The Rabid (Book 1)

by J. V. Roberts

  The guard is back, whistling a tune like the one I’d heard Vivian humming earlier. His focus wavers on Lee a little longer than the rest of us, but he continues on without kicking our cages or hurling further profane sentiments.

  An omen of things to come? One can only hope—and wait.

  31

  At this angle, sitting upright without a boot buried in my jaw, the sanctuary is actually quite striking. The walls to my left and right are made up of long pieces of stained glass dyed in various shades of purple, green, and pink. Each new pane is divided by floor to ceiling pillars that flower outward at the top and connect with a series of thick rectangular beams, each one supporting three large black speakers pointed down towards the audience. The aisle-facing portion of each pew is hand carved with scripture and floral design work. Each appears to have been recently and painstakingly polished; the dark mahogany blooms beneath the three-tiered chandeliers hanging overhead.

  The mirage is shattered, as Ms. Cassie and her daughter are forced to their knees in front of the altar by a couple of cackling hillbilly types dressed in collared shirts and the sort of cheap bargain bin jeans that sag in the ass. The women are bound and gagged and are made to face outward over the sea of pale faces. Their eyes are closed and their mouths appear to be moving in prayer beneath the layer of thick cloth stuffed between their lips. The two burly escorts take a seat in one of the front pews, quickly forgetting their cargo, and engaging in animated conversation with one another.

  Security is tight, as I’d anticipated it would be. An armed man stands at the front of the sanctuary guarding a single exit door. Two more stand at the back guarding the main entrance. We sit in the middle of the crowd, under their watchful eye. The good news is, they’ve unbound our hands and our feet. The bad news is, they’ve separated us; Lee and I on one side of the aisle, Bethany and Momma on the other. The only way I am getting that gun is if Bethany hurls it to me like a football. We’d be cut down like chaff before my finger even breezed the trigger; the plan is a no go.

  We’ll figure something else out.

  We have to figure something else out.

  I didn’t expect this many people. There are dozens of survivors here. It’s a shame that all of them are fringe radicals. The pews are packed. People of all shapes and all sizes have come out to see the show. It's a family affair. There are men wearing neck ties and dark blazers, their sons in little button downs with sweater vests pulled over top, the women with their just-so makeup and their gravity defying hair do’s. They sit there, loving on each other, patting their little ones on the head; to them, it’s just another Sunday.

  A side door opens. It’s Vivian, with Dorian and Donny at her back acting as her personal guard. She’s wearing a blazer over her white blouse to match her just-above-the-knees black skirt. She lugs a heavy Bible under her right arm, the pages rife with sticky notes and extraneous study materials. The congregation stands upon her arrival, everyone except the four of us. I expect a rifle butt in the back of the head in return for my open rebellion, I watch for it out of the corners of my eyes.

  It never comes.

  Either they don’t notice, or they don’t care. Maybe they expected as much. Maybe they've got something terrible planned for us and figure there is no use in wasting the energy to rough us up a little more.

  “You may be seated, children of the first born.” She lowers a hand across the crowd as she takes her place behind the pulpit and relinquishes her Bible. She opens the cover and begins shuffling through the pages, stopping suddenly, and looking out across her flock. She smiles, the same sugar & spice type smile I witnessed earlier as she was pressing a revolver to Lee’s skull. “Yes, Yahweh, yes.” She shakes her head and turns dutifully to the cross at her back, raising her hands as high as they’ll go. “Speak to me, Father, and I will speak to them.” She rocks back and forth like one of those tube dancer balloons used by car dealerships and desperate strip malls.

  “Yes, Father, speak to us.”

  “In your name, Jesus.”

  Folks are standing, mimicking her movements, their hands raised, some cry, others shake, some chatter in a strange language I’ve never heard before.

  Ms. Cassie and her daughter cry and chatter as well; out of fear rather than fanaticism.

  Vivian springs back around, landing with a loud thump on the stage, her eyes are wide, as if she’s been spooked by some unseen force. She slams a fist down on the pulpit so hard that it sends her Bible and notes plummeting to the floor. “The Philistines are coming!”

