“Oh you,” She gives him a lighthearted swat across the chest with a paper plate. “Lee, this one here’s a charmer. Just give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have your food right up.”
“No rush, Deb, I got some stuff in the truck that needs unloadin’ anyhow.”
After the back door pulls shut, the switch turns and the wings disappear. “Alright, you two queers, outside. Got some stuff to unload that’s gonna help keep yer hind quarters outta the furnace.”
***
“I tell ya, those hot plates in there, like a fuckin' mirage in the fuckin' desert.” Bo hocks another black slug over the edge of the porch. We lag a good distance behind, loathing the prospect of his company. “Been livin’ off beef jerky and soda pop for the past three hundred miles.” He’d backed his truck up the driveway, parking at a slight angle behind Lee’s van. “You see how I parked Lee? How I got my front bumper pointed in the direction I want to make my escape in? Survival 101, brother. I wonder sometimes how you made it out of the goddamn womb.”
Lee is all defeated, like a deflated balloon. He stares into the sky, into the treetops, anything to avoid eye contact with Bo, or maybe it’s me he’s trying to avoid eye contact with? He’d gotten dressed down, repeatedly now, in front of his girlfriend’s kid. It has to make a man feel small. Momma and daddy never yelled at me much, only one time in particular that I can recall. I remember Bethany standing there in the living room while they sat me down in the kitchen and took turns scolding me. I could have taken the scolding all day every day, but with Bethany standing there, witnessing the dismantling of her big brother—it was a moment of shame. The tops of my ears had burned hot, my throat had clenched up, and I’d wanted to curl up inside of myself. That’s how I imagine Lee is feeling.
Bo is right though. Not with the whole Lee making it out of womb comment; that was unnecessary. But his strategy, backing the truck down the drive, that is some smart thinking. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like the guy, but he seems to know a thing or two about surviving.
“Hey, Lee, it’s alright man.” I offer quietly, giving him a gentle pat on the back.
Hang in there champ.
Bo picks up my utterance of support. “No, kid, it’s not alright. It’s the nitty gritty. Now I know I’m kind of a shit. Lee here, he knows I’m kind of a shit, so I’m not sure where this hurt feelings routine is comin’ from. But, be that as it may, these are harsh times, and they call for harsh men. So, if you two would like to survive, I suggest you sack up right here and now.” He stares at us expectantly, his eyes pacing back and forth between our faces, obviously waiting for a response, but neither of us knows what to say. “Okay, let me put it to you a different way, if you want those two fine pieces of ass in there to survive, sack up.”
Now I have something to say. “Mister, you speak like that about my momma or sister one more time and I’m coming at you. You may find yourself on top, seeing as how you’ve got the gun, but I’ll chance it.”
“And I’ll be right there with him.” Lee adds, without hesitation.
Bo howls, clapping his hands. “That’s the spirit fellas.” Satisfied with his work, Bo hefts his considerable frame into the bed of the pickup and surveys us from amid the small cluster of multi colored duffle bags he’s compiled.
The high-pitched break in Lee’s voice catches my attention. “Geez, who’d you piss off?” Lee is standing at the right rear quarter panel, tongue wagging at something just out of view.
“Oh yeah, almost forgot all about that, those boys came a cunt hair away from nailin’ my gas tank. Messed myself a little there, not gon’ lie.”
I lean around to take a closer look. A line of jagged pockmarks rise and fall across the rear end of the dark brown Chevy like a heart monitor readout, skating the gas cap and back tire by centimeters. “Those things are carrying guns now?” I ask, digging my finger into one of the razor sharp burrows.
“Wait? What? No, no, Two-Trot…”
“It’s Two-Step.”
“Two-Step, Two-Trot, Two-Shits…they ain’t carryin’ guns, decrepit fucks can barely work a door handle, never mind an M4. No, no, this was the work of a couple shell-shocked weekend warriors. It was a military checkpoint just over the state line, most of em’ have been ransacked and abandoned to my knowledge, but I guess these two fellas were hangin’ in there, and makin’ it a point to shoot everything that moved.”
“You shoot back?” I accept the duffle he hands down and lug it to the front porch; guns, definitely, long guns.
