The Rabid: Fall

by J. V. Roberts

  “Yeah, we go down fighting!”

  I roll to the left as a Rabid claws for my feet. I come up onto my butt and aim, the barrel outstretched between my knees. The head of the Rabid that tried to snag me emerges over the side of the truck: a woman, blonde sprigs of hair barely clinging to her withered skull, eyes like winter. I pull the trigger and blow her face off. I dodge again, rolling to my left side, using an elbow to steady myself as I blow two more Rabid off the roof of the Humvee. As I come back to my feet, a Rabid surprises me. It swipes for my face and catches the barrel of my rifle, ripping it from my grasp and sending it spiraling into the horde.

  “I lost my primary!”

  “That’s great! Just fucking great!” Katia is hopping over gnarled claws, beating the Rabid back, but it’s not fast enough; for every one that goes down, two more appear.

  Sonny is in the Humvee, crouched between the seats, gun up, shit-scared and battle ready, looking to us for some sort of direction.

  The blare of a horn fills the air, drowning out the collective moan of the Rabid.

  All of the Rabid seem to pause and turn their heads, their senses drawn away from us for a split second.

  A white bus, lined with black stripes, rounds the bend in the road. It’s moving so damn fast I’m surprised it doesn’t just topple over. It’s wrapped in razor wire and the windows are tinted black. I can’t make heads-or-tails of what’s on the other side of the glass. The bus shows no signs of slowing as it barrels towards us.

  “Should we move?” Katia is already backing away, her heels hovering over the edge of the trailer.

  The bus downshifts at the last possible moment, the brakes squeal, and the ass end kicks out sideways as it slides to a stop inches away from the Humvee, the folding doors facing us.

  “Tim,” Katia cuts another Rabid off the truck, “what the hell is going on?”

  “Just as lost as you are!”

  The folding doors to the bus jitter and then spring open. A whole line of folks begin to pile out of the dark interior, just as calm as you’d like, men and ladies; a couple of them are even smiling. They look like a church group out to brunch. The men wear tweed jackets and khakis. The ladies are wearing assorted sundresses. The one thing they all have in common is that they’re carrying automatic rifles with drum magazines and ammo belts. They take up a firing line across the side of the bus, all eight of them (four men, four women) aiming from the waist.

  “You good folks might wanna go ahead and duck.” She’s a dainty blonde with bouncy blonde locks and shiny red lips, her yellow floral-patterned sundress rising just above her tanned knees. The rifle in her hands looks like it weighs more than she does, the ammunition belt coiling near her right ankle like a brass serpent. It’s a ferocious-looking weapon and she wields it with surprising ease.

  I must have frozen up, because Katia tackles me a second before the sounds of the first shots fill the air. The chicken truck rocks beneath us like a ship caught in a storm. Just when I’m convinced that Katia and I are going to be swallowed by it, everything goes quiet.

  “Is it over?” My ears are ringing.

  “I think so.” Katia pushes herself up, her hands pressed against my back.

  It’s a hell of a scene. The band of shooters stands on either side of the Humvee, four on one side and four on the other. They are surrounded by the mangled bodies of the Rabid. They are smiling, radiant smiles, straight, pearly white teeth on full display. Their guns are still smoking. A thick line of spent brass is spread out behind them, leading straight back to the bus. These folks are a mixture of Norman Rockwell and Scarface.

  I make it up to my knees and peek down over the edge of the chicken truck. The wire cages and pallets have been blown apart and so have the Rabid that were climbing them. There are body parts and entrails everywhere, spread out atop growing puddles of thick, black, shiny blood. A few Rabid are still twitching, teeth clacking together, refusing to let a little thing like missing limbs and disembowelment get in the way of a meal.

  “I’d say we got here just in time,” the blonde girl with the bouncy locks speaks. Her words are coated in a silky, southern drawl that immediately melts my heart.

