Rhonda forced herself to drive through the dark night, her visibility handicapped by the shattered and blood-splashed windshield. To her displeasure, she found her windshield wipers had been torn off in the crash, leaving her with no way to wash away the blood. though she knew wipers and wiper fluid wouldn’t help her see any better anyway through countless, crisscrossed bits of broken glass.
She continued into the Palmetto State during the night and found safe shelter in a Motel 6 somewhere south of Timmonsville. Rhonda locked herself and Brad in a room with two twin beds. She tucked Brad into bed and then sat in the other bed with her bag of booty. She pulled out some of the goods stolen from Camp Deadnut and made a ham and peanut butter sandwich and sucked down a warm Heineken and a shot of Jack. Then she plummeted into deep and troubled slumber.
Bright images of Brad filled her REM sleep. In her dreams, he was normal and un-Cujo-fied, dressed in his high school football jacket. He held Rhonda’s hands and looked at her with love; his smile appeared movie star radiant.
In her dream, Brad spoke. “I love you.”
“Oh, God, I love you too, baby.” She looked at him and felt her heart hammer.
Rhonda stood on tiptoes to kiss him. Brad leaned in and met her mouth. In dreamland, they made out and soon their clothes disappeared and her dreams took an erotic turn. She gazed into his gorgeous face above her, a face filled with such tenderness and pleasure, and saw the sunny dream-sky behind him turned dark. A chill of dread crept upon her as she watched the black clouds roil and churn.
Brad moved in her, oblivious.
“Loveeee.” The word erupted on carrion breath, his pronunciation distorted by a rotten tongue.
In this dream-turned-nightmare, Rhonda screamed. A spoiled corpse fucked her. Brad’s golden flesh had turned to rot, her smiling fiancé now a hideously animated heap of decomposing flesh with a rancid hard-on.
Rhonda bolted upright in her hotel bed as nightmarish and rotten Brad bit into her face, and as his fetid phallus broke off inside her during his necrotic climax. She reached for Brad, the real Brad, but he was no longer beside her. She panted in confusion and tried to grasp solid reality. Christ, she still felt imaginary thrusts of her lover’s rigor-mortis member. Somewhere between worlds of fantasy and veracity, she seemed to detect rot from between her legs.
Brad sat in a corner of the room. “There you are.” Relief flooded her. He wasn’t the Dawn of the Dead version of her nightmare. He waited for her as he always had, ever handsome and undead.
Bright sunshine sifted through dirty blinds, illuminating particles in languid constellations.
“Rrrrnnndaahh.”
Brad’s voice brought Rhonda out of her daydreams. She smiled. The memory made her stomach turn.
With a long yawn and a wide stretch, Rhonda stood and gathered her small inventory of belongings. Ah, she missed the old days, when she woke with Brad, both of them nude, with her head on his broad chest and with her hair spread across his skin and their linens. Back then, daybreak often began with drowsy and slow sex followed by a light breakfast and coffee before she went off to work.
She longed for coffee. And not that shit she’d been drinking for six months. She hated Camp Deadnut coffee. I miss Starbucks. She’d give her right tit for a venti vanilla latte right about now.
The fall air felt crisp and cool as Rhonda stepped out of Motel 6 and into bright sunshine. It looked to be another gorgeous day in Cujoland. Beneath morning light, her blood-caked and battered Humvee looked like it had been driven through Hamburger Hill. Poor thing deserved a Purple Heart.
She buckled Brad in. He gazed at her through cloudy, dead-fish eyes. Bright sun couldn’t even bring out the original color and sparkle of his orbs. Rhonda found herself blinking back tears.
“Another drive, baby.” Rhonda smiled for Brad. “I promise, things’ll be better once we’re on a beach in Florida.”
Suddenly it hit her. The beach? Would ultraviolet rays do a real number on cadaveric skin? She’d worry about that later. She shut his passenger door.
Rhonda opened her own door to a vehicle filled with morning dew. She stepped back and took a good look at the beat-up Motel 6. It didn’t appear so sinister in daylight; just neglected and sad. In a world without maintenance men and landscapers, foliage was overtaking man’s static creations and the elements were extracting their due.
