As each hour passes, the needle on the gas gauge sinks lower. I’ll need to stop soon. Percy outfitted me with a gas can and a hose. I can siphon with the best of them. It’s just a matter of supply. This patch of interstate has been well worn by survivors just like me; survivors looking for food and gasoline. After all, it’s the main artery to D.C. I keep an eye on the cars and trucks as I pass. Each one sits with their gas cap hanging like the tongue of some dead mutt.
I’m starting to get that rumbling in my belly. That knotted up feeling.
Rock bottom is rapidly approaching.
“Sure could use your help, baby.” I reach out and lay my hand on her thigh.
She doesn’t move.
There’s a sign for a rest stop twenty miles up the road; as good a place as any to hunt for gasoline.
I’ve got to keep reminding myself that I’m not driving the Humvee; there’s not armor or a bullet-resistant windshield. This is just a plain, old-fashioned, white panel van. If it hits hard enough, it’ll go crunch just like any other vehicle. With that in mind, I go around the Rabid rather than through them. The last thing I need is an arm or leg bone penetrating the engine block.
Ten miles to the rest stop.
There are doubts that still tether me to Próta.
Should I have taken Percy’s advice and stayed put? It’d have given Katia time to recover in peace. What if I can’t protect her? I haven’t been able to protect anyone up to this point.
What’s changed?
Nothing.
I try to find solace in telling myself that this is what Katia would have wanted. She’d have wanted me to keep searching for Ruiz, no matter what. That’s what I’m doing.
What’s waiting in D.C.?
Could be nothing.
Could be everything.
Up ahead is a sign ushering me into the rest stop. I follow the arrow and enter the parking lot. The van rocks as I bump over an uneven slab of concrete. The open space is littered with bones and bloodstains. Cars sit at awkward angles, sporting open doors and broken windows. I take heart in the fact that the main structure, containing the bathrooms, is still standing.
I pull in sideways at the back of the parking lot and cut the engine.
Katia doesn’t stir.
I reach down and take up a rifle; I’ve already got a .45 tucked into my waistband. “Don’t go anywhere,” I say to Katia as I slide out with the keys in hand.
I remove the .45 and shoulder the rifle; the pistol has a suppressor and I’m trying to keep the crowd to a minimum. Every few steps, I pause and listen; just the breeze rustling the treetops. I step carefully as I slink between the cars, doing my best to avoid crushing the bones of the dead. All of the vehicles seem to have already been pillaged; open doors and open gas caps; some have even had their engines stripped.
“I could fall backwards down a flight of stairs and still not catch a break.” I go to kick an empty suitcase in frustration and stop just short of making contact. I notice something sitting beyond the parking lot, where the grass meets the woodline. It’s the underside of a truck; all I can see is the front half, the tires staring out at me like a pair of alien eyeballs. The truck is sitting straight up, the front bumper grinning at the sky. I pick up the pace, still being cautious of my surroundings, slicing the pie just the way Bo taught me; turning slow circles, making sure my sights sweep every possible threat.
The earth drops off completely at the woodline, giving way to a fast-moving creek. The bottom half of the truck is buried beneath the water, but the gas cap is still exposed.
Even better, it’s closed!
I race back to the van, leave the rifle, and grab the hose and the gasoline container, returning to the half-submerged truck as fast as my feet will carry me.
Making my way down to the creek is a tricky endeavor. I slide down the steep hill on my butt, controlling my velocity with the heels of my boots, trying not to snag my balls on the roots looping out of the ground in front of me. I splash down, the water rising up over the tops of my knees and higher still as my feet slip and slide over the smooth rocks beneath me. It’s icy cold. It rips the breath from my lungs and sets my teeth to chattering. It’s dark down here beneath the canopy of trees, this little canyon doesn’t get much light, I’m guessing it stays damp year ‘round.
I shiver towards the cab. The door is open and the seats inside are empty; this is going to be easy. I squint as my hand searches beneath the dash for the lever to open the gas cap door. I prick my finger on something sharp and pull back, cursing and sucking at the swell of blood. As I lean in for a second attempt, something breaks the water behind me. I cease all movement, my heart pounding the walls of my chest like a bass drum. The wet growl tells me all I need to know.
Rabid.
I toss the gas can and hose into the cab and turn, raising my pistol.
There’s just one of them, standing about twenty-five yards upstream, arms outstretched, green plant life clinging to its gray, rubber face.
It takes a step towards me with its left leg.
I line up my shot, waiting for it to take its next step.
It doesn’t.
Its right leg is stuck between the rocks. It looks like it’s been here for quite some time; it’s pretty much just torn skin and splintered bones. It’s straining to reach me, muscles and tendons tearing and popping; I figure I’m the first hot meal it has seen in some time.
Once I realize it can’t move, I start to relax. I lower the pistol. Why waste a bullet?
I chuckle.
I can’t help it.
This thing…this Rabid…something that has caused me so much pain and suffering, to see it rendered helpless and placed at my mercy…well, it has to be some sort of omen, a sign that things are getting better.