  “Amen!”

  “Preach it!”

  “Hard truths!”

  “I said, the Philistines are coming!” Dorian is on his hands and knees, doing his damndest to keep his rifle shouldered while he collects Vivian’s scattered notes. “In fact, they’re already here. They’re pounding at the gates. The survivors, they have fled in fear. The shutters have been closed. The doors have been locked. The streets are littered with the bodies of our people; our loved ones, mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons. Our fields, they burn, our storehouses, they lay empty. Our way of life has been flayed open and left exposed for these invaders to pick apart. But all is not lost.”

  “Amen!”

  “That’s right!”

  “I said, all is not lost!” This time she is careful to hold her Bible in place with one hand while she batters the pulpit.

  “Thank you, Jesus!”

  “Praise His holy name!”

  “Do you know where the final line of defense lay? Do you know what makes up that final line of defense?” She jabs a finger into the center of her breasts and then waves it out over the crowd like a wand. “Us, this room, me, you, all of us, we make up that final line. God doesn’t care how old or young you are, he doesn’t care if you’re male or if you’re female, we’re his chosen. Look at your neighbor right now and you tell them, you’re his chosen, go on, do that right now.”

  Lee is leaning into me, whispering, and his breath stinking of dried blood. “This is bad, Two-Step; this is not a church service. This is the riling of a mob.”

  He’s right. It’s in the air.

  An electricity.

  They remind me of a chained Doberman lunging for a slab of dangling meat. Any minute the collars will break, and then what of Ms. Cassie and her daughter? What of us?

  “How many of you know that being chosen doesn’t mean anything? You can be chosen all day long, but if you don’t get out there and do something about it, then you’re no different than those who were not chosen. Just because you are destined, doesn’t mean you reach your destiny.”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s right.”

  She pivots from behind the pulpit, moving down one step. “Let me say it a different way.” She bends over with her hands on her knees, getting eye level with the frenzied flock. “You’ve been chosen, and you can choose to roll over, like the rest of the nigger lovers, and let the descendants of Cain run pell-mell over these streets, this city, this state, and this country. Or, you can stand up as children of Adam, chosen by Yahweh, and cast the soldiers of Satan back into the pit of hell from whence they came.”

  “Kill em’ all!”

  “Lynch those niggers!” He has a bow tie and a bushy goatee. He stands waving his fist while his son sits down beside him flipping through a dark blue hymnal with the crowned cross emblazoned across the front. His wife is opposite the child and is running a handkerchief in circles above her head, tears falling from her eyes.

  “Two-Step, they’re gonna kill them. If we don’t do something, they’re going to kill them. Then what the hell was all this for? What’d we even save them for?” His face is one giant bruise, the swelling is almost cartoonish, incapable of betraying emotion, however, his voice more than carries the extra load.

  I don’t physically acknowledge him. I remain still. No need to attract unwanted attention. “Tell me something I don’t know, chief. You think I’m not painfully aware of what’s about to ha
ppen. We’re back at the wood line again, Lee. It’s the red car, the woman, and the baby all over again.”

  “No, no, I refuse to accept that.”

  “There are two guys standing behind you at the door and a few more up front that are more than happy to help you accept that.”

  Vivian has an elbow propped on the pulpit, waiting for the cheers and jeers to die down to a low roar before she continues. “We compromised didn’t we?” She removes her glasses and lays them on her Bible, rubbing at her eyes with a thumb and a forefinger. She takes another step down and walks over to where Ms. Cassie and her daughter kneel before the congregation, placing a hand on each one of their heads. “We brought them over as slaves, a rightful position within our society considering from whence they sprang. But then what? All it took were a few. A few double minded nigger sympathizers are all it took. We ended up with the thirteenth amendment and it just snowballed from there.” Her hands turn into fists. Ms. Cassie and her daughter cry out as Vivian strains their scalps. Lee springs forward. His body is a stick of dynamite. His arms rigid at his sides. His knuckles are white from where he grips the bottom of the pew. I drop a hand on his knee and shake my head, hoping it’ll be enough to disarm the timer. “We got the mixing of blood and thereby we bolstered the numbers of their mongrel army. We got nigger music, niggers controlling our media, and brainwashing our children. People, we even got a nigger in the white house. How long did you think He was going to allow this to continue?”

