Rabid Heart

by Jeremy Wagner

  Rhonda raised her head and looked Sergeant Harris in the eye. “Nice one. And you’re right, Sarge. Count me on board all the way.”

  Sarge’s battlefield mug brightened. “Good on ya, Driscoll.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The full-bird’s waiting for you at the head-shed. Wants you there yesterday.”

  “The who wants me where?”

  “The Colonel. Your dad... wants you in the command-post before we take off for Levendale. Hurry your ass up.”

  Oh yeah. She remembered the term full-bird. She heard lots of military slang. It was all weird. These guys may as well speak Chinese. Rhonda shook her head. She thought she would’ve learned all the Marine lingo by now. She certainly heard enough of that talk in her family’s house for the last 21 years. “Gotcha. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  Sarge frowned. “Move.”

  Chapter Two

  Rhonda approached the 1,200-square-foot, dark-green tent. It was a modernized command post. The hum of its industrial-sized generator ran non-stop, providing the tent with electricity for computers, lights, appliances and air conditioning. Now that late fall was upon North Carolina, it would bring heat, too.

  She stepped into warmth and bustling noise. Before her, soldiers in camo talked among themselves. Several of them sat at laptop computers. Rhonda knew Fort Rocky lost active Internet months ago. Every computer on base served to draft miscellaneous documents and signs, or consult old GPS files for travel strategies. She knew Daddy—Colonel Kenneth Driscoll—maintained a strict and professional military atmosphere at all times. This wasn’t Afghanistan or Syria, but they were at war all the same.

  Her eyes flashed on Dad, at the tent’s far end. He stood in front of a large, pin-covered, marked-up map of North Carolina, surrounded by a few Marines scribbling notes as he pointed and dished out strategies and plans for various search-save-seek-and-destroy missions.

  Rhonda stood at attention and watched her father, his muscular arms waving and his large hands clenched. She couldn’t help but worry about the bastard’s blood pressure.

  “Dead Cujos are the only good Cujos.” Dad waved a fist. “I want every single dead-walking, maggot-breeding, flesh-eating, inhuman, un-American, rot-smelling biped within the range of a bullet, flame-thrower, grenade or any other form of ordnance, DEAD FOR GOOD!”

  High-strung as always.

  The Colonel spotted her and pulled his camo hat bill to his brows, dismissing his men with a nod.

  “C’mere, baby-girl.” Colonel Driscoll stood straight with his left hand on his hip and his right arm extended and waved her over. “We gotta talk before you go hunting for the living and the decomposing alike.”

  “What d’ya wanna talk about?” Rhonda sometimes felt tempted to address Dad as Colonel or Sir, but she wasn’t a soldier, and anyway, any reverence she held for him had dropped several pegs, thanks to his blatant contempt for Brad Savini, which hadn’t lessened one iota now that her much-hated fiancé was dead.

  “I’ve reviewed today’s mission with Sergeant Harris and I’m sending y’all into Levendale.”

  “I know.”

  “That a problem?”

  “Not really. I wasn’t too keen on the idea at first, but now I’m sorta curious to see what’s up there. I had hoped to get one last look at our town. To try and make sense of what happened. Maybe to say goodbye to family, and you know, Brad.”

  Brad’s arms, reaching for her... just before Cujos nabbed him.

  “Rhonda, you’re alive and Brad’s dead. Most of the world’s dead and walking. Be glad you’re here. I know you loved Brad. That you think he was your soulmate—”

  “He was, Dad. Better believe it.”

  “Right. You were gonna get married. It’s over. He’s in a better place and so are you.”

  Rhonda didn’t speak. She played with her engagement ring. Her skin had grown thick in time, thanks in part to Dad Driscoll’s parenting skills.

  But Brad had passed the test.

  “Permission to speak freely, Dad? Colonel?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You can be a real prick about things, you know that?”

  “I’m a real prick about everything.” Dad offered a half-smile. “Look. Life and love are fleeting things. I’m not gonna tell you how to feel and I never would. You loved Brad... still do. Fine. I lost your mother, my youngest daughter, and my dearest friends to this Necro-shit. I lost some of my best friends in Middle East combat. I’ve learned to live on. Learned to stay focused, survive; and not fuck around with the small shit.”

