I’m still under guard. They aren’t exactly subtle. Every few minutes, one of them moves heavily through the living room, driving their boot-heels through the floorboards, rifles clutched against their chests, staring at me sideways. I just stare back and throw up the occasional middle finger. I want a fight, but I’m pretty sure they’ve been ordered not to mess with me as long as I stay within these four walls.
The front door opens. It’s gotta be another guard making his rounds, though it seems a little early; one of them came through less than two minutes ago.
“You guys just can’t get enough of me.” I throw an arm across my eyes to block out the sunlight.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.” The man standing over me is not a guard. He’s got a blond, receding hairline and round spectacles. He’s the crazy bastard from the street; the doctor. He’s carrying a brown bag with a white cross on the side made out of duct tape. “But seeing as how you’re part of the family now, I’ve been instructed to perform a physical.” He sets down the bag, crouches, and pops it open.
“You’re the guy, the one that was harassing me; Daniel called you…Peter.”
“Percy, my name is Percy. Harassing you? Is that what you think I was doing?” He shakes his head as he removes a stethoscope and sets it in his ears.
“What are you doing? What is this?”
“I told you, I’ve been ordered to perform a physical. Lift your shirt,” he instructs as he blows on the bell. “This might be a little cold. Breathe in.”
He’s right, it’s a little cold. “There a point to all this?”
“Trask wants to make sure you’re healthy, that you’re not going to drop dead on his daughter and any future children you breed. Breathe normal.”
“That’s considerate of him,” I make no effort to mask my sarcasm.
“It’s sort of pointless; I can’t draw blood or take x-rays. But it makes him feel better and I don’t have much of a choice, so here we are.” He stows the stethoscope and wields a small rubber hammer.
“The other day, you were trying to warn me, weren’t you?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He taps one kneecap and then the other; my legs jump as expected.
“Yes, you do. You were telling me to leave. You knew this was going to happen.”
“You wanna lower your voice a little?”
“You knew! Didn’t you?” If anything, my voice is louder.
“You’re dense, kid, you know that? Real slow. Yeah, I knew. I tried to warn you.” He drops the hammer back into the bag. “You decided to write me off as crazy.”
“You were acting crazy.”
He pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks at me indignantly. “Excuse me, but it’s not like I could sit there and have a conversation; they’re watching me, very closely. I had to be as brief as possible.”
“That’s some paranoid shit you’re talking, Doc.”
“What do you think all of this is, huh? This is what they do. If they see you as valuable and you don’t feel like sticking around, they find a way to leverage you into staying; usually that leverage is someone you love.”
“That what they did to you?”
He swallows hard before braving an answer. “Yeah, that’s what they did to me. They have my husband. We were some of the first people here. We came with Ronald, his daughter, and a few others from Washington to help found this place. Wasn’t long before Ronald started to get power hungry, a little crazy; all of us could see it happening. By the time we decided to try to do something, it was too late. He formed up that group that Guy leads to go out and poach survivors.”
“We weren’t poached.”
“Sure you were. They bring you in. Maybe they show you a movie, feed you a hot meal. They romanticize this place to you. And if you’re not cooperative, if you don’t choose to stay, they find a way to make you stay.”
I guess we were poached. “What about the caravan doing runs back and forth to Washington?”
“He fed you that line? They’ve only come through once, haven’t seen them since.”
“That lying bastard.”
“He is that, he is definitely that. I’ve never seen anything quite like this, though.”
“Like what?”
“The situation with you. Usually, they are after essential personnel; teachers, construction workers, doctors.” He pats himself on the chest. “It’s almost like he took you as a plaything for his daughter.”
“That he did. They hurt Katia bad in the process.”
He nods. “I treated her wounds.”
I jolt forward, inches from his face. “You know where they’re holding her?”
“Whoa now, ease up, kid.”
One of the guards comes marching by. He stops, gazing down at us suspiciously. “You almost done, Percy?”
“Getting there.”
“Hurry it up.”
“You can’t rush good medicine.”
“Well, I am, so hurry it up.”
“Alright, you got it, wrapping it up.”
The guard stands there for a few more seconds before marching out the front door.
“You know where she is?” I whisper, once the door is closed and we’re alone.
“Storm cellar, about a half mile from here; it’s under heavy guard, so don’t get any wild ideas.”
“You’ve got to help me get Katia out of there.”
“No way.” He secures the medical bag. “You’ll end up getting yourself and all of them killed.”
I grab his arm as he goes to stand; he’s a small man, but it still takes a considerable amount of force to hold him in place. “You know this place. You have access to areas I don’t; they won’t even let me out of this house. All I need is a gun and a silencer. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking.”
The front door opens. It’s the same guard. “Time’s up. Let’s go, Percy.”
He looks at me, at the guard, and then back at me. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Percy leaves.
I fall back across the couch and reach for the closest magazine, trying to keep my mind focused on the present and off of the thought of having to spend another night with Lydia.