Eons split continents and whittled mountains to dust. So, why wouldn’t every trace of man’s artificial and unnatural existence eventually be erased? Who cared anymore? Dates and time didn’t mean shit now. In a hundred years it all would all be forgotten.
On this, she raised her wrist to look at her watch. Near 11:00 in the morning. Another day she’d slept in, another late start.
Oh, well.
Rhonda took off her watch and chucked it across the unkempt parking lot. Only Brad gave meaning to her place in time in this crazy world.
She started crying again as she continued south.
Chapter Fourteen
The road. It felt strange being out here on the Interstate with no other travelers. No 18-wheelers roared by. No cars, buses, RV’s or any other vehicles in motion around her. Nothing on wheels moved in any traffic lanes.
With I-95 desolate and clear of traffic, she could damn well speed if she pleased. Nice thought, but unrealistic since the Humvee’s smashed windshield made it difficult for her to see clearly. Also, the blown-out windows made for a loud and chilly ride at any speed above 40. The wind also made it hard to enjoy her music. It fucking sucked.
Why, why, why did she have to hit the bull? She felt ashamed. How stupid, losing herself in random thoughts as she took her eyes off the road to stare at Brad. And what had it gotten her? A mangled car, that’s what, and nearly a piece taken out of her by some backwoods-ass undead. Not to mention the pack of grenades that she shot. It was a miracle she’d survived.
Rhonda shook her head and cast a quick glance at Brad.
Deadbeat.
She laughed out loud at that. Yeah, she loved him. They’d once talked of getting married and having kids. Children weren’t ever going to happen, but maybe she’d marry Brad her own way. Perhaps she’d find a courthouse and pull out a Bible. Hell, she’d do all the vows and swear them in. Maybe do some ring exchange thing and declare them wed. Why not? She didn’t care how or where she did it; she’d make it happen. Rules went out the window six months ago.
Rhonda checked her gas gauge. It was on a quarter tank.
Need to find a gas station, pronto.
The Humvee sucked gas like a vacuum. She had stopped for gas a number of times without incident. She had to figure out how to turn the pumps on from inside each station since credit cards and prepay weren’t going to work. Each time she’d been able to fill her tank.
Rhonda knew she should’ve traded this wreck in for a new car. The thought had been on her mind since the accident, but she didn’t want to fuck around in car dealerships. It was already bad enough she had to stop for gas. She guessed her chances of staying safe were greater if she just kept rolling: plus, the Humvee was still armored. Stopping for gas was already making her stomach flip-flop. Once she got to her Florida destination, she didn’t care if she ever drove again. She planned to make a stand there. She’d gather weapons and ammo, make a fortress in a condo and scavenge or learn to live off the land. They’d make a life of sorts.
Semper Fi, Daddy.
They were passing dead cars and bleached bones every couple miles. Did the bones belong to folks who had succumbed to Necro-Rabies and withered away? Or, were they victims, ripped apart by cannibalistic walking, or running, dead?
It didn’t make her feel real positive about any Homo sapiens chances surviving. It sure didn’t look good. No doubt, a new stone age lay ahead. Everything they had built propelled backward until mankind itself became a nondescript blip on the electrocardiogram of this planet. It felt like one of those Twilight Zone episodes.
What of other countries and peo
ple around the world? How were Europe and Asia and Australia and all nations around the globe handling this? She had to assume the plague had reached the rest of the globe. There weren’t any planes in the skies and no foreign nations had moved in to assess or seize the United States since it went down the shitter. No, the rest of the world was probably dealing with their own hordes of Cujo-fied Mexicans, Koreans, Chileans and maybe, God forbid, zombie Eskimos.
She couldn’t find it in her to laugh. Humankind had brought this plague upon itself. The end was just around the corner. All the more reason to run away with Brad. They’d meet the final days together.
* * *
“What the hell is that?” Rhonda had just crossed into the Peach State of Georgia when she caught movement in the middle of the highway.
A large, black-bearded man stood on the centerline and waving his arms. Rhonda braked and stopped a few yards in front of the guy, and through her broken windshield, gave the stranger closer inspection. Tall and wide, he was dressed in dirty green coveralls and a grubby John Deere cap. He looked middle-aged. His long black beard bore a streak of white whiskers down the middle, like a skunk’s tail. His bright blue eyes looked normal.
