dad had mentioned. It was hole by the edge of the cliff, going completely through an overhang and into the empty space beyond. There were still signs of a small structure that had been built around it. Instant outhouse, no need to dig a pit.
I moved a little farther down the cliff face, to a spot overlooking the old bathhouse. I took out one of my field cameras, extending one leg to its maximum length and leaving the other three short. I positioned it at the cliff edge, the long leg almost parallel to the ground and weighted down with small rock, two of the others holding the camera a few inches out from the cliff face to give a view down to the hot springs. After that, we continued along the trail to the point where it descended down to river level. Here the trail forked, one leg covering several miles to Rio Grande Village, the other leading back along the river to where we started.
We walked back towards the hot springs along the riverbank, ranging about 20' to 60' wide between the cliff and the river. It was a short walk to the remains of the bathhouse. The walls were long gone, but enough of the structure was left to hold a pool of water large enough for half a dozen or so people, more if they were friendly. I set up a field camera on the trail, and moved past the springs to put one where the trail the other way was screened by a patch of river cane. If we got any unexpected company, I wanted plenty of warning.
That done, I set one of my handguns by the pool, dropped my pack, and stripped down to my boxers and helmet. Nothing like a little fan service for my groupies to boost site traffic. I walked into the pool, found a comfortable spot, and sat down, leaning back so that the hot water covered most of my chest.
Looking up at Anna I asked, “Care to join me, Ranger Guillen?”
“You're out of your freaking mind,” she said, “But I think the insanity is contagious.”
She stripped down to her tank top and shorts then, after clearly thinking about it for a moment, dropped the shorts as well to reveal a pair of plain white panties. I was disappointed to see she was wearing a bra, but I realized it was mostly necessary for her. She saw where I was gazing and smirked, turning around to slip her bra out from under her top. She entered the pool carrying her handgun, and set it down on edge of the pool when she settled into a spot across from me. She also leaned back, but the water didn't quite come up to her breasts. Though after a few minutes the absorbent action of the cotton thoroughly dampened the fabric to the point where it clung to every contour.
(“Woohoo!” Bobbie almost shouted through my headset, “That should drive site traffic up by at least a third.”)
“How hot is this water?” Anna asked. “I wouldn't expect hot water to feel this good after the heat of the day, but it's wonderful.”
“It's about 105 degrees. It's supposed to be the cure for anything that ails you. Langford claimed it cured his malaria. People would come from across the country and pay as much as $5 for the 21 day treatment regimen that helped him.”
“Damn, don't think I can afford that much.”
We soaked for about another half an hour, keeping watch for unwelcome visitors but otherwise relaxing and chatting idly. I just thinking it was time to get out but not wanting to make the effort when Bobbie's voice came over my headset.
“Time to start drying off, loverboy, if you want time for lunch.”
I lightly tapped the side of my helmet to let Anna know I wasn't talking to her and asked, “What are the numbers looking like?”
“Already more than 200 logged on and paid.”
“Whoa! Nope, definitely don't want to disappoint the fans.”
I stood up and looked down at Anna, “I'm afraid it's time to go.”
“Do I have to?” she mock-whined as she got up.
“Sorry.”
We moved back to dry ground and wrung out our underwear as best we could without getting completely naked, then dried our exposed skin with a towel from my pack. I decided to see if I could buy us a little more time to air-dry. I pulled up the camera management app on my pocket computer and selected the camera at the top of the cliff above us. I handed the computer to Anna.
“Give me about five seconds to get ready then tap the “Shutdown” button.”
“Okay.”
She hit the button and one extended leg retracted. I had set it up right, and the leg pulled out from under the rock holding it down rather than pulling the camera back from the cliff. As it fell towards me I deftly caught it and stowed it in my pack. The breeze coming from the south didn't pick up much moisture on its brief passage across the Rio Grande, and were soon as dry as we were going to get. With no more reason to delay, we got dressed. Watching Anna get back into her bra was even better than watching her take it off, matched only by watching her bend over to pick it up first. After I picked up and stowed the other two cameras, we headed back towards the parking area. As we walked, I pointed out the cliff swallow nests attached to the cliffs above us. The rock here fractures into flat, rectangular blocks. That not only provided materials for the Hot Springs buildings, but also left corners with overhangs where the swallows could build their mud nests.