“Course not, not gonna shoot a fellow soldier lest I got to. Just employed some basic evasive maneuvers, and cemented the gas pedal. No use cryin’ over chipped paint.” He drops a bag into Lees waiting arms.
“Did you see any of the Rabid on the way down?” I ask.
“Rabid. Flesh Eaters. The Infected. Titles don’t matter. They’re mindless drones, all marchin’ to the beat of a single drum, like most of the liberals I know.” Lee gives a sarcastic, ha, ha. “The flesh eatin’, that’s just the tail end of it. But yeah, I saw a couple of em’ on the road, takin’ their meals and scufflin’ along like they do.”
“Yeah, until they catch your scent, then they turn into track stars.”
Bo nods, confirming he’d witnessed this as well. “So how long ya’ll been without power?” Bo asks.
“Couple days now,” I answer, squinting up at him.
“You see any lights during the drive over?” Lee asks, joining me by the tailgate.
“It’s spotty. Some got it, some don’t. It’s smaller towns mostly. Probably livin’ on a couple generators and whatever gasoline they got left. It’s only a matter of time till everyone goes dark.”
“You think so? You think this is permanent?” Two duffels this time, secured with the bottom of my chin. They are lighter, maybe a couple bedrolls and some miscellaneous supplies.
Bo stops to catch his breath, fastening his hands above his head. The sweat leaks from the furrows in his brow and nestles beneath the shelter of his scraggly beard. “I know so kid, I know so.” He exhales deeply. “Ain’t no government boys comin’ to pick us up and dust us off, no siree bob, not this time around. Why? Where’s the congress? Where’s Uncle Sam when we actually need him? Aside from Washington being the housing authority to a bunch of slimy incompetent degenerates, there is also the matter of this whole thing bein' an internal attack on the citizenry of these United States.”
Lee shakes his head as he grabs another duffle from the open tailgate. “Look out, Two-Step, here comes the bullshit.”
“Just cause you’ve been on your knees takin’ it in the mouth from the FED since you dawned your first pube don’t mean you gotta let em’ finish in your eyes, wake up, brother.” He catches his breath and drops another bag down on me, the second to last one, more guns. “We got boys, or had boys I should say, located in every corner of the country; Washington, California, Florida, New-York, chapters spread out all over the place. We got radio dispatches, almost at the exact same time, from all of em’, lettin’ us know this was goin’ down in their neck of the woods.” He pauses, for effect or necessity, I can’t tell. He goes to his knees, the worn out shocks buckling beneath him. “Same time, on the dot, all four corners of the country.” He snaps his fingers across the tips of our noses and we both flinch. “Just like that. You’re gonna try to tell me that was just some co-inky-dink? Nah, someone folded us in ourselves, rolled us up like a dirty magazine. Our government, someone else’s government, guess it don’t much matter at this point. Don’t be a fool though, and make believe like this was just some random virus or mutation or whatever-the-hell. This is war fellas. Only question that remains is, are you ready to fight it?” He scoots the final duffle over with his foot and Lee props it over his shoulder and makes for the porch, absent a response. “Remember what I said, kid.” He drops a hand on my shoulder as he leaps from the truck and takes considerable effort to slam the rickety tailgate back in place.
Lee is sitting on the
top step among the small ocean of black duffle bags. “So, now what?” He asks, leaning back on his elbows.
“Now we unpack. We get organized. We draw up a plan of action. We carry it out. We survive.”
“Simple enough,” I nod in agreement.
“Simple enough?” Bo lobs my words right back at me. “You know, we had a squad mate that would say that exact same thing, almost to the syllable, before we’d go out on a mission. He got his head blown off during Operation Hickory, skull all emptied out, shit his pants, closed casket funeral, the whole nine yards.” Bo uses his tongue to pull the ball of chew from his cheek before he spits it out onto the grass and wipes the black dribble from his bottom lip with a shirtsleeve. “Ain’t a goddamn thing simple about survivin’ kid, not a goddamn thing.”
