Rabid Heart

by Jeremy Wagner

  Rhonda limped to Brad’s door and pulled him out with what little strength she gathered.

  “C’mon babe. Move it.” Rhonda’s voice wheezed out of her as she tugged Brad into the parking lot by his shirt.

  Brad hissed angrily as he glared at the Cujos approaching them. Rhonda switched her M4 to her shaky left hand and clutched his shoulder with her right. She used her undead boy-toy as a walking stick.

  “Fuckers.” Rhonda fired awkwardly and hit everything except Cujos. She saw the kids had leapt on an escalator and were ascending. Like the lights here, the escalators had power. Her heart banged with fear and she croaked, “Wait! Don’t go up!”

  The kids didn’t seem to hear her. With great difficulty, she shuffled along and led Brad toward the escalators. Brad walked alongside her, obediently, stopping twice to protect Rhonda from Cujos who got too close.

  “Hurry up!” Tyler yelled from above the first level of escalators.

  Rhonda jerked her heavy head toward the sound of his voice and reports from the .45. Ellen screamed, somewhere out of sight near her brother.

  Rhonda watched Ty fire on a group of Cujos on the first escalator. The undead ascended, and in her dizzy mind, Rhonda realized this entire freaking stadium was running like it was showtime.

  Escalating Cujos fell backwards as Tyler dropped them like pins on a firing range. His shots remained steady and dead accurate while his grade-school hands flew upward from recoil. Ty cleared the escalator as Rhonda and Brad reached the bottom. Ahead of them, head-blasted Cujos rode to the top in slumped heaps.

  “We’re coming.” Rhonda didn’t think Ty heard her weak voice. She stepped onto the moving staircase and started to fall backwards, but Brad grabbed her in time and held her in place. She held Brad’s shoulder and looked into his sweet, pale face. “Thanks, babe.”

  “Look out!” Tyler’s voice disappeared under the .45’s boom as he fired over Rhonda and Brad’s heads. “Got ’em!”

  “Christ, Ty. Watch it!” Rhonda found her voice again. Something heavy fell behind her.

  “Looks like I’m the one covering y’all.” Tyler smiled as Rhonda and Brad reached the top. His smile disappeared as he gaped at the .45’s open slide. “Out of ammo.”

  Rhonda checked her belt, but only one M4 magazine remained. She spied another two heaven-bound escalators in her double vision.

  “We’re fucked.” Rhonda trudged ahead with Brad and nudged Tyler and Ellen forward. “Just get all the way up those next group of escalators. I’ll do the shooting.”

  They didn’t argue. Tyler bolted, the empty handgun in one fist and Ellen’s hand in the other. With a distressed cry, Ellen ran with her brother.

  Rhonda and Brad boarded a new escalator. Brad shoved undead aggressors from the second bank of escalators. Cujos tumbled to the bottom in a heap, but one of them rebounded quickly. It jumped and charged up moving steps with an eerie and furious speed. Several new terrors soon joined their quick amigo on the first escalator platform, no doubt drawn by the commotion.

  “Stay put, baby.” Rhonda placed Brad’s cold hand on her hip as she called upon all of her mental faculties to give her steady aim. She pointed her M4 straight at the escalator as ghouls approached.

  Walkin’ maggot incubators.

  Rhonda fired a single round. Her M4 clicked empty and the bolt caught open. Inside the pantry was bare. “Fuck me.”

  Rhonda felt like she was moving through molasses. She ejected the vacant mag and let it clatter to the floor. Brad clutched her while she pulled a fresh magazine from her belt. Why was it so hard to snap the mag into the M4? In a panic, she slammed it home, pulled the bolt, and armed her weapon.

  A new bullet slid in place just as a crew of escalating Cujos reached Rhonda’s floor. They stumbled over each other as they rushed to get their claws on her. With only a few feet to spare, Rhonda opened her gun at point-blank range.

  Cujos dressed in filthy Jaguar swag blew apart as Rhonda raked them with fire. She exhaled in relief as her scatter of bullets penetrated their skulls and obliterated the rancid, convoluted meat within.

  Brains. Gotta get ’em all.

  Rhonda tasted something coppery in her dry mouth. Her body felt as though it was waning. She laughed.

  At the big game one minute... and the next thing you know, you got rabies and a real rotten disposition.