“Tides are turning, you sonofabitch.” I raise my middle finger.
I notice the water rippling about five yards back from where the first Rabid emerged.
Another Rabid slowly rises up from the depths. The water slides across its gray flesh in glistening sheets, its white eyeballs are already fixed on my position.
Then another rises.
And another.
Soon I’m staring at a field of a half-dozen, waterlogged Rabid. All of them are stuck between the rocks. All of them are desperately trying to get loose so they can sink their teeth into me.
I raise the gun and lower it. Then I raise it again, trying to make the smart play, trying to leave fear out of the equation.
They’re Rabid, but they’re caged.
The only problem is that I don’t know how strong the lock is.
As if to answer my question, the Rabid at the rear of the pack breaks loose, ripping its leg in half just above the left knee. It spirals towards me like a torpedo, carried by the current, bowling over the other five Rabid in its path. I scramble backwards, firing wildly at the tangle of gray limbs. Geysers illustrate where my bullets hit the water. I’m unable to keep up with the current and my shots are lagging a good five paces behind my intended targets. I jump backwards into the cab, right before the fleshy mass crashes into the side of the truck. The truck rocks with the impact. I pull myself upright, gripping the steering wheel and standing on the back of the driver’s seat. I level my pistol at the horde of frothing, one-legged Rabid. They’re now pulling their bodies over the door frame. I don’t know how many bullets I’ve got left; I pray it’s enough.
Something sharp rakes across my back, tearing through my shirt and the flesh beneath. I cry out and lurch forward, trying to escape the source of the pain. I lose my grip on the pistol and it goes flying over the heads of the Rabid and into the water. I turn and see two more Rabid climbing into the cab from the passenger side. One of them is already halfway in, hand outstretched, sharp claws now adorned in my blood.
I’m screwed. Totally and undeniably screwed.
I kick out left, catching the lead Rabid on the passenger side in the mouth. Its jaw snaps in half. I kick out again, harder this
time. The heel of my boot caves in one side of its face and sends it sliding backwards out of the cab, taking the other one along with it.
I turn back to the six, one-legged Rabid on the other side, just in time to dodge a set of gnashing teeth. “Sonofabitch!” I lay into the top of its skull with my fist; one, two, three times. I don’t make a dent. I wrap my hands around either side of its head and plunge my thumbs into its eye sockets, popping the eyeballs like grapes. I shove the blind Rabid backwards, using its body to shield against the attacks of the five monsters trying to climb in behind him. I only realize that I’m screaming when my lungs start to crackle and my throat begins to burn.
I’ll go to my grave fighting.
Something splashes down in the water behind the flailing group of Rabid.
Damn it! Another one!
All six of their heads detach simultaneously, flipping into the air like graduation caps.
Katia!
She rises up to full height, holding her katana sideways in front of her face. Bruised and battered, the warrior has returned. I’m speechless and slack-jawed, holding the detached Rabid head like a bowling ball; two fingers in the eyes, one in the right nostril.
“You wanna put that down and move?” She’s panting, but the fire is back in her eyes. I drop the severed head and allow Katia to pull me from the truck. She pushes past me and, with surgical precision, finishes the remaining Rabid on the other side of the cab.
“Babe, are you okay?”
She shrugs me off and sheaths her sword. “Looks like I should be asking you that question. What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Getting gas.” I toss a thumb towards the canister and hose sitting inside the cab.
“Without a gun?”
“I had a gun. I sort of lost it in the creek.”
“Sort of?”
“I freaked out and dropped it.”
“A girl goes comatose for a day and the whole world comes apart.”
I can’t wait any longer.
I pull her face to my chest. The tears come without warning. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”
“Hush. Don’t do that.” Her arms fold around me and suddenly the world slips back onto its axis. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“But I couldn’t save—”
“I said don’t do that. All you could do was survive…that’s all any of us can do.”
Somehow, her forgiveness only adds to the guilt I feel. There’s a part of me…a very large part…that wants her to blame me. Scream at me. Hit me. Tell me it’s all my fault. Vindicate my pain.
“Just tell me that you killed that bitch.”
“I killed that bitch.”
She hugs me tighter. “Thank you.”
We stand there like that for I-don’t-know-how-long. Time doesn’t exist in this world like it did in the old. It’s no longer about clock faces. It’s the crispness of the morning and the warm massage of high-noon. It’s the shadows crawling slowly across the ground and the harmonic crescendo of the insect choirs.
I can no longer see the sun through the trees when we finally break our embrace.
“Let’s get that gasoline and get back on the road, what do you think?”
I wipe my eyes. “Sounds good to me.”
27
We bed down in the back of the van on a small farm road just off the main highway, concealed by darkness and shrubbery.
The next morning, we open up the back doors and sit on the bumper, where we have breakfast with the sun on our faces. Me and Katia sit close, we take turns raising the food to our lips to avoid bumping elbows, laughing and kissing each time we collide.
Once we’re back on the road, Katia slumps down and kicks her feet up on the dash. Her katanas rest between the seats and she holds one of the two remaining handguns in her lap.
“How’re you feeling about D.C.?”