16
Bo has removed the top layer of camo. He’s pacing back and forth in front of us, his hands on his hips, framing his belly with a sense of pride. His forest green short-sleeved shirt is tucked behind an identically colored canvas belt, and is stretched to its absolute breaking point. “What do we know about our enemy?” He rattles off, ever the drill sergeant, eyeing us with an expectant intensity.
We sit before him studiously, for the most part at least. I slouch a bit, my neck tucked back in the cushion. I am not disinterested exactly, but I dislike Bo enough to refuse him my rapt attention.
“Well…they’re pretty fast…” Bethany trails off nervously.
“Very good, sugar pie, they are plenty speedy.” He stops pacing long enough to pat her head and give her a wink.
“They have a taste for human flesh.” It sounds more like a question than it does a statement, thanks to the waddle in Lee’s voice.
“Yes, thank you, little brother, also, the sky is blue, trees are green, and light beer tastes like horse piss.”
“They don’t feel any pain.” I assert, trying to spare Lee any lingering humiliation.
“Come again,” Bo turns a sarcastic ear my way, one hand on his holster.
“The Rabid, they don’t feel any pain, at least not like we do.”
“And you came about this revelation how?”
“Umm, because we've dealt with them hands on, we've seen it with our own two eyes.” Bethany shakes her head as if it should be obvious.
“That a fact?” He gives Bethany one of his patronizing grins.
“More or less,” I continue unabated. “I put a broom handle through the neck of one, and left it lodged in the heart of another. Saw one run itself straight through a wall and then brush the dust off like it was sliding into home plate at a softball game. The nerves are dead. That’s my conclusion on it anyway. I think, maybe, that’s part of why we’ve got to destroy the brain to stop them, because they don’t register anything else and shutting down the brain doesn’t really give them a choice.”
“Not bad, Two-Hop, maybe there’s more to ya than I thought. That’s the answer I was lookin’ for by the way, ya gotta hit the brain.”
He is about to continue his boisterous pep talk when I intervene once more. “They can communicate too…I think.” I pause when he locks his arms across his chest, taking obvious displeasure at having to share the stage.
He beckons me on with a two-fingered roll of his hand. “Ya might as well finish.”
“Back at the school, the one that was chasing Bethany and me, he stopped, and let out this lion type growl, and the Rabid just came pouring in on us.” Bethany bobs her head, confirming my story. “It was like he was pin pointing our position for the pack.”
“The pack, well, that’s an interesting theory, kid.” Bo belches dismissively.
“No, no, hang on.” Lee sits forward, braving the storm once more. “There’s something to that. Last night, we saw the same thing. These things may be brain dead, but they’re working together as a cohesive unit. They were getting after this poor woman, each one of them played a role; each one took a different side of the vehicle, a different window. They weren’t tripping over each other; they were dialed in, very methodical.”
“Yep, exactly,” I agree.
“These theories are great and all, but we ain’t got Jack or Jill to cement em’ down with. Maybe they are immune to pain, maybe they can communicate in their own language, but all we know for sure, folks, is that if you don’t hit em’ in the head, you may as well not hit em’ at all. So, let’s worry about that, that I got the tools for. Let’s leave the science to the scientists, if there are any left.” He spends the next ten minutes spreading a small armory across the living room carpet. He matches up rifles and handguns side by side.
Black and grey.
Brown and silver.
Rugged and terrifying.
He takes great care, stacking extra magazines of ammunition behind each pairing. “How many of ya’ll have fired a gun before, I know you haven’t, Jane Fonda, so don’t even bother replyin’.” He refers to Lee. “But what about the rest of ya?” He is perched behind his line o’ death flipping a curved magazine of copper tipped bullets between his hands.
I shrug and shake my head.
“None of ya’ll?” He asks in disbelief.
“I had a BB gun when I was little,” I say.
“Ya’ll live in the woods for cryin’ out loud, and you’re dressed like you just fell off a wagon train.” He points the magazine at me.
“We were always an artsy-crafty board games and a movie time sort of family.” Momma smiles and kisses Bethany on the cheek.
Bo taps the magazine against his forehead. “I got my work cut out for me.”
