There’s a break in the gunfire as Guy readjusts his position. I aim the rifle from where I lay by the bottom of the stairs. Guy is down on one knee, arms extended, lining up for the kill. I fire wildly, praying that I’m the first one across the finish line. The gun kicks against my belly. I’m not sure if Guy even gets a shot off. A geyser of red erupts from his neck, spraying the ceiling as he falls backwards out of sight.
I jump up and rush the stairs, keeping my rifle extended, expecting Guy to rise up at any moment, like a villain from some eighties B-movie. I find him still, eyes open, pupils fixed, lying in a pool of waxy-looking blood.
The theater room door is closed, but I can hear shuffling on the other side.
“Hello?” It’s a shaky whisper; it’s unmistakably female…unmistakably Lydia.
I kick the door, just to the left of the handle, and splinter the frame. There’s a pain ridden squeal as it rockets back into Lydia’s face and rebounds off the wall.
Lydia is crumpled on the floor at my feet, looking pretty as ever in her blue jeans and thin white T-shirt. She’s got her hands cupped across her mouth and nose, trying to stop the gush of blood.
A few feet back stands Ronald. He raises a finger and puts on a brave face. “Now you listen—”
I shoot him in the right kneecap. “No. You listen.”
He goes down screaming and shaking, rolling around on his back while he clutches his wounded leg to his chest.
“Daddy!” Lydia scrambles across the hardwood floor, forgetting all about her nose as she tries to get her arms around her father.
I grab her by her hair and throw her against the wall beside the door. “How does it feel, bitch?” I jam the muzzle of the rifle against her forehead, twisting it back and forth, leaving a deep indention in the skin. “How does it feel to see someone you love suffering and to know there’s not a thing you can do about it?”
“Please! I’m begging you! Don’t hurt us! Don’t hurt my father!” Her nasally sobs are nails on a chalkboard.
“Shut the fuck up!” I kick her in the side and leave her coughing. I turn on her father. He’s pulled himself up against one of the theater chairs and is breathing heavy. His face is pale and drenched with sweat.
“Please don’t hurt my daughter. I’ll tell you where you can find Katia. You can take all the supplies you want.”
“I already know where she is. I know where all of them are.” I blanket him in my shadow; the muzzle of the rifle is inches from his face. “Tell me about D.C.”
He shakes his head. “I’m the wrong guy to ask.”
“You’re not in a position to resist. I’ll take her head off right in front of you.”
“No, stupid boy, I’m not resisting anything. I simply…” he chokes on a ball of pain and manages to swallow it, “…don’t know. We lost all contact with them.”
“What do you mean?”
“We lost contact! We got one supply run from them and one transport. After that, it went silent. No more supplies. No more transports. What the hell did you expect me to do?” The blood from his knee is bubbling up slow between his fingers. I’ve heard the kneecap is the most painful place to get shot besides the belly. “I had to keep this place going. I needed people with certain skill sets, people that could offer resources. Without anything coming in from D.C., this place would have fallen apart. People would have panicked. They’d have lost faith and fled. So I did what I had to do in order to keep it alive. If that meant muscling folks into staying, then so be it. The survival of Próta, of our species, that’s something that’s more important than you, or me, or any of those people out there.”
“Is that why you beat my girlfriend half to death and executed Sonny, the survival of Próta?”
He raises his chin.
Proud.
Defiant.
“No, it was not. That was selfish…that was for me…for my daughter.”
“And this is for me.” The force of the bullet snaps his head back against the chair. He looks up at me for a second as a thin line of blood begins to leak from the hole in his head, then his eyes close, and his chin falls to his chest.
The king is dead.
I hear Lydia scream. Before I can react, she’s on my back, clawing at my face and trying to sink her teeth into my neck. I swing my body left and right, trying to shake her off, losing pieces of my flesh in the process. She doesn’t budge. I straighten up and run backwards, slamming her against the wall. She gasps and releases me, sliding down to her butt.
