Rabid Heart

by Jeremy Wagner

  God, I’m confused.

  A crackle from her two-way radio interrupted her thoughts. Teddie’s radio also crackled from the floor. Brad withdrew his hand and his features slackened. Sarge’s unhappy voice sounded from the radios. “Driscoll and Fitch. I’m sick of asking for you both. Time’s up! Everyone’s at the chopper. Goddamn it, where you at?”

  Rhonda was surprised Sarge hadn’t left already. She looked at Brad and put her right index finger to her lips. Christ, like was gonna say anything. Duh. “On the North Side, Sarge.”

  “You got anyone? Supplies?”

  “Ummm... negative on all that.”

  “Fitch, you got anything to add or cat got your Goddamn tongue?”

  Teddie’s tongue was definitely gone, but no Goddamn cat had it. “Fitch’s dead, Sarge. Group of Cujos jumped us. They got him.”

  A pause. “Can we recover the Private’s body?”

  Rhonda stared at Fitch’s mutilated corpse. He was unrecognizable. Nothing but meaty clumps in a puddle of blood between the bottom of his nose and collarbone. She swallowed acid. “Negative, Sarge. I’m afraid he was ripped to pieces. There’s nothing left.”

  Sounds of heavy gunfire filled the radio. After a few seconds, Sarge returned. “Driscoll, your ass is grass and my foot’s the lawnmower! I’m gonna skedaddle. You’re already late!”

  “Sorry, sir! Don’t leave!”

  “MOVE!”

  Rhonda moved quickly. Brad baby. Her brain went on autopilot. She couldn’t leave him. She had to find a way to bring him back with her. Somehow. What did she need? Clothes for sure. Hairspray would help.

  “Brad?” She spoke as calmly as she could. “Be good for me, ’kay?”

  God, he reeked. He embodied physical filth. She held her breath while she put him into a Cult concert T-shirt and black shorts. He moved and moaned. “Stay still, dammit.”

  She applied generous amounts of hairspray to his blonde feral locks, then combed and slicked his long hair into an obscene pompadour.

  She used a stray blouse to wipe blood and drool from his mug. Brad snarled.

  “Watch it, buddy.” She didn’t back off until she cleaned his entire face as best she could. What could she do about his eyes? Where were those damn aviators? She dug around and found a pair of chrome sunglasses with mirrored lenses.

  Right on.

  She placed the sunglasses over his ghoulish peepers. Precious minutes had passed and she knew she was in for a good ass-chewing by Sarge. She needed to hustle or be left behind, but she wanted just a couple other items she knew were inside the shoebox of adult toys they kept under the bed. She pulled it out and retrieved a red gagball and a pair of handcuffs covered in dark red and fluffy fur.

  “Sorry, baby, gotta do this.” Rhonda forced Brad’s arms together, in front of him, and cuffed his wrists.

  Brad hissed once before his features relaxed. Rhonda worked the gagball into Brad’s rank mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Gosh, he looked so sad. Reluctantly, she shoved the ball behind his teeth with great care and fastened the gag straps around his head, muzzling him.

  “Okay, babe?”

  Brad didn’t answer.

  “Right.” She frowned at her creation; Brad’s slick new hairdo, his summer wear and aviators, restrained by a gagball and furry handcuffs. In another time, she would’ve found this scenario hilarious, but she didn’t feel it here. No, she only felt pity for him. Her poor, live-undead lover.

  This is so fucking nuts. How am I gonna get away with this?

  She checked her ammo and M4. One last thing. She covered Teddie’s body with a sheet. “Stay dead, creep.”

  With her M4 out front, she led Brad to the first floor. He offered no resistance and placidly followed her outside.

  What would Sarge, Colonel Daddy Driscoll, and everyone else at good ’ol Camp Deadnut say or do when she arrived with blighted Brad? Who ever said Sarge would even let them on the chopper? She was bringing them a zombie in a gagball and fuzzy handcuffs, after all.

  God help me.

  Chapter Five

  Rhonda winced. Goddamnit, if Teddie Fitch wasn’t the gift that just kept on giving. Sudden, sharp aches coursed through her head.

  Shake it off, lady. Gotta move.

  She worked her way back to the chopper, block after block, and Brad followed her every step. No need to pull or push him along. He kept up like an obedient dog.

  Good Cujo.

  Brad stayed back, not moving, when she finished off aggressive, animated dead with her M4. There were a few she dispatched with her Ka-Bar knife, and another few she kicked away with surprising force.