23
Lydia left the house early, again. She told me she had to make a run with Guy and the rest of the crew and that she’d be spending the evening with her father. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and floated from the room. I didn’t fight her advances last night. For the good of Katia, I remained compliant. I kept my eyes closed and my senses dulled, dutifully molding myself to meet her whims and desires.
I’m coming down the stairs, still buttoning my shirt, and see Percy standing at the bottom; he seems to be waiting for me. “Come to tell me I’ve got cancer?”
“Told Trask that I think I detected a heart murmur. He sent me back to do a follow-up.”
“I have a heart murmur?”
“Come to the living room.”
I take a seat on the couch as Percy begins the familiar routine of kneeling over his bag and withdrawing his instruments. Except this time, rather than withdrawing a stethoscope, he withdraws a vicious looking pistol.
“This is an FNP .45 tactical handgun. It’s got an Osprey 45 suppressor and a dual-illuminated amber dot sight. See that yellow dot? It’s got a phosphor lamp that illuminates the reticle in low-light conditions. It’s everything you need to get the job done. It’s got fifteen in the mag and one in the pipe; make them count.” He sets the pistol on my lap and starts digging in the bag again.
“You know your guns. You sure you’re just a doctor?”
“I had a brother that was really into them. Taught me a lot. Took me shooting. I was never much on it, but it was our way of spending time together. Here, I got you this too. Tactical folding knife, four-inch blade; in case you run out of ammo or just want to get up close and personal.”
There’s a warmth moving through my chest, a flicker of hope. “What made you change your mi
nd?”
He shrugs as if the answer should be obvious. “You did.”
“How so?”
“You’ve got courage. I saw it yesterday when you asked me to help you. It scared me. I’m not used to it. Not too many courageous people around here…in fact, I’d say there aren’t any. Everyone here is a coward, including me. That’s the only way that men like Trask come to power; they need a collective of cowards to hold them up. No one has the heart to go up against him and his goons. But you do. You’re the best shot…the only shot…we have to get free of him. This,” he lowers his eyes to the piece, “is all I can do.”
I take the pistol in hand. The weight feels good, the square-shaped suppressor and fully loaded mag balance each other out nicely. “I can do this. I can definitely do this.”
“Who’re you trying to convince?” Percy is looking up at me over the tops of his eyelids.
“These guys trained? Are they good?”
“Daniel has a military background, for sure. The rest of them, I don’t know. As far as I can tell, they’re couch potatoes playing dress-up, but I didn’t know them before all this. Listen to me, Tim, you really can do this. Just don’t get in a hurry and do not hesitate.”
“When do I make my move?”
He zips up the bag. “Tonight is your best chance. It’s movie night.”
“Which means?”
“Your better half is going to be out late with her father. Most of the guards are going to be concentrated around his house; Guy, Daniel, all of them.”
“Fish in a barrel.”
“Pretty much.”
The front door pops open. “Time’s up, Percy.”
“Be right there.” He stands, bag in hand. “Whatever happens, good or bad, at least you took the shot. That’s more than the rest of us can say.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. A carpenter ain’t nothing without his tools.”
“Yeah, well, if I had any guts, I’d have used the tools myself.”
“My momma used to say that there’s a time and place for everything.”
“Let’s hope your momma was right, otherwise we’re both dead.”
24
Once the sun is beyond the horizon, I make my move. Down the stairs I go, dressed in my blue jeans, boots, collared black polo, and my Stetson. I’ve got the blade attached to my waistband and the pistol extended out in front of me.
Downstairs, I flatten myself against the wall beside the front door and knock twice.
“What the hell? You were told to keep your ass upstairs,” the guard says as his key hits the lock.
“Gonna have to throw this little bastard a beating.” It sounds like his partner is right behind him.
The door swings open. The room is vampire black. The floor creaks beneath their feet as they move past me into the living room. The one holding the keys brandishes a flashlight and slices at the darkness with a weak yellow beam. “Am I crazy? You heard a knock too, right?”
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“Where the hell is he?”
I raise the pistol. Their bodies light up like a Christmas tree on the other side of the phosphor lit, amber sight. “Right here, fellas.” I pull the trigger twice and catch each of them in the head. They go down without making a peep. The blood leaking from their skulls sounds like milk escaping from a broken jug.
Glurp-glurp-glurp.
Outside, the street is empty. There are floodlights placed intermittently along the path to Ronald’s. The loud buzz of the generators covers my footsteps. I move low and slow, gun down in front of my waist. I sidestep the circular splashes of illumination boring holes in the concrete. Around the next bend is the entrance we came through when we arrived. The bus is parked on the other side. There are three guards standing around the entrance, laughing, rifles propped on the ground.
They never see me coming.
The two guards closest to me have their backs turned.
All is fair.
I hit the first one in the head; the bullet shreds his hat as it blows through the top of his skull.