I was also closely watching the lower end of the cliff as we walked. Finally, I saw a hint of what I was looking for through the brush. I squeezed my way through the foliage and to the cliff face. There I found pictographs drawn on the cliff face. They had already been there for centuries when the Europeans first came. Dad says that when he first started coming to Big Bend, they were known to some of the tourists and had been mentioned in magazine articles, but the Park Service wouldn't admit to their existence. Finally, the NPS realized they couldn't keep the drawings a secret anymore and publicized, hoping that greater awareness would protect them from vandalism when secrecy was no longer possible. Remembering my dad's instructions, I found a section of less common red pictographs, marred where some asshole had knocked chips out of the rock.
After getting video for the Park Service and some pictures for my own collection, I led Anna back to her truck. We tried to take the other side of the split road going back, but found a damaged spot that we couldn't pass. With no place to turn around and a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, Anna backed up a couple of hundred feet and took the road we had used on the way in. After getting back to the LAV I recommended food, and we sat on the tailgate of the Ford and ate a cold lunch.
“So, what were you talking with Bobbie about earlier?” Anna asked.
“We've got a live pay-per-view webcast scheduled in a little while,” I replied.
“What about?”
“You'll find out. Here, let me borrow your PDA.”
She handed it to me and I used it to access the site, putting in one of my single-use admin passwords to get her onto the PPV page for free. “Here, now you can watch from safety while I do something insane. When we get within sight of the tunnel, I need for you to stop. I'd appreciate it if you would turn on the camera I left on the dash and make sure it's pointed at the tunnel mouth. Bobbie could always use another camera angle.”
“Okay, I'll do that.”
I got back in the LAV and led the way back to the allegedly paved road. I noticed that Bobbie had added a countdown timer and a hit counter to the forward view monitor. The time was down to just over 15 minutes, and we were quickly approaching 1000 viewers. I'd used up less than 5 of those minutes by the time we passed the turnoff for Old Ore Road and rounded a curve that brought us in sight of the tunnel. I stopped and looked down the road. This was a major part of the reason I'd been approved for this journey.
The 300' tunnel ahead of me was the coolest, most sheltered spot in all of the surrounding desert. It was a very popular hangout for zombies of all species during the heat of the day. When the army was in Big Bend, they sent two patrols down this way. They survived, and they put down many of the infected, but they weren't able to get through. They were preparing to send a platoon when their mission was canceled. There was no practical way around on the ground, or there wouldn't be a tunnel in the first place. The only other road access means going through Mexico and fording the river. Driving cross country means a long and hazardous detour. You could hike, but that requires being miles away from your vehicle with a known pack of infected in between. There's the river, but it's too shallow for any boat large enough to have an enclosed cabin, so that leaves you with no place to hole up.
The other applicants to enter Big Bend all had quite capable 4WD vehicles. But mine had a few capabilities that theirs didn't. For one thing, the LAV-300 is amphibious. The Park Service expected me to follow Tornillo creek to the Rio Grande, take the river to Rio Grande Village, and use the old border crossing from Boquillas to get back onto land.
The Park Service didn't know me very well.

Let me tell you a story. Way back in the deep, dark past, (1976 to be precise) a TV series was filming on location in a Long Beach, CA, fun house that was soon to be torn down. A crew member was moving a wax mannequin which had been hanging from a gallows and, in keeping with the decor of this particular establishment, may quite possibly have been painted day-glow orange. In the course of this relocation, one of the mannequin's appendages broke off. Stories vary as to which one, and it really doesn't matter. What matters is that this unfortunate accident revealed human bone. That's right, the fake hanged man that no doubt inspired many children to shriek in a mixture of delicious fear and glee had once been a real little boy.