  None of this was good. It seemed the crowd of Cujos had grown since her platoon had landed. No doubt the Cujo-zombie bastards were drawn to machine gun fire around town. For sure, the thundering motors of the Black Hawk didn’t help keep the soldiers on the down-low. Cujos, she learned, were attracted to noise and bright lights.

  Her heart rate and adrenaline rushed as she blasted away.

  On the move, she approached Main Street from a side avenue. Black Hawk rotors sounded nearby, along with heavy-duty salvo from the chopper’s M60D 7.62mm machine guns. A new war indeed. She envisioned waves of Cujos at the chopper.

  But how would she get through? Constant chopper racket mixed with machine gun screams and other sounds of Cujo chaos. She bit her bottom lip. This was the type of shit where a person could quickly become a casualty of friendly fire.

  With a vise-grip on her M4, she leaned against the corner of a bookstore and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Gotta calm down.

  She yelled into her two-way radio. “Driscoll here. I’m coming to you from the North Side. I have a civilian with me. Repeat. Rhonda Driscoll here. I’m approaching from Levendale’s North Side. I’m coming to the chopper from Main Street.”

  Sarge’s voice barked through the radio. “You said you had no survivors. What gives?”

  “Found him on the way.” Rhonda didn’t want to lie, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to come clean about her visit to the old Driscoll-Savini love-shack. Nor recant her lie about Teddie’s bloody death. No, she’d keep that shit to herself. “I’m coming in. Don’t shoot me.”

  “Hurry the hell up, Driscoll! We’ll cover you.”

  “C’mon, lover. We gotta move.” Rhonda grabbed Brad by his cuffed wrists. Through crowds of Cujos, she shot, stabbed, and kicked her way through to the Black Hawk. She hadn’t fought this many Cujos on her own before, but she cut them down, and to her surprise, she did so unscathed. The cover from the M144 armament subsystem’s relentless barrage helped.

  Rhonda pushed Brad forward and helpful hands pulled them both inside. She buckled Brad in and then herself as the Black Hawk lifted high from Levendale.

  Sarge sat across from Rhonda and glared. “Driscoll! What the fuck is that?”

  Rhonda found herself suddenly lost for words. What had she done?

  “Why does this civilian have a goddamn gagball in his mouth?”

  Jesus Christ, her face felt hotter than hell. Had all her blood rushed to her head? It sure felt like it. Sudden self-consciousness rattled her. Through this whole crazy plan, the last thing she’d expected was to feel mortified.

  Sarge’s face contorted into an expression of contempt. “And what’s with the hairy handcuffs?”

  “It’s Brad, sir. My fiancé. I found him in town and I’m bringing him back to Fort Rocky. He’s, ummm... a Cujo, Sarge.”

  Sarge released a string of obscenities furious enough to make a jailbird blush. A few people in her platoon jumped at her news and they aimed their guns at her and Brad. Someone cried out, “Awww, hell no!”

  “Easy, everyone.” Rhonda raised her hands, open-palmed, in a gesture of surrender. “Please. Relax and lower your weapons. He’s harmless. Really.”

  Sarge leaned forward. “You’re insane. I’ll throw loverboy out of this chopper right fucking now.”

  Sarge planted the tip of his M4 barrel
on the shiny gagball and slid it up to Brad’s nose.

  “Wait.” Rhonda reached out to Sarge. “Please. Don’t hurt him. Look, I’ve got Brad secured. He’s got a seatbelt on. No one’s gonna get hurt.”

  Sarge just stared at her. He didn’t speak or lower his automatic rifle.

  Rhonda swallowed. “Hell, I hate the undead as much as any of you. But this is different, Sarge. This is personal. I’m begging you, just let me get Brad to Doc. Please... just this one time.”

  “I never point a weapon at anything I don’t intend to shoot.” Sarge’s fierce eyes burrowed into Rhonda, flicked to Brad and returned to her. “Goddammit, if this ain’t a clusterfuck!” He pulled his M4 away.

  Rhonda offered a smile to Sarge and her platoon. They all shook their heads at her. “Thanks, Sarge. I really—”

  “Save it, Driscoll.” Sarge’s tone grew harder. “I’m letting it slide against every instinct of my Marine ass. But the Colonel ain’t gonna be happy ’bout this. He’s the boss. You’re outta my hands now.”

