“What’s your theory on what makes the dead walk? I mean, normal rabies certainly doesn’t reanimate dead people.”
“No, rabies doesn’t make anything undead. Necro-Rabies works like a regular rabies virus. Rabies travels to the brain by following the peripheral nerves. When infection reaches the central nervous system, symptoms begin to show. Normal rabies infection is usually fatal within days. It’s a neurotropic virus.”
“Neurotropic?”
“It’s a virus capable of infecting nerve cells. By avoiding the bloodstream, neuroinvasive viruses like rabies evade the usual immune response and dig themselves deep into the host body's nervous system. Like normal rabies, Necro-Rabies is prevalent in the nerves and saliva of a symptomatic Cujo. The route of infection starts with a bite. Getting bit by a Cujo can turn you into one.”
“Or if you actually ingest the saliva, right?”
“Not necessarily. You might risk something if you ingest Necro-saliva, but I really think it’s a bite that does the direct damage. If you’re bitten, you’re screwed. Of course, then you may not have to worry about getting infected at all because you’re being eaten alive.”
“Why don’t they eat each other?”
“No idea. They seem to like fresh blood and some type of ‘undead appetite’ compels them to eat live human flesh.”
Rhonda looked at Brad strapped helplessly to the bed. He sure didn’t seem to be hostile like every other Cujo she encountered. “Necro-Rabies kicks up Cujo’s violent nature, huh? That’s why they attack like wild dogs.”
Doc nodded. “Like rabid animals, infected Cujos are exceptionally aggressive. They attack without provocation and exhibit uncharacteristic behavior.”
Rhonda remembered enraged Cujos charging straight into gunfire and flamethrowers. No matter what you threw at them, they never stopped until their heads were destroyed.
She could see Doc was entering lecture mode.
“The name rabies is Latin. It means ‘madness.’ Or the word, raberes, which means ‘to rage.’ Same stuff.” Doc adjusted his glasses. “Typical symptoms of rabies are violent movements and uncontrolled excitement. The primary cause of death from rabies is respiratory insufficiency. But, of course, Cujos don’t breathe. Death from normal rabies invariably results two to ten days after the first symptoms. The humans who’ve ever survived rabies were left with severe brain damage. Cujos don’t drop dead because they’re, in fact, already dead.”
“That’s so goddamn crazy. It’s like we’re living in a horror movie, but no one’s yelling, ‘cut!’”
Doc smiled. “These folks don’t suffer from rigor mortis, though. You’re right. Embalming would certainly preserve human remains. But these corpses, these Cujos, they walk, and ever-so-slowly they rot.”
“Wouldn’t they eventually fall apart into nasty pieces until they were bone?”
“One would think so. I theorize the muscles, ligaments, and all tissues would disintegrate. Skeletons would lose all support. But we’re already six months into this Necro-Rabies pandemic and I have yet to see a Cujo eroded to the point of collapse. The progress of decomposition seems to be nearly static.”
Rhonda nodded. She’d been a part of this same subject discussion many times over six months. Why are they? How can they be dead and alive? Why aren’t they totally rotting away like a normal corpse? Always the same questions, never any answers.
Doc looked grim. “Your father told me that Necro-Rabies was produced from a unique rabies culture that was synthesized into something they called a reanimation agent. This stuff was injected into dead rats at a military lab—only a few miles from this base. Supposedly the NR was gonna be a ‘battle drug’ developed for warfare, supposedly used to reactivate fallen soldiers on the battlefield. Kinda like regaining health points in a video game. Evidently, the dead rat’s lifeless brains jump-started and they attacked military scientists and everyone else in the labs. Everyone there contracted NR and died... and then came right back. Virus spread. About 10,000 of the little bastards broke loose, attacking and biting anything that moved; people, cats, dogs, you name it. From shrew to elephant. Necro-Rabid animals bit humans, and before you knew it, the world turned mad in mere days. Levendale was ground zero.”
“I know. I’ve heard the same story for half a year now.” Rhonda folded her arms. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just... things are hopeless. Dad always said he thought we’d end up being in World War Three with North Korea instead of being at war with the undead.”