  One of the guys runs a hand across the hood of the Humvee, coughing at the thick cloud of black smoke still coming off the engine. “Looks like one of y’all might be riding a horse with a little more buck than you can handle.”

  All eyes are on me. “Things got hectic, but trust me, there’s no horse I can’t handle.”

  “Whatever you say, kid.” He’s got a shiny, black pompadour haircut to go with his black suit. His snide dismissal sends a little ripple of laughter through his group of companions.

  My relief quickly turns to resentment.

  “You want some help down, girlie?” He offers a hand up to Katia.

  “Rescue or no rescue, I got a name. It’s Katia. And no, I don’t need your help. I got up here on my own.”

  Pompadour backs away, hands up, revealing a handgun and a line of magazines resting inside his jacket. “Whoa, she is a firecracker, I do say.” Once Katia has her feet on the ground, he risks an introduction. “The name’s Guy.”

  She accepts his hand for the briefest of moments before dropping it. “Thanks for the help, Guy.”

  “It’s what we do.”

  I struggle down from the chicken truck. All of my footholds have been shredded by gunfire. I land in a clumsy superhero pose, steadying myself with one hand. A pair of brown boots approach, the heels clopping against the blacktop. They stop inches from where I’m crouched. My eyes rise over a pair of sun-kissed knees and up over a floral-patterned sundress secured firmly around an hourglass waist. It’s the blonde with the dream voice and the red lips.

  “I’m Lydia.” The back of her hand remains pointed towards the sky as she introduces herself. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kiss it or shake it.

  I squeeze the ends of her fingers with sweaty palms and a frog in my throat. “Uh, Tim…that’s, uh, short for Timmy.”

  “Your face, Skin Eaters do that?”

  I turn my head away slightly, feeling self-conscious. “Nah, it was the business end of a shotgun and some angry glass.”

  “Bad luck just likes to follow you around.”

  “We’ve been flying with one wing lately, no doubt about it.”

  She smiles. “I like the hat. My daddy had one like it.”

  I check to make sure it’s sitting straight. “My daddy helped me pick mine out.”

  “Genuine Stetson?”

  “Accept no substitutes.”

  She giggles and rocks forward on the balls of her feet. She smells like berries and shampoo…or maybe she smells like berry shampoo, either way, it’s damned pleasant. “Never thought I’d meet a real cowboy again.”

  “He’s not a real cowboy, he just dresses like one.” Katia walks up beside me and takes my arm.

  “You know what they say, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck.” Lydia’s eyes scan me from my Lucchese leather to my wide brim 10-gallon.

  Katia steps forward slightly, still holding onto my arm. “Sorry, I can’t understand you. I don’t speak skank.”

  “Excuse me?” Lydia looks like a strong gust of wind just hit her in the face.

  “What the hell, Katia?” I pull her back.

  “She just eye fucked the shit out of you!”

  Guy claps his hands. “We got us a cat fight!”

  “Maybe we should do this on the bus, in case more of the Skin Eaters are on the way.”

  “Suits me,” Lydia raises her eyebrows to Katia before throwing me a parting wink, “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time later.” Lydia starts back towards the bus, her hips swaying like a hyperactive pendulum.

  Katia swats me. “What was that, Tim?”

  “Ouch,what did I do?”

  “You just went along with it!”

  “I didn’t do anything! That hurt!”

  “It was supposed to!”

  S
onny rises slowly from the center of the Humvee. “Safe to come out?”

  “It is indeed, good sir!” Guy talks in an exaggerated baritone. “The Knights of Arkansas have saved the day once more!”

  “Knights of Arkansas?” Katia seems to have forgotten about my alleged transgressions for the time being. “You for real with that?”

  “Our little group needed a name, Daddy Trask gave us one.”

  “What the hell is a Daddy Trask?”

  “You’ll have to pardon her, as you can see, we’ve had a long day and it’s been filled with a lot of bad luck.” The hood of the Humvee is still warm. “We appreciate y’all showing up when you did. You got a camp or something?”