“I’m not, really.” Her eyes are closed and her head is arched back like she’s trying to catch a tan.
“Not nervous about what we’ll find?”
“Tim, back there, in that cellar, I thought I was dead. I accepted it. After seeing everything…what that bitch did to Sonny…let’s just say there’s not a whole lot left that puts me on edge.” She looks at me. “Are you nervous?”
“I think I’m curious, more than anything. I guess that lends itself to a little nervousness. But not nervous scared. More like Christmas morning nervous, like, did I get a bike or a sweater?”
“I always got the sweater.”
“You don’t really strike me as a sweater kinda girl.”
“Not literally, but I always got the shit end of the stick.”
I hope there’s a bike waiting for us in D.C. I suppose we’ll know in a little less than twenty-four hours.
We spend the rest of the day driving without incident.
We siphon gas twice. Katia manages to put down three Rabid while I run the tanks dry.
As darkness falls, we decide to hold up in a rundown, highway motel. It’s very similar to the one I stayed in with Momma and Bethany. Katia and I lounge on the ratty mattress, staring up at the yellowish, popcorn ceiling. It’s an unseasonably humid evening. I’m stripped down to my boxers and Katia has opted to go naked.
“Do you believe in fate?” She’s lying on her back, my arm beneath her neck.
“Never given it much thought.”
“I never used to give much thought to it either. But when I was curled up in that cellar, I had a lot of time to think and I began to wonder…I don’t know…was it meant to be?”
“Was what meant to be? You getting kidnapped? Sonny getting killed? Me getting raped and tortured by some psychotic bitch and her father? Are you serious right now?”
“Don’t get so defensive, you’re not hearing what I’m saying.”
“Oh, I’m hearing you.”
She sighs and rolls onto her side, tossing an arm across my chest. “What if this was going to happen anyway? What if the universe knew that you were going to lose your family and I was going to lose mine?”
“That shit back there probably wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t met me. If anything, I’ve made your life worse.”
“Maybe that exact scenario wouldn’t have gone down. But these days, everyone suffers. It’s inevitable. I think the universe saw that and brought us together. It knew that we wouldn’t be able to make it alone. It gives me hope. Maybe everything we’ve gone through has been preparing us for what we’ll find in D.C.”
It sounds like nonsense to me. Like the kind of new age nonsense Momma used to preach when she started going to therapy after Dad passed. But, like I did with Momma, I listen. I let Katia have her say. It makes her feel better to add some sort of purpose to all this.
“It’s a nice thought,” is the only response I can manage.
Lightning flashes between the checkered curtains and is soon followed by thunder and rain. Katia grows still and her breathing steadies. Soon she’s snoring, leaving me awake to contemplate my fate as I listen to the growing storm.
28
We spend the next day driving, snacking, and talking about whatever comes to mind.
Sunset is approaching fast.
We’re twenty miles inside of D.C. when the world around us disappears.
Everything turns black; ashes and smoke. The trees are absent branches and leaves; they’re just flaky, narrow spears of wood. Bodies pave the way, charcoal statues that grind down beneath the weight of our tires, no way to tell which was human and which was Rabid; I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.
“This is recent,” Katia says.
There’s still smoke rising around us. It’s not thick and billowing; it’s more like a campfire that’s burned itself out overnight.
“Looks that way.”
Katia clings to her katanas.
“Tell me if you see something.”
With the light fading beyond the horizon, the headlights become our main point of reference. I
slow it down. I drive an S-pattern, cutting thick, white lines through the encroaching night. We follow the trail of dead, rocking in our seats as we trample their brittle bones.
“There, look!” Katia sits forward, folding her arms across the dash. Off to our right, beyond a couple acres of scorched tree line, is a large four-story complex, shaped like a rectangle, made of shiny metal and black glass.
“That’s it, the place we heard about on the radio!” The sign on the building reads, Hothfield Village Complex.
“Where are all the people?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t look good.”
I immediately steer us towards it, dipping the nose of the van down into a shallow ravine and losing the front bumper in the process; I miss the hardiness of the Humvee.
“Don’t drown us right before we make landfall.”
“I’ve got it,” I manage through clenched teeth, ramping us over a fallen tree.
Katia braces herself against the dash to prevent smashing her face. “Bad idea, Tim. Really bad idea. Should have just followed the road in.”
The van is bouncing like it’s on hydraulics. The food, clothes, guns, and ammo are ricocheting against the walls and roof like they’re caught in the spin cycle of the world’s most violent washing machine. With every drop and rise, I’m convinced we’re going to snap an axle. This was a bad idea, Katia is right. But it’s too damn late to turn back now. We’re over halfway there.
We hit the final incline and come down hard in the parking lot. The complex looms above us. We’re still in the middle of the battlefield. The burned and twisted bodies of tanks, jeeps, and troop transports surround us. Huge sections of the parking lot are missing, replaced by deep craters; probably from bombs or missiles. The field of destruction extends right up to the front door.
“What the hell happened here?” Katia pulls the bag of guns from the back.
The Rabid: Fall Page 16