  “What’s your point, Dad? Can’t shed a tear for your wife and kids ’cause you gotta keep conquering the world?” A pang pounded her snare-drum heart. Mom and Sis gone. Unreal. Cujos unreal. And her Brad... gone. It hurt. Would she ever get over such loss? “Nothing’s small shit, Dad.”

  Dad frowned again. “My point is this: You’re heading back to Levendale. You need to be extremely careful and handle all Cujos with extreme prejudice. If you see your best pal, Molly, and she’s in her cheerleader outfit and eating someone’s left leg, you blow her fucking head off. If you see our neighbor Jerry Jacobs strolling around looking like his head went bad in ’75, you kill him. You kill ’em all.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “You’re on a mission to search for survivors and supplies. Get in, kill any Cujos you can, look for signs of real life, food, anything useful. You do not dilly-dally in the hometown. You do not visit your old hair salon. You do not make a sentimental visit to your old pad to fetch your hair dryer. Are we clear?”

  Rhonda snorted and straightened. She gave a middle-finger salute. “Yes, Sir, Daddy, Sir!”

  He waved her off. “Ahh, screw it. I could never get you to listen to shit.”

  “Something I always wondered; why’d you hate Brad so much? We never discussed this when he was alive. I know you hated him.”

  Rhonda had asked her Dad this same question numerous times and his negative answers varied. How could anyone dislike Brad? It made no sense. She knew him as a selfless and considerate young man who possessed actual class. She had observed how his popularity flourished back in high school, not just because he was a star football player for Levendale High, but also because he extended warmth to everyone he met and did wonderful deeds. He had been a rare one. In high school, Brad had spearheaded food drives for the needy and fundraisers for animal shelters. She remembered how he constantly looked after an old neighbor lady in ill-health who had no family and could barely walk. His acts of generosity and decency were endless. Yep, that was him... her kind, sweet, smart... cool as hell Brad.

  He had been a hopeless romantic to boot, showering Rhonda with flowers and dinners on her birthday and Valentine’s Day: he never forgot anything that was special to her. She found it easy to fall in love with him. It didn’t hurt that she thought him to be a drop-dead gorgeous hunk when she’d first met him. And later, she discovered he also owned a nice cock and knew how to use it.

  Rhonda thought of Brad’s talents in bed whenever she touched her clit in her nighttime bunk. His hardness, his flat belly against hers, his beautiful gold-flecked eyes, how his cock and eyes all drilled into her, and his passionate words in her ears. She kept these memories fresh whenever she made herself come, always crying when she did that, bawling until she fell asleep... night after night.

  Brad had been fiercely loyal. She’d seen everyone from the prom queen to teachers to mothers hit on him, but he remained untouchable. He only had eyes for her. He’d been her first and only. While her girlfriends were sowing wild oats with numerous partners and advising her to do the same, Rhonda remained happy and satisfied to stick exclusively with Brad. He’d felt the same. They had genuine chemistry. When it’s right, it’s right they told each other. And when he proposed marriage, well, she knew it was right.

  Rhonda’s mother and sister were fond of Brad, but her father wasn’t. He had a hard-on for Brad since they’d first started dating. She chalked it up
to her father being from some “good ’ol boy” club. The Marine Colonel who wanted the world to bend to his way.

  But one other thing Rhonda loved about him was that as decent and tender as Brad was, he also took zero shit from anyone—especially from Rhonda’s father. Brad never backed down from the Colonel. He was never intimidated by him. Even when Colonel Driscoll got in Brad’s face, nose-to-nose, telling Brad he wasn’t what was best for Rhonda, Brad didn’t flinch. Brad made it clear that his love for Rhonda was forever constant. Rhonda recalled how Brad had told her father that he worshipped her beyond words and that he’d take care of her forever—that he’d love her forever. Brad had said, “That’s a fucking promise, Mister Driscoll.”

  It was at that moment, on that declaration of love and promise, where she completely gave herself to Brad—heart, mind, body, soul—and fell so deep in love with him she thought the weight of her adoration would crush her and kill her.

  Brad was her forever man... but forever didn’t last as long as Rhonda had hoped. She’d never imagined living without Brad, yet here she was. How she’d been able to survive with her heart ripped out was something she’d wondered about for six months.