Normal? Rhonda knew normal didn’t mean ordinary these days. Normal just described this guy or anyone else who wasn’t Cujo-fied; but didn’t mean they weren’t batshit cuckoo. Months ago, on her first flight out of Camp Deadnut to find survivors and supplies, both Daddy and Sarge told her: out here, those who survived in these forsaken lands endured by their wits... and their willingness to do unspeakable things. She had heard of non-Cujo cannibals who ate other normal, healthy people. It was said those same living monsters, always men it seemed, held women and children hostage and enslaved them for grunt work... and worse.
Yes, she’d learned fast, even the smallest catastrophe turned regular Joes into wretched and sadistic creatures. Evil lurked inside of men, seemingly only waiting for an excuse, be it a war or a zombie apocalypse, to shake free the reins of conscience.
“Can you help us out?” The big man called out in a deep Southern drawl, then dropped his arms. Through windshield cracks, Rhonda watched him approach her driver’s side window.
Rhonda shifted into reverse and backed away. She parked and raised her open palm to the broken windshield to signal the man to stop. Her Ka-Bar knife was under her seat while her M4 and the six 30-round magazines waited on her Humvee’s floor. No worries, she favored her sidearm for the moment. She pulled out her .45 and stepped outside. Using her driver’s side door for a shield, she centered her gun on his chest. “Stop right there.”
“Okay.” The stranger froze and raised his hands. His deep voice lightened with a tone of appeal while he jerked his head in a direction behind him. “I got kids over yonder. Locked themselves in the trunk-a my car. I need tools. Got tools?”
Got soap?
She guessed she could smell him from a mile away. No surprise. Anyone living out here wouldn’t find it easy to stay clean. The spatters of deep red on his coveralls worried her, however. What the fuck has he been up to?
“I don’t have tools, mister.” Rhonda commanded her toughest voice. “Can’t help you.”
His hairy face transformed into a grimace of heartache. He motioned around with his big arms. “My whole car’s locked up. Kids got the keys. Please. We’re stuck bad out here. You know what it’s like. Cujos could get wind of us anytime. Rabid animals everywhere. Packs of ’em. Please! My kids... my damn kids.”
Transients were instant red flags for her. She didn’t trust anybody, period. Dad’s agenda and Teddie Fitch’s assault had ensured that.
She studied the wretch in front of her. How would a cop handle a situation like this? Why was this guy without a weapon in his hands? Why were there kids in a trunk and how had they gotten in there? Why was his whole car locked and why’d the kids have the keys? It sure as hell didn’t smell or sound right at all.
“Show me where your car is.” Rhonda kept her .45 on the stranger while she took her keys from the Humvee’s ignition and tucked them in a pants pocket. She shut her driver’s side door and shot a glance to Brad. He stared at her with his mouth open and soundless. Turning from the Humvee, she advanced on the stranger, gun drawn. “You go ahead and I’ll follow.”
“Who’s your friend in the car? Maybe he can help.”
“Just worry about your kids and walk.”
The man squinted and stared at Brad, then turned and began walking. Rhonda kept herself 20 steps behind him.
Glancing back occasionally to make sure she was still following, the man made his way to an exit ramp further up the road.
The stranger in front of her moved with a quick step for such a large man. Well, who could blame him for hurrying with kids trapped ’n all. She descended the ramp behind him and saw land spread out for miles before her. A small oasis of gas stations, fast food joints and lodging banked together along each side of the road below. Deserted vehicles of all shapes and sizes lay scattered in and along the road and at the bottom of the ramp. Rhonda noted an 18-wheeler below, toppled on its side like a child’s toy. Contents from the rig had been left to the elements; hundreds of cardboard boxes lay scattered everywhere, blown out the trailer’s ass-end.
“Right over here.” The big bearded man pointed to a late model Volkswagen Passat parked a few yards away, off the right shoulder of the exit ramp. “They’re in the trunk.”