I catch the second one in the back of the neck. His throat blows open and blood sprays the face of the last man standing.
The last Mohican is stunned, mouth agape, face streaked in the blood of his comrades; he looks like a child that just got caught digging through his mom’s makeup.
I fire.
The bullet goes wide and hits his shoulder, spinning him to the ground. I run up on him before he can start screaming.
“No, please, wait—”
I put a bullet through his eye. The contents of his skull spread across the pavement like an egg being dropped into a hot pan.
Nine bullets left.
I watch the windows in the houses around me as I rapidly approach Ronald’s, staying to the shadows.
Two of Ronald’s guards stand watch outside the front door. They’re at attention, clutching their rifles, ready. As I move closer, one of them steps forward, head extended out in front of his body, like a dog that just caught a scent. Perhaps he sees me, perhaps not. I don’t wait to find out. I send hot lead right through the center of his face. Before he hits the ground, I shoot his partner through the center of his chest; the force bounces him off the front door. Blood erupts from his mouth almost instantly. He falls to his knees and dies, twitching as the last few beats of his heart push the lifeblood from his body.
The front door opens and another guard steps out to check on the noise, working his pistol like a blind man with a cane. I’m waiting for him. I wrap one hand across the gun and plunge the knife into his neck, all the way to the hilt. His eyes widen at the shock of the cold steel ripping through his windpipe. His lips part and gagging noises erupt from the back of his throat. He looks sideways at me, pleading with his eyes.
This is ugly business.
He releases the gun and grips my shoulders as the fear of imminent death takes hold. He’s shaking as I lower him to the ground, blood bubbling up around the hilt of the blade. I jerk the blade swiftly to the left, opening his throat and easing his suffering. I step across his body into the living room.
It’s clear.
As I mount the stairs, I keep my sights on the balcony above, prepared to pull the trigger at the slightest hint of movement. I can hear Trask and Lydia in the screening room, laughing in unison, a soundtrack of slapstick underlining their joviality.
Enjoy it, motherfuckers. The credits are about to roll early.
I move quickly across the upstairs balcony. I stand directly across from the screening room, back against the banister. I take three deep breaths, preparing myself to kick the door off its hinges.
I can’t wait to see their faces!
I reach for the handle.
The door swings away from me just before I can grab it.
Daniel’s battle-scarred face greets me. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks positively delighted; a killer clown set loose in a room full of toddlers, with a bottle of chloroform and a butcher’s blade. I freeze up and give him the only opening he needs.
He hits me like a linebacker, square in the chest with his right shoulder, driving the breath from my lungs as he lifts me off of my feet and carries me straight back through the banister. The wood splinters and we plummet towards the ground, Daniel hovering above me, smiling maniacally.
The coffee table shatters beneath me as we land, sending glass and wood flying in every direction. My pistol and blade have gone missing. Daniel starts hammering away at me. He lifts me to my feet by the collar of my shirt and hits me so hard that my vision turns to static. The next blow thunders into my ribs. My legs give out, but Daniel holds me in place, sinking his fist into my stomach again and again. I puke, covering the front of his shirt in blood and liquefied meatloaf. This only serves to stoke his rage. He releases my shirt and drops me with an uppercut. I go down like a discount whore, the glass embedding itself in my back; I’d scream if I could find my voice.
Everything is blurry, like I’m sta
nding behind a wet panel of glass. I think I see Ronald and Lydia staring down at me from the balcony, standing where the broken railing used to be, but I could be hallucinating.
I can’t feel my face.
But I can feel a large shard of curved glass sitting beneath the palm of my left hand.
Daniel stands over me and laughs. “I survived three tours in Afghanistan. I’ve been shot five times and blown up twice. Did you really think a puny little bastard like you could take me out?”
“This isn’t Afghanistan.” I drive the glass shard into his leg, just behind the kneecap.
He screams and drops down.
I roll backwards, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.
Daniel rips the glass from his knee, huffing and puffing, looking angrier than ever.
I scramble around in the semi-darkness, patting around the floor frantically, like a man that just dropped his wedding band down a storm drain. There it is; cold steel, one of the fallen guard’s rifles.
Daniel sees what I’m doing and freezes. His face goes white. He’s been in enough gunfights to know when someone’s got the drop on him. But that doesn’t stop him from going for the pistol strapped to the small of his back. He’s quick, but he’s not quick enough. I stitch him from navel to neck; he flails as the bullets carve a dark, red trench up his torso and chest. He falls backwards at an awkward angle and rolls to his side.
I let off the trigger long enough to raise my aim to the balcony. Guy is standing there, shoving Ronald and Lydia back towards the theater room. My vision is still blurry and every breath I take ignites flames in my chest.
I shoot and shred the ceiling above Guy’s head.
He ducks down, aiming a shiny chrome pistol. I dodge right—which is to say I tumble over sideways and hope for the best. One of the bullets comes so close I feel the heat on my cheek.
The Rabid: Fall Page 14