  “Okay.” Rhonda sat back in her seat and glanced out the side door. Camp Deadnut revealed itself in the distance. Her father’s command-post looked tiny. Rhonda spoke, but didn’t look at Sarge. “No disrespect, sir, but I’ll handle the Colonel.”

  Chapter Six

  Sarge radioed Fort Rocky’s command post. “Platoon dropping in minutes. Confirmation of one casualty. Private Fitch. Killed and eaten in Levendale. Soldier’s remains and dog-tags MIA. We got a Cujo on board.”

  Oh, this was great. No doubt, before she stepped off the chopper, every Deadnut would know that she’d dragged her Cujo-fied fiancé back to base.

  Rhonda’s father waited outside the helicopter pad. Two officers stood at attention behind him. She watched Doc Brightmore run up with clipboard in hand. She liked old Doc. Everyone did. But goddamn, she wasn’t looking forward to a face-off with Dad.

  Rhonda’s platoon departed. Every bona fide and civilian-recruited soldier saluted Colonel Driscoll on exit. Rhonda watched Sarge brief her father. Sarge turned and glowered at her. Yikes. She blinked and bit her bottom lip as he walked away.

  Colonel Driscoll stood straight; hands behind him, his camouflage uniform neat and crisp, combat boots spotless. His usual commanding pose, Rhonda thought. He sure looked pissed. Dad’s face was a mixture of unhappiness and disappointment as he looked upon her and Brad.

  Dad launched into her like a mortar. “Rhonda. Just what in the name of Sam Peckinpah d’ya think you’re doing?”

  “Bringing Brad back to Doc.”

  “I didn’t give you authorization to bring a Cujo back to Deadnut.”

  “No. But I didn’t plan this, Dad. It’s Brad.”

  “I don’t care if it was your mother, God rest her soul. You acted with insanely reckless behavior with this horseshit you pulled. Bringing infection into the base. A goddamned Cujo. What were you thinking?”

  Her hands began to shake. “I don’t know. Maybe I was thinking this world is screwed. This is a half-assed military base, Dad. Fort Rocky’s surrounded by Cujos just outside the fence. It’s all up for grabs. Everything. You think anyone else is out there operating like us? Have you seen any other soldiers, people or planes? Have you received any communication? No. It’s been six months and we seem to be the only people alive. Pretty soon, being civilized with procedures won’t mean shit.”

  Colonel Driscoll’s words snapped loud and made her jump. “Watch the attitude. Everything you’re saying doesn’t explain your selfish and crazy behavior. It’s not about authority, being civilized, or anything else. It’s about common sense. What happened to Teddie Fitch? He was with you and now he’s dead and not to be seen again. And you brought a Cujo boyfriend back here.” He adjusted his hat. “You mindlessly endangered everyone here. You violated our sanctuary.”

  “I wasn’t trying to violate anything, Dad. I didn’t mean to... look, it’s Brad, Dad. I muzzled him and kept him safe from everyone. Maybe we can do something.” Rhonda watched Doc Brightmore join them. Doc saluted and looked anxious. She knew she was reaching. “Dad, let Doc work on Brad.”

  “You know I have some good ideas on pacifying Cujos, Colonel.” Doc sifted through papers and diagrams on his clipboard. “I think I’m onto something.”

  “You’re onto horseshit.” Colonel Driscoll aimed his authoritative voice and attention at Doc. “You can’t fix a monster. It’s a waste of time and resources. Not to mention it’s goddamn dangerous to everyone here.”

  “Colonel, I’m thinking, maybe if I can give these lively cadavers a proper lobotomy, then—”

  “You need a lobotomy.” Colonel Driscoll jabbed a finger at Doc’s face. “We found you over in Dulcimer, hiding inside an OBGYN clinic. You’re a gynecologist, Doc, not a brain surgeon. I’d have better luck opening heads with a bullet. Lead lobotomies. Now that’ll get results.”

  Rhonda watched Sarge shaking his head and looking absolutely disgusted.

  Doc tugged his thin, gray hair and scratched his head. “This world needs a chance to get right again. I want to help.”

  “I know you do, Doc, but I’ve humored you enough with your half-assed delusions of messing with animated corpses.” Colonel Driscoll frowned at Rhonda. He shook his head and looked at Brad with an expression of pure disdain. “Christ, he looks like zombie-Elvis in bondage. I must be as reckless as you for not blasting Brad to hell right here and now. Go. Take your ‘lively cadaver’ of a fiancé to the infirmary. Doc can play with him. But I already know nothing miraculous is going to happen. Loverboy’s gonna serve as our new target at the firing range sooner than later.”