I turn and raise the rifle.
“Do it. This is what you wanted, right?” Her eyes are closed. Her speech is slurred.
“What I wanted? What I wanted was to leave with my friends peacefully. The bloodshed is on you and your father.”
Her eyes slowly open. She sees Ronald’s body and begins to blubber. “So do it! Shoot me!” She’s slobbering all over herself.
My finger trembles over the trigger.
“Can’t do it, can you? Because you love me!” Her eyes are angry slits. But beneath all that hatred, I can still see a spark of twisted infatuation. “You know we were meant for each other. I’d have been so good to you. I’d have been so loyal. I chose you, Tim. I chose you to be mine. That means something!” she screams, pressing one eyeball to the muzzle of the rifle. “We live in a world where we don’t get to choose stuff like that anymore. Don’t you see how rare and special that was? And now you’ve ruined it! And for what? Some spic bitch that will never love you like me!” She laughs a sick laugh. “You killed my father! I can’t ever forgive you for that.”
“And I can’t forgive you.”
I pull the trigger.
***
Percy is standing in front of Ronald’s house. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. In lieu of the medical bag, he’s carrying a revolver, the hammer cocked back, ready to go.
“Is it done?”
“Yeah.”
“Both of them?”
My silence serves as confirmation.
As I step down onto the street, I notice everyone watching me from their windows; mothers and fathers clutching their children, old folks, and teenagers, all of them waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“Ronald is dead.” I turn in place, watching them as their eyes widen in disbelief, their shock reaching my ears as indecipherable murmurs. “I know that you have suffered under him, that he’s used your loved ones as leverage to keep you here against your will. As of tonight, you’re free. You can stay in Próta or you can take your loved ones and go. Percy and I are heading over to collect the hostages. They are being held under heavy guard. We could use the extra hands. There are plenty of guns lying around, so come on down and take your pick.”
Soon front doors are creaking open and folks are popping their heads out, looking up and down the street suspiciously, as if this is all just some big prank. I let them take their time and feel it out. A small group of men and women collect the scattered weapons from the bodies and gather around me and Percy.
“Alright,” I look to Percy, “let’s get our people back.”
It’s a ten-minute walk to the cellar. We venture beyond the fence line and into a sparse patch of forest. The four guards see us coming from a ways off and take up cover behind some of the nearby trees.
“Stop or we will shoot you!”
I hold up a fist, signaling the group to halt. “Get down,” I whisper. They fan out behind me and I continue on. “Ronald is dead. His daughter is dead. His guards and Daniel are, you guessed it, dead. Now you boys have two choices: throw down your guns and run your asses out of here or stay and die. Choose quickly. I’m tired and would really like to see my girlfriend.” The way I see it, enough blood has been shed.
A few tense moments pass.
A moustache-adorned face leans from cover. “How do we know you’ll keep your word and let us go?”
“I guess you don’t.” I’m not in the mood to coddle the men that have held and abused Katia. If they give up,
fine. If not, I’ll add them to the pyre.
The wind whistles through the trees as the folks at my back chamber rounds and ready their weapons. I’m standing in the middle of it all like some wannabe John Wayne; drunk on the knowledge that I just singlehandedly killed a small army.
I hold my breath, waiting for the pot to boil over.
“Alright, we surrender.”
A rifle is thrown out.
Then another.
Then two more after that.
The four men, wearing dress shirts and jeans, step out with their hands in the air. I’m pretty sure I can see their knees rattling. Their eyes are on the rifle in my hands, on my trigger finger, all of them probably questioning their decision to give up.
“Go on, get out of here.” I gesture with my weapon.
They exchange glances.
“Just like that?”
“I’m a man of my word. Now get the hell out of here.”
The cellar is a square of old wood built into the forest floor.
“Watch my back.”
“I’ve got you.” Percy raises his rifle over my shoulder.
