(no subject)
Ann W. Richards Congress Avenue Bridge is home to the world's largest urban bat colony, which is composed of Mexican Free-tailed Bats. The bats reside beneath the road deck in gaps between the concrete component structures. They are migratory, spending their summers in Austin and the winters in Mexico. According to Bat Conservation International, between 750,000 and 1.5 million bats reside underneath the bridge each summer. Since Austin's human population is about 750,000, there are more bats than people in Austin during the summer.
Seen from above, on a hot summer night, the highways of East Texas make a spiderweb of light, with cities caught like flies, wrapped in cocoons of strip malls and tourist traps. But between the strands, not far at all from the urban, suburban, and exurban, there is darkness.
This isn't the wilderness, or even the frontier; even here, those are long-gone. These are the rurales. Ranches and farms; weaving, winding unlit country roads that need asphalt and paint and have never known streetlights. Towns one road wide, existing a few exits and a couple light-years from the capitol.
Our perspective dips; dropping into darkness. Drops... drops... and terminates.
Murphy glances over. "Delacroix, what the fuck are you eating?"
"Bat." He snagged it out of the air without looking, one pale skinny arm shot up like the flag on a mailbox; now he holds it tightly and eats it like chicken wings, face blank and moony, staring at the dark night sky.
Behind him, a fight is happening. Malloy lost the guy; Malloy is a tracker, a good one, and the guy is apparently hiding somehow. Reyes is the local knowledge guy, but he's saying he needs to know more about the guy to tell if he went for the city or the country to hide. It's different; city streets or country roads. Unlike Malloy, the city man, Reyes knows both but he needs to know his man. Malloy is being cagey.
This is Malloy's gig, he brought in Delacroix and Murphy (and Murph is grateful, sure; he's fresh, he feels old but he knows he's new, and he appreciates the lead. The payoff is good.) and he doesn't trust Reyes. Reyes seems like an okay guy to Murph, but what the fuck does he know?
He's pretty sure, though, that a fight is going to happen. His time in Rock and Roll Heaven getting his bearings (Got set up good, good car, good clothes, could use a better system and some rims, maybe lower it, but it's a good starter, and the share Malloy promised him will help) has taught him that if you get two or three road viruses together long enough, a fight is going to happen regardless.
He's watching, tense; not sure which way to jump if it goes bad. Malloy is his boy, brought him in on this, good guy, kind of a prick, but Reyes has something too. Reyes is smart, and he's old, which means he hasn't died in a long time. People who have died have to respect that in others, Murph figures. Malloy hasn't died in a while, either, but he had a close call recently, so advantage Reyes.
Delacroix doesn't care. Delacroix takes meth, and Murph doesn't care if you're human or not, meth will fuck you up. Delacroix, after stroking the side of his wounded car for a little while, has been sitting on the hood like a weirdo since they parked out here to figure out what the fuck to do. Other that grabbing the bat and going all Ozfest on it he hasn't even moved.
"Delacroix, what the fuck you doing now?" he asks, irritable.
"Listening," he says.
Murphy tries listening; under the thud of three seperate basslines, he hears crickets. Cows. "To what?"
Slow. "The country."
Reyes looks up; eyes Delacroix, a creature of the backroads and swamps. All the road viruses are tied to the city, drawn there--it's where the roads go--but some of them belong there and some just come there to spend their money and drink and whore. Some of them belong to the countryside they terrorize.
"What you hearin', Delacroix?"
"Scared," Delacroix says. "Of us."
Reyes shuts down his stereo, the engine. "Shut that shit off," Reyes tells the other two. Murph kills his engine, and after a tense moment, so does Malloy.
"What else?"
Delacroix frowns, like clouds drifting over the face of the moon; he slips off the hood of the car and wanders down the centerline. After a second Reyes follows him.
Half a mile down the road, tentative: "What you got, baby?"
"He's movin',' Delacroix says, nodding. "Hid. Goin' north."