  “Yeah, we got something. But we really should be getting on the bus; it’s not safe around here. Grab your stuff and hop aboard.” Guy circles a finger above his head. “Let’s move out, lords and ladies.”

  The group turns back towards the bus, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

  “Guess we should follow them, babe.” I try to take her hand, but she jerks away.

  “I can walk myself, asshole.” She storms ahead.

  Sonny hops down from the Humvee. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Girlfriend stuff.”

  Sonny nods like a man sympathetic to my plight. “Women can be a tough combination to crack.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That blonde chick though,” Sonny whistles, “she’s something, right?”

  “Do me a favor and don’t ever say that in front of Katia.”

  “I’m just saying, bro, I saw the way she was looki—”

  “Sonny!”

  “Alright, brother, my bad.”

  “Help me get our bags. We need to get on that bus to make sure Katia doesn’t kill everyone and try to steal it.”

  11

  Katia and I sit in the center of the bus; I’ve got the window seat. She sits with her back turned towards me and her feet stretched out in the aisle, her scowl turned up to eleven; that girl can hold a grudge like no one’s business.

  Sonny sits in the back, curled up in the seat, a rag draped across his eyes, catching up on some much-needed rest.

  One of the tweed jacket clad warriors is manning the rig, steering us along at a steady pace. Judging by the way he’s navigating the twists and turns, I’d venture to guess that this isn’t their first rodeo.

  Guy is stretched out on the seat in front of us and has been eagerly filling us in on every detail of their settlement. “I wouldn’t even call it a settlement. It’s turned into more of a community…more of a town. We call it Próta,” he says the name as if it should somehow be familiar.

  “And that means what, exactly?”

  “It’s Greek for first. Hell, to be fair with you, I didn’t know till they told me. Trask likes to read a lot, so it was sorta his thing.”

  “This Trask guy you keep mentioning, did people vote him in as leader?”

  “More or less, yeah.” Guy straightens up in the seat, the back of his head propped against the window. “He was one of the original founders, sort of the glue that kept everyone together. It was Daddy Trask, or Ronald Trask if you’re trying to keep it formal, that cleared out the first block. He led a small team. They cleared the houses and started taking in survivors. Trask really organized things: the division of labor, security, supplies. He’s a brilliant guy; you’ll see when you meet him.”

  “These people, are they ex-military?” I ask.

  “Trask isn’t. His head of security, Daniel, definitely is; you’ll meet him. Some of the other guys might be; I haven’t asked and they haven’t told. Ronald was some big businessman back before all this stuff started: hotels, casinos, golf courses, that sorta thing. I guess the people figure if he can build and run so many successful businesses, then he’s the guy to help lead us as we try to rebuild humanity, he’s the guy that can make us great again. He’s a good guy, lots of good ideas; we could definitely be doing worse.”

  It occurs to me that our country was never founded as a business. It was founded as a democracy, pretty much the exact opposite of a business. But right here, right now, it’s not a point worth arguing. If Guy is impressed by Ronald’s resume and thinks that qualifies him to lead a small sect of society into the new world, then more power to him. “What do you know about some refugee camp out of Washington?”

  “That’s us. You heard the radio broadcast?”

  “Last night.”

  “Yeah, that’s us, we’re an extension of them; they’re the body, we’re the arms…or legs. They’re the ones that sent Ronald out to establish Próta. If folks want to go on to Washington, then we help them get there. We’ve got a security transport that runs people up there every couple of weeks or so. But we’re happy to take in anyone that wants to stay. We’ve definitely got holes that need filling.”

  “So y’all are…what? Recruiters searching for new talent?”

  “Believe me, I wish; it’d be a lot more glamorous. Think of us as your local police force, keeping the citizenry safe from the forces of evil.”