The famous and outspoken medical examiner Thomas Noguchi, himself the inspiration for the title character of a TV series of that same period, examined the corpse. Foreign objects were found in his mouth, including a 1924 penny. These clues were sufficient to start a chain of research that led to the corpse's identity.
Elmer McCurdy was a nondescript and not very successful bandit, most famous for a train robbery that netted himself and his fellow robbers a total of $46 and a few bottles of whiskey. But Elmer did not profit from even those meager ill-gotten gains, for a posse was soon on the gang's trail. In the climactic gun fight, Elmer famously proclaimed, “You'll never take me alive.”
That prophecy came true, and Elmer's body was delivered to the undertaker. When no one claimed the body for burial, the undertaker preserved it and put Elmer on display. In exchange for viewing the body, you were expected to place a nickel in Elmer's mouth. Carnival men offered to buy Elmer, but the undertaker was loathe to give up a steady source of income. After all, what if his day job suddenly declined in demand or perhaps became unimaginably dangerous? The morticians of 2014 could no doubt empathize even if they wouldn't condone.
But finally, through foul fraud, a carnival did manage to acquire Elmer and exhibited him in town after town across my home state. He was at some point sold to another carnival, or a less-than-reputable museum, a fun house, a haunted house. He was repeatedly sold to all of the above, earning far more money as a corpse than he ever had as a bandit, and one day his true nature was somehow forgotten until a macabre accident brought it to light again.
But Elmer was far from the only corpse exhibited for the benefit of others. Such exhibition has been a staple of human existence. For reasons alleged to be noble (while you are frenziedly searching the internet for the name of the TV show, take a moment to search the term “philatory”), horrific, amusing, educational, entertaining, inspiring, lucrative, and even artistic, the dead have been displayed to the living.
Is it any wonder that the 'walking dead' are treated the same? It shouldn't be. The practice existed before there were any real zombies to practice on. I refer, of course, to my cinematic forebears, such as the pie-wielding bikers from “Dawn of the Dead.” When people ask in outrage how I can bring myself to 'mistreat' something that used to be a living, breathing, human being, I think of Elmer McCurdy, who finally went to his eternal and well-deserved rest 60 years ago today.
Oh, just one more thing. Elmer was killed in 1911. He was born in 1880. His body was an object of amusement for more than 65 years. He was on display as a corpse more than twice as long as he had lived as a man. Until another 5 years or so have passed, Elmer will have been exhibited longer than he has rested in the grave.
- From Anthropological Curiosity,
  
  the blog of Rob Phillips, April 22, 2037
First things first: Rob, don't read this.
I am pissed off. Rob is being sued yet again. The hiker from yesterday has been identified. I will withhold his name out of respect for those members of his family deserving of such, and also under the advice of our lawyer. I will also withhold any information obtained by our lawyer in his preparations for court.
But there are some facts readily available from publicly accessible sources. The hiker was a resident of Tucson, AZ. He was to attend a conference in Houston this week. For no adequately explained reason, his spouse accompanied him, and they decided to drive in convoy with several of his conference-bound colleagues. One member of the convoy used his blog to announce his arrival in every little town along their route, until they reached El Paso. There the announcements ceased. Activity on his blog did not resume until he announced his return to Tucson the day the conference was due to start. No explanation was given.
The hiker's spouse also infrequently kept a blog. She was one of those who mostly blogged about things that had caused her sorrow and regret. She blogged about the death of her dog, the skinned knee of her child, the loss of her favorite bracelet, and so on.
She made no mention of the absence of her husband until after the video of his encounter with Rob appeared on a TV station in Tucson.
- From Yes Sir! F*** You Sir!,
  
  the blog of Bobbie Cardille, April 5, 2040
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Texas Zombie Reporter: Tales of the Rio Grande