Reyes looks back, nods to Malloy. "San Antonio, baby. If he's there I can find him." He slaps Delacroix on the shoulder. "Way to go, baby! Way to go!"
He claps his hands three times. "Let's go! We huntin!"
Seen from above, on a hot summer night, the highways of East Texas make a spiderweb of light, with cities caught like flies, wrapped in cocoons of strip malls and tourist traps. But between the strands, not far at all from the urban, suburban, and exurban, there is darkness.
This isn't the wilderness, or even the frontier; even here, those are long-gone. These are the rurales. Ranches and farms; weaving, winding unlit country roads that need asphalt and paint and have never known streetlights. Towns one road wide, existing a few exits and a couple light-years from the capitol.
Our perspective dips; dropping into darkness. Drops... drops... and terminates.
Murphy glances over. "Delacroix, what the fuck are you eating?"
"Bat." He snagged it out of the air without looking, one pale skinny arm shot up like the flag on a mailbox; now he holds it tightly and eats it like chicken wings, face blank and moony, staring at the dark night sky.
Behind him, a fight is happening. Malloy lost the guy; Malloy is a tracker, a good one, and the guy is apparently hiding somehow. Reyes is the local knowledge guy, but he's saying he needs to know more about the guy to tell if he went for the city or the country to hide. It's different; city streets or country roads. Unlike Malloy, the city man, Reyes knows both but he needs to know his man. Malloy is being cagey.
This is Malloy's gig, he brought in Delacroix and Murphy (and Murph is grateful, sure; he's fresh, he feels old but he knows he's new, and he appreciates the lead. The payoff is good.) and he doesn't trust Reyes. Reyes seems like an okay guy to Murph, but what the fuck does he know?
He's pretty sure, though, that a fight is going to happen. His time in Rock and Roll Heaven getting his bearings (Got set up good, good car, good clothes, could use a better system and some rims, maybe lower it, but it's a good starter, and the share Malloy promised him will help) has taught him that if you get two or three road viruses together long enough, a fight is going to happen regardless.
He's watching, tense; not sure which way to jump if it goes bad. Malloy is his boy, brought him in on this, good guy, kind of a prick, but Reyes has something too. Reyes is smart, and he's old, which means he hasn't died in a long time. People who have died have to respect that in others, Murph figures. Malloy hasn't died in a while, either, but he had a close call recently, so advantage Reyes.
Delacroix doesn't care. Delacroix takes meth, and Murph doesn't care if you're human or not, meth will fuck you up. Delacroix, after stroking the side of his wounded car for a little while, has been sitting on the hood like a weirdo since they parked out here to figure out what the fuck to do. Other that grabbing the bat and going all Ozfest on it he hasn't even moved.
"Delacroix, what the fuck you doing now?" he asks, irritable.
"Listening," he says.
Murphy tries listening; under the thud of three seperate basslines, he hears crickets. Cows. "To what?"
Slow. "The country."
Reyes looks up; eyes Delacroix, a creature of the backroads and swamps. All the road viruses are tied to the city, drawn there--it's where the roads go--but some of them belong there and some just come there to spend their money and drink and whore. Some of them belong to the countryside they terrorize.
"What you hearin', Delacroix?"
"Scared," Delacroix says. "Of us."
Reyes shuts down his stereo, the engine. "Shut that shit off," Reyes tells the other two. Murph kills his engine, and after a tense moment, so does Malloy.
"What else?"
Delacroix frowns, like clouds drifting over the face of the moon; he slips off the hood of the car and wanders down the centerline. After a second Reyes follows him.
Half a mile down the road, tentative: "What you got, baby?"
"He's movin',' Delacroix says, nodding. "Hid. Goin' north."
Reyes looks back, nods to Malloy. "San Antonio, baby. If he's there I can find him." He slaps Delacroix on the shoulder. "Way to go, baby! Way to go!"
He claps his hands three times. "Let's go! We huntin!"