He spends the next hour assigning us two different weapons apiece, a rifle and a handgun, or what he calls our primary and our secondary. “Ladies, this is a GSG5. It fires a .22 round, so there is lil’ to no kick, we don’t wanna tweak them dainty little shoulders after all. Twenty in the mag, one in the pipe, it’ll pop as fast as you can pull the trigger, but we don’t want fast, we want accurate. It’s not about power, you just gotta inject one in the brain. Now, these got a shorter barrel on em' so they're not gonna be as accurate as a long barrel rifle would be, aim for the nose, or the eye, give yourself some wiggle room on the shots.” Momma and Bethany turn the compact weapons over in their hands, stroking the black matte finish on the butt and barrel, and staring at their warped reflections in the chrome body, while Bo digs around in a deflated duffel bag. “And here we go. This is a magazine belt. Your spare ammo goes in here; keep it on ya or next to ya, you go dry and this becomes your best friend. What ya see there is all ya got, so like I said, easy on the trigger.”
“Bethany, sweetie, keep that end away from your face.” Momma prods the barrel towards the floor.
“Listen to your momma, girlie, it ain’t loaded, but it’s never too early to start practicin’ firearm etiquette. Don’t point at what ya ain’t intendin’to kill, especially yer'self.” He laughs and slaps the side of her knee. “And here are your secondary companions; two mostly brand spankin’ new P-32s, courtesy of the Alabama state police.” He holds them out like candy on Halloween. They have rubber handles and nickel-plated slides.
“How’d you come by them?” Lee asks, watching the girls accept their new toys with mutual apprehension.
“Let’s just say the local blue boys were frequent guests at our unit poker night.”
“Law enforcement, gambling away the weapons they are supposed to ‘serve and protect’ with, it’s a wonder we don’t have more faith in the system.”
“Oh, save the sermon, Gandhi, they’re throw-down pieces.” Bo picks up the black rifle by his right foot. “I got something a little sexier for you fellas. M4 battle rifles, yes, I said battle rifles, not assault rifles. Don’t make the mistake. Assault rifle is a term coined by commie liberals to describe big scary guns that they can't quite wrap their pea brains around. As ya’ll can see here, ya got yourself a red dot sight, does all the hard work for ya. And yes, I was nice enough to get ya’ll an ammo belt as well. Thirty rounds in the mag, one in the pipe, as I told
the girls, use sparingly, aim carefully; just keep the selector switch on semi and you’re set. Good news is, the 5.56 round is pretty soft, it don’t kick too bad, so your delicate frames should be able to handle it as well. Don’t let em’ tell ya Uncle Bo ain’t a nice guy.”
He scrubs my head.
I want to punch him.
For our secondary pieces, he gives Lee a .38 special and me a Glock 19.
I definitely prefer my piece.
We spend the remaining daylight hours performing dry runs through the living room and into the foyer. We practice fanning our fields of fire. We are each given specific zones to cover, not unlike slicing up a pie. Bethany and I take the top half. Lee comes in behind us and takes the bottom half, leaving momma to scoop up the crumbs. “Two-Hop, window to piano. Bethany, window to mantle. Lee, you stay on their six and keep on a pivot.”
“What am I doing?” Momma asks.
“You’re runnin’ point, callin’ out what you see, anything they might miss.”
Then we switch positions. Rinse and repeat. After an hour of weapon maneuvers, we move into hand-to-hand techniques, nothing fancy, just basic attack and defense strategies.
“You ain’t always gonna have ammo. I can assure you that most of your gun stores are weeded through and cleaned out, so there may come a time where ya'll got to get primal about your survival. You might also wanna keep it stealthy when possible, since these things are attracted to sound. There’s a trench tool in the bag with a blade on it that’ll cut steel. It’s nice to have around, but your immediate offense and defense weapon when it comes to smashing heads, is gonna be the butt of your firearm. Make sure that your finger is off the trigger, otherwise, you run the risk of slippin’ and blowin your head off your shoulders, and I think we can all agree that would be a stupid way to die. You boys, be extra careful, those babies can still go bang even if you're not touching the trigger and you hit something hard enough.”
The Rabid (Book 1) Page 8