  Disjointed claps fill the air.

  “Preach—Preach!”

  Shaking heads.

  Delusional conviction.

  The window of opportunity is growing smaller.

  The collars are growing looser.

  “If it’d have been me,” she releases them, wipes her hands on Ms. Cassies dress, and approaches the mouth of the aisle. “I’d have just killed everyone and started again. I guess that’s why I’m not God.”

  Laughter fills the air, even the little ones join in on the act; chuckling to their parents approval.

  “The Aztecs and the Mayans—mongrels in every respect—were on to something. They understood something that has been lost upon us as a nation. They knew that a slight against the Lord, could only be amended through the shedding of blood. Here we stand, as they once did, our people teetering on the brink of extinction. Shall we perish?” She walks back up the stairs and retrieves something from beneath the pulpit that I am unable to identify. “Or, shall we bring to pass the prophecy of Daniel and create an everlasting kingdom that shall never be destroyed.” She holds up the mystery object. It reflects the light like a freshly shined shoe, a silver surgical scalpel. “Blood is the price demanded by Yahweh. I say to you this day, he who puts his hand to the plow and looks back, is not fit to enter the kingdom of heaven.” She approaches Ms. Cassie, slowly, making a show of it, twirling the savage little object between two fingers like the worlds tiniest baton. “Brothers and sisters, join me.” She slashes her face in one swift diagonal motion. Vivian holds the blade, the tip now adorned in crimson, high above her head. She is greeted by a round of thunderous applause.

  “Goddamnit, you crazy bitch!” Lee charges past me and is in the aisle before I can move to dissuade him. He is taken to the floor mid stride. The guard pulls him to his feet, pinning his arms by his side. He is being drug towards the entrance. Momma is turned in her seat, gripping the back of her pew, sobbing and begging for his release.

  “Stop,” Vivian’s voice echoes above the commotion. Her eyes flicker as she draws her tongue across her lips. “Make him stay and watch. Hold him there. If he moves again, shoot the mother and daughter.”

  Momma turns back around in haste, a rifle barrel now aimed at the back of her head. She shuts her eyes, sniffling as she rocks Bethany in her arms. Lee’s knees are popped from beneath him by the swift kick of a black boot heel. Every face in the crowd watches the spectacle wordlessly.

  Except for me.“Don’t you move again, Lee, you hear me? Don’t you move again!” I yell, my voice now a high screech.

  Vivian recaptures her audience with the next cut, this time it’s across Cassie’s collar bone. She squeals. The gag in her mouth is saturated with the blood cascading from the deep gash sprawling across the right side of her face. Her daughter is bucking her restraints, her eyeballs bulging in their sockets, trying to put herself between her mother and the scalpel. She tumbles onto her side, her antics drawing a chorus of broken laughter.

  “Join me,” Vivian holds the scalpel out to no one and everyone.

  Slowly the crowd stands; man, woman, and child. The children are prodded forward. Most of them recoil against the blood and the struggle, caving to that part of their soul that still protests the sight of human suffering. Some of the boys grow watery eyed, looking for their fathers to absolve them and let them turn back.

  They are ignored.

  They are pushed along.

  Some violently.

  “Stiffen that upper lip,” the man is shaped like a bowling pin. He draws the back of his hand across his son’s face. The son, a shorter less shapely version of his father, shudders as the red welts rise against the pale flesh of his right cheek. He tempers his emotion by gnawing on his fists and hiding at his mother’s waist, as they draw ever closer to the altar.