I lift the circular, brass handle and prepare to rip the door back. My desire to hold Katia in my arms is clashing furiously with my survival instinct. I use the door as a shield, steering clear of the mouth slowly opening in the earth. Everything inside is pitch-black.
“Someone get me a flashlight!”
“Flashlight!” Percy echoes.
Before anyone can respond, a hand emerges from the abyss, clawing the loose earth around the opening. Another follows. Then there’s a head. It’s as if hell is giving birth. But rather than a demon emerging from the void, an angel appears.
My angel.
“Oh baby, I’ve got you.” I throw my rifle aside as if it just burned me and fall to my knees, pulling her the rest of the way. I slide back on my butt and sit against the nearest tree, guiding her onto my lap.
“Where’s that flashlight?” Percy sounds off again.
Everyone is scrambling for the cellar now, calling out for their loved ones, each name running into the next.
I’m holding Katia around the waist. Her head hangs limply across my forearm. Her eyes are open and glistening. Her face is broken and bruised. She stares at the cellar as if she can see down into the darkness and touch the evil that resides there.
“Katia, look at me.” I prop two fingers against her cheek and try to turn her face towards me. She doesn’t resist, but her eyes refuse to meet mine. It’s as if she’s still in the cellar, lost, with no hope of salvation. As soon as I remove the support of my fingers, her face falls away, flopping back across my forearm as if her neck is broken; it’s not, I can feel her breathing. “I’m so sorry. Do you hear me, baby? I’m so sorry. You’re safe now. No one can hurt you. I’m here.”
But I wasn’t there. Not when it counted.
The revelation feels like hot coals in my belly.
Momma, Bethany, and now Katia; it’s three strikes and you’re out, right?
I hug Katia to me, hoping she’ll respond, hoping that her arms will coil around me and she’ll tell me it’s okay, that it’s not my fault, that she forgives me and everything can go back to how it was.
What’s going through her head right now?
Is she reliving the beatings?
Sonny’s execution?
Is she seeing Lydia…my hands on her body?
She made me! There was a gun to my head—to your head! Forgive me, please?
Time, that’s what it’s going to take. If I start bombarding her, it’s just going to push her further down the rabbit hole.
Folks are milling around in front of me, hugging their family. Some are in better shape than Katia, some are worse. Percy shuffles over to me, propping up an emaciated black man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in rags. The man can barely lift his head; he looks at me with tired, bloodshot eyes.
“Roger, this is Tim, the kid I was just telling you about. Tim, this is my husband, Roger.”
Roger slides out of Percy’s grasp and falls down in front of me, weeping, clutching my ankles. He drops his forehead against my shins. “Thank you. You saved my life, you saved my life.”
“I’m…you’re welcome.” I don’t know what to say. Sitting here, holding Katia’s battered body…I’ve never felt more unworthy of praise than I do right now.
I think Percy can read the conflict in my expression. He reaches down and lifts Roger back to his feet. “Is she okay?”
I shrug. A single tear escapes from my right eye. “I don’t know.”
“What’s her name, again?”
“Katia.”
“Katia, you’ve got a brave man. He saved a lot of people today.”
She blinks. At least it’s something.
“I’ll be happy to take a look at her, before you two head out.”
I nod, brushing her hair back out of her face.
“I’ll let you two be alone. I’ll get everyone back and make sure everything is secure. Drop by my office whenever you’re ready.”
25
The ten-minute walk back to the settlement takes fifteen. I’m carrying Katia in my arms, stopping every couple steps to ask her if she’s okay, to plead with her to speak to me.
“Just one word so I know you’re okay, that’s all I’m asking?”
Her eyes remain unfocused and glossy, fixated on some dark dimension to which I don’t have access. Her body remains limp, her hands folded across her stomach, refusing to latch onto me.
When I walk into Percy’s office, he’s already waiting. There’s an empty cot with clean sheets all spread out. I delicately set Katia down and stand back, letting Percy work his magic.
“Has she said anything?” he asks as he checks her pupils.