  Cujo-fied football fans fell and then her magazine went dry. Rhonda dropped a depleted mag and labored to replace it, even more clumsily than before. She suddenly realized there weren’t any more magazines.

  Both kids yelled for her. Rhonda shook her head and tried to clear the cobwebs. This was hard. No, she couldn’t do it. She struggled to hold her M4 and Brad and felt failure loom. With what seemed like Herculean effort, she and Brad made it to the last escalator and took it upward. Below, she spotted dozens of Necro-Rabid pursuers clogging the motor-driven staircase.

  “There’s so many.” It all seemed like an insane joke. “Welcome to the Cujo Bowl!”

  Rhonda giggled at herself while Brad murmured in Cujo speak behind her.

  “Rrrrnnndaahh?”

  For once, Rhonda didn’t answer him. They reached their new floor and she clutched her loverboy weakly as both kids rushed her.

  Ellen was frazzled. “Rhonda! They’re everywhere. We gotta run. Hide! We—”

  “We’ll go in one of those rooms.” Tyler said quickly. He pointed toward a carpeted hallway with a bunch of doors to their left. “We can get in and hide.”

  Rhonda gazed at the hall blearily. What doors? She blinked and tried to focus. Christ, she hoped they weren’t closets. Or worse, locked.

  “Ty. Take this. Can’t hold it any longer. Just carry it. It’s empty.” Rhonda unslung her M4 with great difficulty and handed it to Tyler.

  Tyler spun and gawked with huge eyes. His voice cracked with a startled cry. “Uh-oh. Go!”

  Now what? Rhonda turned to see what they were screaming at and gasped. Three huge Cujos in Jacksonville Jaguar uniforms stumbled from the escalator and made for Rhonda’s group without pause. Scuffed pads showed through their tattered and grimy teal. From their helmeted heads, each football Cujo hissed from carrion mouths. Their milk-white eyeballs fixed on Rhonda and her crew.

  She twisted toward both kids and summoned her highest possible scream. “RUN! Get your asses in one of those rooms!”

  On her final word, Rhonda herself tried to run. Instead, she fell hard and ate stained carpeting. Faintness swept her as Brad hoisted her to her wobbly feet with unexpected speed and strength.

  Tyler ran past Rhonda and Brad. He sped to Ellen, who waited in the hall next to an open door.

  The football Cujos kept coming.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Ellen bounced halfway in and out of the hallway and doorway with anxious energy.

  Rhonda heard a multitude of gridiron horrors hissing close behind them. God help her, she smelled their stench, too.

  They reached the open doorway and Rhonda peered inside and found both kids inside a luxury suite. Was she seeing things? Amazing. Like all of EverBank Field, electricity worked here and the suite was filled with bright light.

  Rhonda turned slowly and saw the football Cujos almost on them. New terror rode after these helmeted hulks as dozens upon dozens of undead jammed the hallway. It was like some half-time break had kicked into full swing.

  Rhonda took a few shaky steps and held on to Brad the best she could. Her right foot crossed the threshold as something pushed her hard from behind. She lost Brad and bit the floor. This wasn’t her fucking day. Bright white flashes cut through her vision. She groaned.

  She wanted to cry as she lay sprawled out on her raw left cheek. Rhonda got herself up and rolled over. Brad was standing in the suite doorway, blocking off the Cujo mob. He bared his teeth and held strong.

  “Brad!” Rhonda watched him; strong and defiant against a tangle of pale hands that fought to rip him from the suite entrance. His jaw dropped and the corners of his m
outh curled.

  Is he…smiling? He’s smiling at me.

  “Rrrrnnndaahh.” Brad’s arm bolted out and he grabbed the doorknob. The suite door slammed shut in front of him as the undead hallway horde overpowered and yanked him out and away.

  “Baby! Nooooo!” Rhonda wailed. From beyond the closed door came the raucous thumps and smashes and hisses of a heavyweight hallway fight. She imagined Brad, piled on and ripped to pieces. She sobbed. “He was just here. He... he... he was just here!”

  Tyler ran and locked the door. He kicked a chair to the side and shoved a small table in front of the suite door as forceful bangs hit the door and outer wall.

  “Move back.” Tyler jumped as a powerful collision rattled the door. Pictures crashed to the floor. He bent and his face pinched tight as he strained to pull Rhonda to her feet. “Sounds like there’s lots of ’em out there.”