  Vivian peels away Ms. Cassie’s dress, exposing her naked chest and torso. One by one, they lash at her body, passing the razor from bloody hand to bloody hand. They cut her down like a tree. She withers slowly. The blood pours from countless incisions. Melding together and forming a liquid cloak. Vivian stands back, raising her hands towards the ceiling. The murmur of prayer fills the air, serving as the soundtrack of their butchery. Ms. Cassie disappears beneath the push of the mob, falling to her side, unconscious. They huddle over her. Bending and bowing, stabbing and slicing.

  Lee kneels in the aisle, shaking with grief. Bethany looks to me, motioning to the pistol at her waist.

  I shake my head.

  This is not the moment. Not yet. We move we die. They expect it.

  We wait.

  Ten minutes pass.

  Vivian rises once more behind the pulpit, pleased with herself. “It does my faith good to see so many willing to separate sword from sheath. Now, let’s get these mongrels to the poles.”

  “To the poles!” They echo with a familiar unity.

  How many have suffered at their hands? How much blood runs through the foundation of this building?

  It burns deep inside of me. I want to kill them all. Slow. Deliberate. I want to feel their blood stop in their veins beneath the weight of my grasp.

  Ms. Cassie appears among the mob, her face and body slashed to ribbons. She is barely breathing. She clutches desperately to life. Dorian and another guard boost her dead weight and begin dragging her out the side door. Donny follows with the daughter in tow, yanking her by her hair, grinning that black toothed grin.

  I'll wipe it from his face.

  “Bring our guests,” Vivian calls after the crowd has filed out. “Any semblance of aggression, kill them, the mother and daughter first.”

  The guards by the entrance usher us up the aisle with their muzzles, as Vivian rushes out before us to join the spectacle.

  Bethany is next to me. We are out front. Lee and Momma are walking directly at our backs, obscuring the view of our custodians. I squeeze in close and tap her with my foot, she moves quickly, dropping the deceptively heavy pocket piece in the center of my palm. I place it beneath my shirt and keep pace for the exit.

  Outside, the flock has gathered around the perimeter of the baseball diamonds twelve foot high chain link fence. The three guards are just exiting the field and locking the dugout gate. Ms. Cassie and her daughter stand tied to a set of poles positioned just behind the pitcher’s mound. A rectangle opening has been cut in the outfield portion of the gate, a portal for the Rabid. I glance around and notice there is prison yard style fencing running the perimeter of the church grounds, complete
with razor wire and floodlights; this place is a fortress.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Vivian stands to my right, her hip cocked, her arms crossed. She watches as Ms. Cassie’s daughter pulls against the solid steel pole, banging her head, her mouth gagged, and her eyes bleeding desperation. There is no budge. There is no answer. The slaughter house doors are sealed shut.

  “If by impressive you mean a disgrace to the whole of the human race, then yes.”

  She laughs that deceptively girlish laugh. “Even now, after what you’ve seen, you’re defiant. You and your people will kneel before this night is through, that I can assure you of.”

  “You may kill me, but I can promise you there will be no kneeling.”

  “We’ll see,” She glances sideways at me and winks. “Ladies and gentleman, what you are about to witness is not only a sacrifice to our Lord, but it is a stone in the foundation of our future kingdom here on earth. Hit the lights.”

  There is a small crash, like thunder, and a dull hum as Dorian yanks the lever on an electric box attached to one of the four light poles surrounding the perimeter of the field. The floodlights fade in slowly. The intensity of the illumination growing with each passing minute, like silver flowers blooming across the face of a midnight prairie. A familiar roar bounds across the shadow of forest carpeting the territory beyond the outfield fence.

  “No way…no way; this is crazy.” Lee’s hands are in his hair, his head turning between the women and the quaking woods.

  They know where they are fed. I should be shocked. I should be surprised at the madness of this entire arrangement. I should feel some sort of trepidation about what is about to occur. I should be gnashing and waving my fists, succumbing to the rage that accompanies helplessness.

  Now isn’t the time. Later. Later, there will be time to chew it over.

  Right now, I must look for the moment. My moment. Our moment.