  Asshole.

  She could punch him in the face. Not a good idea, though. Time to simmer, for Brad’s sake. Gynecologist or not, maybe Doc could make a breakthrough. She hoped. “Okay, Dad. I’ll help Doc and keep Brad out of everyone’s hair.”

  The Colonel frowned. “Just remember, this is very temporary, baby-girl. You got more important things to do than playin’ house-nurse to a Cujo, fiancé or no. Carry on.”

  Rhonda watched her Dad turn and leave with his officers. He didn’t salute. His words echoed in her head, and in her empty stomach and heart.

  Doc put a gentle hand on her shoulder. He smiled. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Rhonda cast a glance toward Camp Deadnut’s large and razor-wired fence. She heard numerous Cujos on the other side; their cemetery moans rode on the fall wind. She shivered. An orange October sun made long and haunting shadows. Afternoon would be night soon.

  Chapter Seven

  Inside Camp Deadnut’s hospital, Rhonda and Doc sat Brad down. His mouth remained gagged and his hands restrained in fuzzy sex-cuffs. He maintained his primitive forms of affection toward her. She wondered if he’d ever snap back into typical zombie-mode. Maybe he didn’t actually want to hurt anyone. Back at their townhouse, she thought he was only trying to protect her. Still, she was troubled that Cujo-fied Brad killed and ate people. She’d give anything to have her old Brad back.

  Doc examined Rhonda. He tended to lumps on her head and to sore spots on her body: everywhere Teddie Fitch had nailed her with his gun-stock and fists.

  Rhonda eyed a large, gray hospital safe against a wall. She knew Doc kept pharmaceutical drugs locked in there. Only Doc could manage and distribute prescriptions. Some of Rhonda’s fellow Deadnuts had substance abuse problems even before the world went to shit. Doc kept everyone straight. He opened the safe and passed her a Vicodin.

  “Thanks.” Rhonda swallowed her pill with a mouthful of bottled water. “Rough day.”

  “Fell down stairs you say?” Doc narrowed his skeptical gaze.

  “Yeah. I’m lucky. Coulda been worse.” Rhonda gave Doc a half-smile. She doubted he bought her bullshit.

  Doc patted her hand. “That should help ease the pain a bit. I’m gonna lock up the stash and get your boy a fresh gown before I examine him.”

  “I can get Brad cleaned up and ready for you.”

 
; Doc nodded and walked into an adjoining hospital room. Rhonda removed Brad’s Cult T-shirt and black shorts and gave him a sponge bath. She held her breath. He stunk like a dead woodchuck in high summer, but his body appeared well-preserved.

  She sponged Brad from his hairspray-shellacked head to his crusty toes. What to do about his fucked up hair?

  “Good to go?” Doc Brightmore returned, a fresh hospital gown in his hands, open and ready for Brad.

  “Yeah. Cleaned him best I could.”

  Rhonda scanned Brad’s body. He smelled a little better. She removed his cuffs, but left the gagball in his mouth. She couldn’t take the chance. He didn’t struggle.

  Good boy.

  She and Doc dressed Brad in his gown, gently lifting his heavy limbs.

  Doc motioned. “We’ll strap him to this bed.”

  “What’s the plan, Doc?” Rhonda guided Brad to the brightly lit operating area, where Doc helped strap him down.

  “I’m going to examine Brad. I’m still learning what Necro-Rabies does. I’m hopeful it can be cured.”

  “If you wanna know what this virus does, just pick my dad’s brain, pun intended. The Colonel knows the military made it.”

  “Been down that road. He acknowledged the source of it all—the military as you say—but doesn’t know a cure, obviously. He said if he did, we’d be curing them all now. The Colonel only knows what we all do; the virus makes people rabid and undead and extremely aggressive.”

  Rhonda sighed. She held mixed emotions about it all. For months she hadn’t given a damn about Doc’s crazy Cujo cure. She wanted them all nuked. Now, with her Cujo-fied fiancé in her care, she wanted him saved. Sure, her reasons were selfish. Anyone else in her position would want the same, right? “You think there’s any hope here?”

  Doc shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve been a physician in the field of female health for my entire career. My expertise in female reproductive systems is one thing, acting as an impromptu brain digger is a whole ’nother deal. I might be the only doctor left in the world. And one working on the walking dead, to boot. I’m sure as hell gonna try my best.”