  Rhonda bawled and tried to stay on her feet. She put all of her weight on Tyler. What a kid, he held her just fine. Now, she truly fell apart, wracked with sobs.

  It had all finally come to a head. Just as well. She couldn’t take any more.

  Anything that fucking could go wrong had gone wrong.

  Who had she thought she was fooling with her ridiculous fantasies of a romantic getaway? It was all her fault. She sobbed harder and wondered how soon she’d step into ceaseless darkness.

  “C’mon, you need to sit down.” Tyler steadied Rhonda’s fragile body and walked her slowly, his arm around her waist.

  She held on to his blonde head and his shoulders and pressed into his upper back. Tears saturated her vision and her body shook as she shuffled forward. She blinked her tired and puffy eyes as Tyler guided her to the front row of seats on the field-side of the suite. She sat, and here was Ellen curled into a ball near Rhonda’s seat. Ellen peeked at her, apparently too scared to move.

  Rhonda looked up wearily. What a view. She saw everything; a clear panorama of EverBank Field below; all boxes to her left and right; 60,000-plus stadium seats beyond; and a huge Budweiser scoreboard with a giant Jacksonville Jaguar head on it.

  They had the best seats in the house. She took in the football field below, bathed in bright stadium lights. No turf remained, only a 120-yard mudhole packed with Cujos of every make and model.

  “Wow. Look at that.” Tyler pressed his open palms and forehead against the glass. The window fogged where he breathed on it from inches away. “Looks like the whole city is down there. Ellie, check this out.”

  “Uh-uh.” Ellen tucked her face into her knees and squealed when another loud bang sounded from outside the suite.

  Rhonda stifled her sobs. She quaked with heartache and sickness. She prayed death would deliver her soon. She prayed the kids would survive.

  Rhonda spotted a millenary of Cujos gazing up at their suite. Holy shit, these rotten, life-defying bastards managed to spot her and the kids through this luxury glass; like exotic fish in a fancy glass box.

  Cujos below gestured with their ragged arms and reached out toward her suite. A chill danced across her fever-hot flesh. How could they possibly know? How could they even identify her and the children at this distance and make a distinction between normal people and fellow zombies?

  “Tyler. Get away from the window.” Rhonda struggled to rise. Rhonda felt herself in an abyss; inside a black hole. Her wounded leg, a polluted limb slicked with gore and sweat. Her chest heaved. “C’mon, Ellen. Up. We all gotta get away from the glass and kill these lights.”

  Ellen didn’t move. She kept her face planted in her knees and whined until Tyler pulled her to her feet. Spotting the thousands of stadium Cujos below, she screamed.

  Below, the undead moved together with their faces aimed toward the lighted box where Rhonda and the kids made their stand. Every single rotten stiff with the power to move was making for their suite, no doubt in search of someone yummy to eat.

  Rhonda joined the kids in the middle of the suite and tried to steady her sight. This box was a damn swank place to throw a party. Taking stock, she noted a nice wall-mounted flat-screen, a stainless-steel mini-fridge, beverage dispensers, chafing dishes and assorted catering supplies, along with a table and chairs in Jaguar colors. None of it would save them.

  Hallway Cujos pounded and pummeled the suite with new intensity. Everything inside seemed to vibrate. Rhonda held herself against a chair while the siblings held each other, pale with fear. Scanning the room, she spotted a closed door she’d somehow missed. A restroom.

  “Go in there, guys.” Rhonda nodded toward the door.

  Neither kid hesitated as they sprinted for the restroom. They ran inside and slammed the door behind them.

  “Don’t lock me out, now.” Rhonda’s voice wheezed. She tasted something bad in her mouth again.

  She moved slowly along, bracing herself on tables and seatbacks for support. Sweat soaked her from head to toe and she panted like a dog. Points of light danced before her eyes.

  Rhonda heard wood crack as the luxury suite door split inward. She sucked in a chest full of air and half-hopped, half-pulled herself from one piece of furniture to another until she reached the kitchenette counter. Darkness came and went as her infected body pushed itself past all physical limits.

  She leaned against the counter, heaving. Sweat dribbled from her face and spattered across the granite countertop. Her head pounded. Death was close. Maybe one more breath... once last taste of air. Rhonda lifted her face and turned around. She spotted the restroom door only a few feet away.