“This is like the Black Death of our time. Vermin spreading Necro-Rabies aren’t much different than black rats of yore on old merchant ships, spreading the plague throughout Old World Europe. Y’know?”
Rhonda shrugged. “I suck real bad at history, Doc.”
“Well, it was one of the deadliest pandemics in human history. When all was said and done, it killed about 60 percent of Europe's population. Necro-Rabies has worked four times faster than the Black Death.”
Jesus. She’d been so busy trying to survive, she’d never taken time to process the true magnitude of their situation until now. “We were just talking about hope a little while back. The more I hear you talk, the less hope I feel.”
Doc Brightmore came around the bed and stood in front of her. He set a tender hand on Rhonda’s shoulder. “The Black Death fizzled out and this will too. Rabies always resulted in death until a vaccine was developed. The rabies vaccine was harvested from infected rabbits. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find a scientist who might create something that cures an infected person who isn’t too far gone. Bring some back from the dead. Maybe they’ll make a gas that specifically wipes out all of the infected worldwide in one shot. Or maybe someone will make an Anti-Necro-Rabies vaccine for the living. But then, maybe I can stop wishing for things that’ll never happen.”
They both laughed. Rhonda asked, “Can’t you come up with something?”
Doc frowned and shook his head. “I’m just a guy who went from cervixes and babies to Cujo study.”
“Geez, Doc.”
“And don’t ignore your female health, dear.” Doc smiled. “As for Cujos, if we can’t reverse ’em back to normal or diffuse them, I only hope bacteria gnaws them to bones. Until then, I’ll keep playing Doctor Frankenstein.”
“Why’d you mention lobotomies earlier to my dad?”
“It’s just an idea. Honestly, I’m bored as hell here and need to at least try something with my time. No one else is. Ultimately, I’d like to disable some of the circuitry in the gray matter. Hoping to make ’em docile.”
Rhonda frowned at her poor fiancé, helpless and strapped to the bed. Gagged, drool flowing down his chin. What if his original personality could be resurrected? She didn’t want to chance losing it. She turned to Doc Brightmore. “Do me a favor, don’t cut into Brad until we talk about it. I wanna help him. I wanna help you, too. It’s just... I don’t wanna lose any more of him than I already have. Don’t rewire him until it’s absolutely a last resort. Y’know what I mean?”
Doc nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m just doing an examination. I’m taking notes and will see if I can’t get an MRI and some scans done. If I want to try anything else, I’ll consult you first. Okay?”
“Thanks, Doc.” She hugged him and stepped away. “I’m gonna cruise back to the barracks and crash. I’m tired and hurting. I’ll meet you in the chow-hall for breakfast. We’ll talk progress then.”
“What’s on the morning menu?”
“Pancakes, I think.”
“Really? I just might be first in line.” Doc smiled. He looked at Brad and returned his bright gaze to Rhonda. “He’s in good hands. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Rhonda felt a pang. Brad, poor thing, all alone for months in a cold, dead world. She wished she could offer him some kind of comfort. Something more than her tears. She moved toward Brad’s face and Doc raised his hands in a cautionary gesture. But seeing her expression, he stopped and didn’t say anything as she leaned in and
kissed Brad’s forehead. “I love you baby. Be good.”
Brad rolled his dead-white eyes in slow circles. “Rrrrnnndaahh.”
“That’s right, baby. That’s my name.” She stood, eyes stinging. She blinked and looked at Doc. “See, he remembers.”
Doc nodded. “Yes. There’s something there.”
Rhonda wiped her eyes. “First thing tomorrow.”
“Breakfast at eight. I’ll be there.”
Rhonda grabbed her things and walked toward her barracks. She longed for her bed. She wanted this hell of a day behind her. She replayed the day’s crazy events in her mind. Brad had returned to her life in the most fucked up way. What would tomorrow bring? She thought of that. She also reflected on Teddie Fitch and Dad and the rest of the inhabitants of Camp Deadnut. She rolled over and knew she’d never rest.
Chapter Eight
Rhonda awoke to the blare of her alarm clock at 0800. She hated military time and disliked the concept of “early to bed, early to rise.” She’d meant to get up over an hour ago to get her morning workout in but had clearly smacked her snooze button again and again in her sleep.