  “Your uniforms leave something to be desired.” Katia doesn’t look at Guy as she passively insults him. Her arms are crossed and she’s sitting so close to the edge of the seat, it’s a small wonder that she hasn’t fallen off; the ride isn’t exactly smooth.

  Guy is unshaken by Katia’s prickly demeanor. “Ronald has encouraged us to aspire to be our best, in all areas. The thought behind the thought is that if we’re going to be the face of this new nation, then we need to present the freshest face possible. Who says you have to kill Skin Eaters clothed only in rags, mud, and blood?”

  Katia looks sideways at him. “It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than what you’re wearing.”

  “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.” Guy turns towards me, choosing the path of least resistance. “What’s the story with your group? Were you heading to Washington?”

  I’m not quite sure how much information I should share with these people. Knowing that they’re linked up with the guys running the show in Washington definitely puts a kink in things. They’re probably harmless. Like he said, they’re just an arm—or a leg—doing what the body tells them. But there’s no way to be certain of what they know and don’t know. Call me paranoid, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. “That was the plan, yeah.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “We’re just tired of the road, tired of living hand-to-mouth.”

  Guy eyes Katia for a moment, perhaps seeing if she’ll add anything to my explanation, but she’s too busy staring daggers into the back of Lydia’s skull. “I suppose that’s as good of a reason as any. We’ll do what we can to help get y’all situated and on your way to wherever it is you need to be.”

  “It’s much appreciated. Thanks again, for everything.”

  “Hey, it’s what we do; people helping people.” Guy holds out a hand; soft touch, strong grip. “Anything you need, just holler.” He slides out of the seat to go join the rest of his friends towards the front of the bus.

  “Smart move.” Katia twists around so that she’s facing forward in the seat.

  “What was?”

  “Keeping our objective quiet; we don’t know these people.”

  “Not yet, but they seem like good people; strange sense of style, perhaps, but good people.”

  “Everyone seems like good people, until they aren’t.”

  This new world has a knack for turning the best of us into cynics. Back before the end, I would’ve looked at a group like this, dressed in their best, and I would’ve placed them for Mormons or swing dancers. Now it’s just as likely that they’re cannibals, thieves, or post-apocalyptic, religious fanatics with an atom-bomb fetish. The last time I happened across a group of well-dressed white people, it didn’t go so well.

  The hours pass and the light starts to dim over the horizon. The bus driver yells a thirty-minute warning.

  Guy comes traipsing down the aisle,
echoing the call. “Thirty minutes, folks! We’ll be arriving in thirty minutes! Rise and shine, we’ve made it home once again!” He stands over me and Katia. “You two excited? You should be! You’ll love it!” He continues on down the line. “Thirty minutes! This train pulls into the station in thirty minutes!”

  I squeeze Katia’s thigh. “What do you think, babe? We excited?”

  She yawns into a closed fist. “Guess we’ll see. If they can give us a bed and a decent meal, I’ll be…mildly aroused.”

  “Oh, really? Aroused?” I lean in and nibble at her neck. She giggles a little and shoves me away. “What if they have hot water?”

  She throws up her hands. “If they have hot water, I’m gonna need to change my panties!”

  We’re both laughing, tangled up in each other’s arms, when Lydia slides into the empty seat in front of us.

  Katia’s jubilation ceases immediately.

  “Just wanted to drop in on you two and see how you’re doing?” Lydia is a beautiful robot; her red lips are frozen in an unwavering smile. Her bright, blue eyes bounce between us as she flutters her eyelids, patiently awaiting a response.

  “Like you give a damn.” Katia throws down the gauntlet.

  Lydia shrinks a little, but quickly bounces back. “That’s kind of why I came over. You and me, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” She reaches out to brush Katia’s arm with her fingers.

  Katia rips her arm away. “You’re the one that stepped wrong, not me.”

  “Fair enough.” Lydia reels her hand back in and clears her throat. “There was no offense intended, it’s just been awhile since I’ve seen a guy like Tim.”