  “Where’s this coming from? Talk about out-of-the-blue. I didn’t exactly hate him.” Dad stepped around the table toward her. “As your father, I’m not supposed to approve of any guys who come a-knockin’. Brad was fine, I just didn’t think you needed to marry the guy. Seemed rushed. Whether Father knows best, that’s my two cents.”

  Before Rhonda could snap out a reply, Sergeant Harris entered. He saluted and turned to Rhonda. “Driscoll, Rhonda! Time to roll out!”

  Rhonda turned from Sarge to her father. “Guess I gotta split. I don’t want to hate you, Dad.”

  The Colonel gave another half-smile. “Move out, soldier.”

  Rhonda summoned a small smile. She kissed the air and walked away. When she neared a tent flap where Sarge waited, her father called out. “Rhonda.”

  She faced him. “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, baby-girl.” His expression softened. “Stay on this side of the grave.”

  Chapter Three

  Rhonda checked her M4 and spare ammo magazines. Her full magazines gave her confidence, though her palms felt wet while she readied herself.

  The platoon lifted off, en route to Levendale. She watched Camp Deadnut drop away and recalled her last trip out two weeks ago. At the time, she’d begged to go out. But now a twinge of despair stabbed her as she looked below, to the razor-wired security quickly receding in the distance.

  From her high vantage point, she could see thousands upon thousands of Cujos circling outside every foot of Camp Deadnut’s fortified enclosure.

  Jesus.

  Her gloom turned to irritation when Sarge paired up their eight-person group and placed her with Teddie Fitch. Rhonda protested for one second before Sarge hushed her and told her to deal with it. Oh, she’d deal with it all right. If pervo Fitch hit on her again, she’d break his damn face. She glanced at Fitch and he winked at her. Her jaw clenched and she turned away.

  Fucking creep.

  From his seat in the Black Hawk, Sarge explained how this small and special group would land in downtown Levendale and move out as four separate patrols of two people each. Each patrol would cover a separate part of town: North Side, South Side, East Side and West Side. Each pair was to spend only 60 minutes on their individual hunts. Sarge ordered everyone to return within his one-hour window. Those who failed to return on time or lost contact would be left behind. Before Teddie could speak, Rhonda volunteered them to take Levendale’s North Side. Sarge concurred and she smiled to herself.

  Rhonda peered down at the roads and woods far below that she and Brad had traveled so many times. There was Meehan Creek, where they had skinny-dipped and made love those summer nights that now seemed impossibly far away.

  Sarge’s sharp bark interrupted her thoughts before the tears had a chance to fall. They’d be dropping into Levendale in a matter of moments. To Rhonda’s right, Levendale’s urban sprawl was already blossoming beneath her. She spotted her old school, and Sylvia’s Salon in downtown Levendale, where she’d spent so many days perfecting hair coloring, and gossiping. And then, before she could look away, her townhouse—no their townhouse—where she and Brad had lived together.

  Rhonda blinked rapidly, her lashes wet. She checked her weapon’s lock and load. They were descending upon Main Street. No time for sadness or tears now.

  The chopper hovered several feet above the pavement while their gunners unleashed fully-auto, M60D 7.2mm machine guns mounted to a M144 armament subsystem. The furious fire cut down every Cujo in sight like dried weeds beneath a weed-whacker. The sound was deafening.

  As she often did, Rhonda found herself wondering about who the Cujos had been before—before they became the rotting monsters who shambled toward her now. They may have been teachers, office staff and happy kids once. Perhaps some were even her old clients. Who knew? The kind of people they’d been didn’t matter, they weren’t people anymore.

  “MOVE!!! KILL ON SIGHT!!!” Sarge ordered everyone out. Rhonda scrambled with her platoon onto a corpse-strewn Main Street, where they quickly split into pairs and moved off.

  Rhonda and Teddie walked north, picking their way through bones, rot and the detritus of a dead city as the helicopter rose behind them. She led them with purpose, knowing every part of town, and exactly where she wanted to go. With the roar of helicopter gone, she could hear distant reports of machine guns and excited shouts of her comrades from blocks away.