“No. She won’t even touch me.”
“Don’t take it personally.” He checks her pulse against his wristwatch.
“Can’t say I blame her after…everything.”
“Eh, that’s not what this is.” He stands back and crosses his arms, looking down at her with a slight frown on his face.
“What the hell is it? I’m lost. I can take on the Rabid. I can take on Ronald. But I can’t fight what I can’t see.” Watching her lie there like a corpse, unable to bring her back to life, is eating a fresh hole in me.
“Almost positive this is a combat stress reaction.”
I shake my head.
“Combat fatigue, I’ve seen it once or twice. Folks get overloaded by so much horrible stuff that they just shut down. It’s a coping mechanism. Think of it like tripping a circuit breaker.”
“What do we do?”
He shrugs. “Nothing to do. It’s not permanent. It just takes time. Best thing you can do is give her simplicity. She needs rest and food. She doesn’t need to be doing any of the heavy lifting; physically or mentally. But she should bounce back.” He gets a small pen light and starts highlighting her wounds. He presses and prods the flesh, lifting her arms and legs. He pulls up her shirt and checks the bruising on her ribs. I half expect her to shoot up and wrap her hands around his throat. But she remains motionless. “Nothing seems broken, but they worked her over good.”
“Yeah and they got theirs.” I suddenly want to pull the trigger on Ronald again. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen this before, with my mom. After my dad died and after her boyfriend died, she just shut down, started sucking down benzos and sleeping pills like they were candy.”
“Sounds like the same thing.”
I pull up a nearby chair, sit down, and take Katia’s hand. “How’s your husband?”
“Thinner than the last time I saw him. But it’s okay; he had a few pounds to lose.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Percy laugh. “You and the girl should stay for a few days.”
I shake my head. “No. We’ll pass the night and then I’m taking her out of here. This place has got nothing but ghosts for the both of us. If there’s any chance of things getting bac
k to how they were, it won’t happen here. But you’re more than welcome to join us on the road to D.C.”
“You really think there’s something there?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“I think we’ll stay here. With Ronald and his goons out of the way, maybe we’ll figure out how to make this place a home. I’m in no shape to be bouncing around anyway. I’d just slow you down.”
Katia’s head is turned towards me, her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady; she seems to have fallen asleep. I pray that when she opens them again the spell will have lifted and I’ll have my best friend back.
“We’re going to need transport and supp—”
“Whatever you need, you’ll have it; we owe you. Now go upstairs and find yourself a bed. I’ll look after her. You’re going to need your rest too; this girl will be counting on you.”
Count on me?
That’s a dangerous proposition.
26
Percy delivers on his word. He sees that we’re outfitted with a white panel van and enough food and water to see us through to D.C. He’s also generous with the arsenal: three handguns, two rifles, and enough ammunition to reload each a half-dozen times.
When I hit interstate 40, Katia is snoring away in the passenger seat, her knees drawn to her chest. Her katanas sit on the floor between our seats, waiting for her when she returns from whatever nightmare holds her.
The interstate is two lanes on either side, divided by a shallow ditch. Both sides are flanked by tall, full-bodied trees. On a normal day, it’s a sixteen-hour car ride to D.C. But with the destruction and Rabid to contend with, I reckon our travel time will double. I switch between watching the road and watching Katia. We pass under lonely bridges and breeze past deserted rest stops and gas stations as the sun radiates through the windshield. I dig around in the center console and rummage through the glove compartment, hoping to find a misplaced pair of sunglasses. When my search comes up empty, I settle on dropping the visor and squinting.
The road is relatively clear at the moment. Most of the wrecks have been pushed aside by the survivors that have come before. The Rabid have thinned out. I keep the needle on the speedometer hovering around 30mph. By the time they realize I’m there, it’s too late. I watch their reflection shrink in the mirror, their arms moving like pinwheels, their jaws clacking away.
The Rabid: Fall Page 15