“Shit. Doc’s waiting.” She didn’t want to miss Doc or breakfast. At Camp Deadnut, breakfast, lunch, and dinner waited for no one.
After Rhonda had collapsed in bed, she’d been kept awake by a barrage of thoughts, and only drifted off just after two in the morning. Awake now, she nixed a shower. Instead, she tied her hair into a ponytail, brushed her teeth and slipped into military garb. She checked her Ka-Bar knife, .45 automatic sidearm, M4, and six, 30-round magazines and lit out for the chow hall. She and everyone at Fort Rocky were required to remain armed at all times. The world turned, a blue marble full of chaos and billions of Cujos. Countless walking-rabid-dead waited outside Camp Deadnut’s reinforced walls.
Rhonda entered the chow hall, dozens of soldiers and other Deadnuts filing in with her. The clatter from busy dinnerware echoed through the huge hall.
Wow. Sad to think this place once hosted thousands of hungry soldiers. Now only hundreds of survivors ate here. She frowned. She walked to the far end and entered the kitchen through large, double-swing doors.
Smells of bacon and fresh coffee and the chatter and bustle of a busy kitchen filled Rhonda’s senses.
It smells like the normal world.
Rhonda paused as everyone sat bowed in prayer while the Marine Chaplain, Jimmy Johnson, said grace and blessed everyone at Fort Rocky. After Chaplain Johnson finished, Rhonda walked among tables. Where was Doc?
Some of her fellow Deadnutians greeted Rhonda with smiles while others looked at her with wary stares. Of course Brad’s arrival would have made folks worry, and those same worrywarts might be concerned about her state of mind. No doubt her fellow Deadnuts had been discussing Colonel Driscoll’s daughter and her undead fiancé all night. It made for hot new gossip, right? Water-cooler talk about the horror of it all, and good Lord, what’ll happen next? Cujo cohabitation?
Fuck ’em. Nothing mattered, only Brad.
A voice called her name from somewhere in the chow hall and she ignored it. The voice called Rhonda again, closer, and she turned, surprised, as Chaplain Johnson stood near.
“Rhonda Driscoll. Good morning.” Chaplain Johnson smiled at her with yellow teeth. “Can I have a word?”
What was it about the man? She could never put her finger on it. He sure looked like an upright military dude, with his gray flattop and Marine attire and Semper Fi expression in the jowls and eyes of his creased face. And he sounded like a priest when he opened his yap and kicked in with holy talk and impromptu prayers given to those who cared to listen both in and out of Camp Deadnut’s chapel. But she always seemed to sense something else, something uneasy. An air of arrogance, perhaps? She couldn’t place it, but it always rubbed her wrong.
“Sure Chaplain, but I’d sure like to eat soon.”
“Lord, yes. The living need sustenance in these trying times.” Chaplain Johnson produced a good-natured smile and gestured toward the far end of the chow hall. “Let’s talk... over there in private. Just for a moment and then you can feed your hungry soul.”
Freak.
Rhonda walked with Chaplain Johnson. When they stopped she folded her arms and gave him her best no-bullshit stare. A wariness jumped inside her. He seemed friendly enough, but in recent months, she’d seen him go off on a number of Deadnuts he deemed blasphemous, adulterous or corrupted. What would he have to say about Brad?
“What’s up, Chaplain?”
“Your father. The Colonel.” Chaplain Johnson started slowly, like he was searching for a lost piece of a planned spiel. He cleared his throat. “He asked me to talk with you about this situation with your fiancé, Brent.”
“His name is Brad.” Fuck. Don’t let him see you fret. Simmer. Chaplain Johnson was a priest after all, right? Part of her felt this demanded a pinch of respect in these dark days. Maybe Chaplain Johnson was the only priest left in the whole wide and rabid world.
“Brad, right.”
“Go ahead.”
“God’s putting us through Revelation as we speak. This disease that’s taken over the world, it’s part of His plan. He’s already taken the chosen souls to Heaven and left behind soulless husks on the Earth for the Devil to play with.”
“This isn’t the Rapture or whatever.”