  There was a screech of metal and wood. The suite door looked ready to give way beneath the fury of the Cujos from outside.

  Forget it. It’s impossible.

  The restroom door might as well be in Tokyo.

  “Well, I can fucking try.”

  Rhonda expelled a meager breath and spat after it. Since when did she give up? She welled with a sudden anger and it overrode her fever and pain and the lightness in her head. She was furious. At fate, at the monsters who killed Brad, at her father, angry at the military and the government scientists who started it all, at those mini-freaks and their dirty knife.

  Above all, Rhonda was furious at herself for causing the predicament they were all in, and for constantly making everything worse with each new idiotic decision she made.

  She thought of the kids. Didn’t she vow to take her foster kids under her little wing? To protect them at all costs? Despite all of her mistakes, she’d be goddamned to allow them to fall on her.

  “I’m Rhonda Driscoll, you motherfuckers! Come get some!”

  Rhonda wheezed as the last world left her lips. Memories of her mother and kid sister came to her. All her friends who’d passed before her. She’d survive for them all, too.

  Somehow, she stood on her feet and took painful steps toward the restroom, propelled by fresh anger. But as she grabbed the knob, the suite door caved in and brought with it a capacity crowd of putrid gatecrashers.

  Rhonda did a double-take as the intruders poured in. What the fuck was that? Her eyes must be playing tricks on her. Coming toward her was a tall yellow cat with black spots, in oversized black sunglasses, white shorts, and a Jaguars jersey emblazoned with a huge, embroidered paw-print logo.

  Chester Cheetah? No, that wasn’t right. Her mind spun and the whole scenario felt surreal.

  Rhonda remembered now. This fucker was Jaxson de Ville, the Jacksonville Jaguars official mascot.

  The mascot was a Cujo, no doubt about it.

  “Lock the door and stay put! Stay quiet!” Rhonda’s voice broke with concern for the kids.

  Both kids yelled for her, but Rhonda just repeated her commands. She heard the restroom door lock behind her. She faced the Cujos with a fatal bravery. Her luck had run out for sure this time. All these Cujos and nowhere for her to run. This would be her last stand. She just hoped it would end fast.

  Jaxson de Ville stumbled toward her along with dozens of his graveyard football buddies. Numerous undead Jaguar fans from h
ome and abroad walked and crawled into the once coveted stadium box. Jacksonville’s mascot reached out and tried to seize her with its soiled paws.

  God, what a ridiculous way to die. Instead of screaming like a helpless B-movie actress for some sluggish creature to take her, Rhonda laughed in hoarse, broken barks. She couldn’t help it. It was all so absurd.

  Rhonda turned from her attackers and scanned the front row seats and mammoth window. She limped away, surprised with her own ability to do so, and made for the front row. She wanted to take her final seat and gaze upon EverBank Field and the shitty world beyond before she died.

  Rhonda’s sudden boost of new strength waned within seconds. Her entire body spasmed and weakness took her again. She hopped on her left foot and dragged her right leg along.

  “Okay, just a little ways.” She stepped to the first step of three. Stairs led to the first row of theater seats. But as she moved, she heard a muffled hiss behind her and felt a harmless swipe from Jaxson’s soft paw as it brushed the back of her neck.

  I’m not gonna look back.

  She hopped the last steps. A strange exhilaration fused with noxious sickness inside her. Maybe she’d die right here, on the spot, before any Cujos reached her. She heard crashes behind her and aggravated growls as Cujos closed in.

  She gazed into glass and saw reflected shapes of the crowd of Cujos behind her.

  Holy shit.

  They outnumbered her one hundred to one. EverBank Field below, and all its numerous stadium stands and seats, was filled with a sold out, undead crowd. Some appeared lost, but many stared her way and moved toward her luxury suite.

  She turned from the glass and faced the crowd packing the luxury suite. They filled every available space and crammed the steps. They toppled over rows of seats and Jaxson de Ville led the way only a few steps behind her.

  “Fire Marshall’s gonna flip out on this shit.” Rhonda released a howl of delirious laughter. She leaned into the wall of observation glass and rested her shoulder blades and body weight against it. She fought vertigo, but it proved stronger than her.