Rhonda shook her head. She told the guy she didn’t have tools, and if the trunk was broken, what did he expect to accomplish with their bare hands? She stopped and kept her gun on the stranger when he reached the car. The Volkswagen looked like it had been sitting here for a long time, weather-beaten and filthy, kind of like its owner. It didn’t look like it been driven in months.
The hairs on the back of her neck raised.
She remembered she’d been locked out of the Humvee when she had her accident, but she blamed Brad for that. But how’d this guy manage to lock himself out of his car? And why would his kids jump in the trunk with the keys and lock themselves in?
Her skin prickled.
She crossed to the other side of the ramp and scanned the embankment below with her sidearm ready, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be in wait. She crossed back over and did the same spot check.
“What’re you doin’?”
“You can’t be too careful.” She didn’t like his tone. “Go over to the trunk and knock on it. Let’s see how your kids are doing.”
The stranger paused, and seemed uncertain. She waved her gun toward the car and he walked to the trunk and rapped on it with the side of his clenched fist. “Hey! Daddy’s here. You kids okay?”
Rhonda heard muffled voices.
“Oh, please, Daddy. Get us out of here!” A cry spoke from inside the trunk.
“It’s hard to breathe, Daddy. It’s dark in here,” another voice whimpered words from within the Passat. “Hurry before Cujos come.”
Rhonda stared at the trunk, then she looked at the man and maintained her distance, her .45 pointed straight out. “Hit the trunk again. See if it’ll pop.”
“I’ve hit it a hundred times, lady. My hand hurts bad.” He waved a large and beefy mitt at her. “Tried everything. Rocks. You name it.”
Rhonda looked at the dented trunk again. The dents appeared rusty and old. No, it didn’t look like anyone had been pounding the trunk—not in recent days, anyway. She reserved suspicion and turned toward him. “If the car’s locked up, why don’t you just bust a window and pop the trunk from the inside?”
“What kind of fool busts their own car window just to get inside?”
What kind of asshole wouldn’t smash a window to save their kids?
She was walking toward the driver’s door to smash the window herself when—
“I think we found a handle in here, Daddy.” The sudden cry from the trunk stopped Rhonda. “Should we pull it?”
“Oh yeah.” The big stranger tugged at his beard. “I plum
b forgot that lever in the trunk can open the darn thing. Gosh-damn I’m a knuckle-head sometimes.”
Rhonda stared at the man. She certainly couldn’t argue with that. She walked closer to the trunk. “Tell them how to pull it and push up on the trunk at the same time.”
“Who’s that, Daddy?”
Rhonda heard fear in there.
“A helpful lady, Patty. Come to get you and your brother outta there.”
Patty, huh? A daughter. “What’s your other kid’s name?”
The stranger paused and looked away from Rhonda’s gaze. He tugged and stroked his skunk beard then faced her, showing a grin full of shoddy green teeth. “Randy. Son’s name is Randy.”
Rhonda smelled a skunk and it wasn’t from the dude’s nasty beard. He was acting odd. She backed away and kept her distance a few yards behind the rear bumper.
Rhonda kept her gun and a watchful eye on the stranger. He wasn’t instructing the kids and she didn’t have time to keep fucking around. “Patty and Randy? This is Rhonda. I think you might’ve found the emergency handle to open the trunk. Inside the top of the trunk, right?”
“Yeah.” Two uneasy voices spoke in unison from within.
“Okay. Pull on that sucker and push up on the roof of the trunk from the inside. Do that and you should be free.”
“You sure you ain’t a Cujo?” A voice squeaked from inside.
“Who’s asking?” Rhonda said.
“Randy. I’m asking ’cause I don’t like Cujos.”
Rhonda smiled. “I promise you. I’m no Cujo. Your dad’s right here and he’ll tell ya the same.”
The stranger nodded. “She’s all good, kids. No Cujos here.”
“Okay.” The voices inside spoke together.
“Ready?” Rhonda spoke louder. “Count of three.”
“Okay.” This time one voice answered and again Rhonda wasn’t sure if it was a boy or girl.
Rhonda pointed to the stranger. “If you can, get your fingers in the groove of the trunk and bumper on that corner and I’ll get this corner. Just in case it doesn’t spring up all the way.”
Rabid Heart Page 9