“Oh, it is. It’s all about the End Days now.” Chaplain Johnson’s voice raised and spittle cleared his yellowed teeth. He looked around and quieted his tone. “We’re living Biblical prophecies right now.”
Rhonda retained little from Sunday school. Anything holy or specific to organized religious beliefs didn’t interest her. She kept her own version of faith in her heart. Mom and Dad made her and her younger sister go to church every Sunday. Good ’ol Colonel Driscoll had wanted God and the American Way constant in the Driscoll family’s lives.
What a joke.
“If this is the End Days, or some Rapture, then why the hell are we still here?” A laugh bubbled up and threatened to snort out. She held her breath for a second. “Y’know, most folks here are God-fearing and you’re a priest, so we should all be called home if what you say is true.”
“Well... “
Well, fucking what? She almost asked. Good ’ol Chaplain Johnson didn’t seem to have a reply.
Chaplain Johnson again cleared his throat. “True, many of us are servants to Christ, and we’re still here and haven’t been called home. It’s part of the Lord’s plan. It’s—”
“Save it.” Rhonda found it difficult to corral her irritation. “I don’t have time for a church sermon right now. I’m hungry.”
“Wait.” Chaplain Johnson’s voice firmed with urgency. “Your father personally wanted me to talk to you about the impious road you’re going down with your zombie fiancé.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Rhonda, look. You brought your undead fiancé back here. A Cujo. Sweet Jesus. You think that witch doctor Brightmore is going to make Brad a living man again? That’s a misguided hope of a most sinful variety. Your father’s worried about it and so am I. It sends the wrong message to everyone here. This gives people hope for something that’ll never be. Soon other folks’ll want to find their zombie kin and lovers. In the eyes of God, it’s not natural or holy.”
“You’re starting to piss me off. Irreverence intended.”
“I implore you. Listen to what we’re saying.” Chaplain Johnson spread his arms out, palms open. “Brad’s long gone. He’s with God. There’s your Rapture... his soul is in heaven and that thing you love is an evil shell. What you’ve got locked up in that hospital is nothing more than a walking unmentionable, totally devoid of spirit and filled with evil. The real Brad’s gone. You’ve got nothing more than a rotting cannibal with no soul. He must be destroyed. All of them must be.”
Rhonda ground her teeth hard. What would happen if she punched the priest in his fucking nose? Would she get locked in the hole? Would sh
e go straight to hell? Chaplain Johnson was talking blessed smack about the love of her life. Cujo or not, she refused to allow anyone—even a priest—to trash her man.
Soulless? Bullshit. Brad Savini was her soulmate for eternity, and she’d scream it from Johnson’s precious chapel pews. She gave a hazardous stare and lifted her clenched fists. Chaplain Johnson looked startled and stepped away from her.
Rhonda was about to give Chaplain Johnson explicit instructions on where to stick his holy opinions when the main doors of the chow hall opened and the noisy chatter died. She turned to see her father enter the hall, flanked by a few officers in front and behind him. Several soldiers at picnic tables stood and saluted, while the civilians or those who no longer gave a shit remained seated and stuffed their faces.
Colonel Driscoll stopped and locked eyes with his daughter. His gaze flicked to Chaplain Johnson before he frowned at both of them. Rhonda glared back, drilled her stare into him like an invisible ray of unhealthy resentment. Her father turned away and took a seat at an officer’s picnic table.
Rhonda pointed a finger in Chaplain Johnson’s face. “Don’t ever tell me how to live my life or what to do with Brad. Got it? I love him and I’m gonna do everything in my power to save him. I’ll be with him for as long as we live. I don’t give a good goddamn what you, the Colonel or your Lord has to say about it. Now get outta my way.”
“Uhhh.” Chaplain Johnson’s mouth opened and closed like a startled guppy. He didn’t budge until Rhonda moved away to find Doc.
The nerve of these assholes.
Her head throbbed. Here she was waiting for flapjacks while her fiancé lay alone and scared, strapped to a bed in a desolate military operating room.
She finally reached the picnic table where Doc Brightmore sat alone before an empty plate. Damn, he looked frazzled. His hair was wild and unkempt and his lab coat soiled. “Doc, you look beat up. Want some coffee? Pancakes?”
Rabid Heart Page 5