  Rhonda focused her own fire on the horrors filing out from dilapidated storefronts toward her. They hissed and salivated like mad, two-legged hell-dogs. The head makes ’em dead, she mused, and ended them with short, controlled bursts.

  Rhonda eyed her partner with contempt. Christ, such a goddamn overexcited amateur. Teddie was screaming his lungs out like a bit player in Full Metal Jacket, spraying rounds with reckless abandon at every Cujo in sight.

  “Save your ammo. Cool it.” Rhonda tried her best to yell through Teddie’s fire. When he had finally blown through an entire magazine of ammo, she got her words in. “You done wasting rounds, asshole?”

  “The fuckers are everywhere.” His body shook and it took him three attempts to reload his M4. “I think we got ’em all. Shit. All these towns are packed. I’m sure Charlotte and Raleigh are worse.”

  “Probably. Let’s keep moving.” “Where we goin’?”

  “Searching. Just like we’re ordered to do.”

  “Where, though?”

  A rogue grocery bag blew through Main Street and in front of Teddie. He jumped and fired a blast of haphazard rounds at it.

  “Goddamnit, Teddie! Take it easy.”

  “Awww, shit. I hate this town. Always have.” Teddie spat and shot her a contemptuous glare. “But you... you just love your old hometown, don’tcha?”

  Muscles in Rhonda’s jaw flexed. She turned her gaze away from Teddie.

  I will not let this prick get to me.

  “No wonder you jumped up and volunteered to take the north end of this burg. You got somethin’ in mind.” Teddie smirked and whistled. “Maybe you and me’s gonna get some privacy for once.”

  “Keep dreaming, asswipe.” She pointed beyond the block. “I used to work at that place.”

  Teddie followed her finger. “Sylvia’s Salon? What’d ya do? Nails? Hair and shit?”

  “Just hair. I was pretty good at color.”

  He smirked. “Sure you were. Don’t look like this joint’s doing good business.”

  Rhonda frowned and walked ahead. Dad told her not to visit this place, but here it was. Oh, well. The front door of the salon stood wide open, garbage and beauty supplies spilling out across the sidewalk. Dread pinched her. The glass of the store window, miraculously unbroken, was smeared from within with rusty brown streaks—and handprints. Her stomach roiled.

  “Don’t look like hair-dye to me.” Tedd
ie whistled.

  “Shut your blasted mouth, Fitch.” God, she’d like to use her M4 on him. Who would know, right? She adjusted her grip on her weapon and took in a deep sigh. “We gotta move on.”

  Surprisingly, Teddie didn’t speak. He followed while she took point. They traveled about a quarter mile and shot Cujos on every block. In between kills, Rhonda poked her head in the buildings and houses that lined the street, looking for survivors and supplies.

  When they reached Poplar Avenue, Rhonda led them left, walked a block further, and stopped to gaze at her light-blue townhouse; two stories high with a paved driveway and six-foot tall privacy fence around the backyard. She was happy to see it hadn’t appeared to be looted or burnt. It looked no different to her, much like it did six months ago, aside from the morass of tall grass and weeds.

  “What’re you gawkin’ at?” Teddie sounded irritated and tired. “You looking to buy a house now?”

  “Fuck you, Teddie.” Rhonda spoke to her townhouse. Her heart hammered away. Here it was, her and Brad’s home. It felt like a century had passed since she last stood here. She turned to Teddie. “I’m going in. Why don’t you wait out here or better yet, go back to the chopper.”

  “Bullshit! We’re supposed to stick together and watch each other’s backs and try and find other people. You ain’t leavin’ me alone out here.” Teddie whipped his head around. “And I ain’t walkin’ back to the Black Hawk all by my lonesome.”

  Rhonda sized Teddie with her eyes. He was right. She was breaking protocol, disobeying orders, and disregarding safety measures. And for what? A stroll down memory lane? For once, Fitch was logical while she made amateur moves. She shook her head and gripped her M4 tight. “Fine, Fitch. Follow and cover me.”

  “Hey, I’ve seen this place before.”

  Rhonda ignored him. She walked to her front door. Her house-key remained where she’d left it under her welcome mat. Straightening, she turned around quickly and found Teddie’s intense gaze fixed on her ass. Fucking creep.