The Rabid (Book 1)

by J. V. Roberts

  Subjection through horror; that’s the game Vivian is playing. That’s the product she is pushing. Take us out and show us what she can do. Bend our knees by breaking our will. That’s what happened to these bastards. No one wants to be next in line at the pole. It’s easier to worship than rebel. It’s easier to agree than to question. The sheep have their meals spoon fed to them. The wolves have to go out on the prowl. They have to fight. There is one thing I’m certain of, even as that guttural roar sucks the oxygen from my lungs, I’m no sheep.

  The first of the Rabid clear the opening. They trample and shove without regard, like a transient mosh pit. When they are beyond the narrow gate, they break into a full sprint, their clothes nothing more than dirty disintegrating stitches, their skin ashen and sagging from their bones, all shapes and sizes, they move like Olympic runners, like cruise missiles, every sense they possess locked on target.

  “Honey, don’t look,” Momma tries to blindfold Bethany with a shaky hand, wiping tears from her own face with the other.

  “I’m fine, Momma, I’m fine.” Bethany pulls away, watching, unblinking, unwavering, strong, and fitted to the times.

  Ms. Cassie and her daughter explode like water balloons bounced against a brick wall. The impact is unrelenting. Arms go in one direction and legs in another, their torsos are ripped asunder, the sound of crunching bone and the tearing of raw flesh notates the air, a symphony of annihilation.

  Minutes pass.

  Nothing is left.

  The Rabid lick the blood stained dirt like nutrition starved refugees.

  Lee’s head is down, locked between his elbows. I grab the back of one arm, shaking him until he looks at me. “Pull it together, I need you.” I speak softly. Softly enough that Vivian does not hear.

  “Shut it down. Toss one of the old carcasses outside the gate. Lure them out and close it off.” Vivian instructs Dorian.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She turns on me, hands clasped together just beneath her chin, biting her bottom lip with facetious timidity. “So, did you like it, were you impressed?” She bats her lashes, closing the gap between us, one foot in front of the other.

  She’s close enough.

  “No, but you’re about to be.” I pull and raise the pistol and bring the butt end down on the bridge of her nose with every last ounce of force I can muster. The blood and the shock are instant; she falls back, trying to stop up the sudden leak with both hands.

  I turn on the two guards standing at our back. Their reaction time is mercifully slow. Their faces tell the story. They never expected it. Never saw it coming.

  Where the hell did he get a gun?

  I take more time than I should, leveling off my shots. One for each of them. No exit wound. No dramatic explosion of skull and brain, just a small hole from a small caliber round.

  There is a torrent of gunfire. The windows behind us shatter. I put my face in the mud, trying to figure out which direction it’s coming from. Momma throws herself atop Bethany. Lee dances in place, caught in the panic. The crowd around us is screaming, ducking, and running for cover. I roll onto my back, searching for targets, the pistol clutched between the heels of my palms. It’s Dorian, called away from his assigned duty by the ensuing battle. He’s loading another magazine into the undercarriage of his black rifle as I roll up onto my feet.

  “Kill them, the mother and the daughter, kill them now.” Vivian yells, pushing herself to her knees, one hand applying pressure to her busted snout, the other painting a target over my family.

  Dorian takes a knee as I fire. I miss him by more than a few inches. The stock is snug against his left cheek as one eye draws a line straight down the sights, ensuring maximum damage in exchange for the next pull of the trigger. I can’t hit him. Not from here. Not with a pocket pistol. Not with a .380 round. Momma and Bethany are out of my reach as well. Too far away for me to shield them from the blast, huddled in a ball, linked arm and arm. They are about to die. Everything that I’ve been fighting for. Every single piece of myself that I have lost and given away…for this. I’m already grieving them as he pulls the trigger. I whimper, holding out a hand as if I can somehow catch the bullets before they arrive, terrible and everlasting.

  And then there is Lee.

  He is standing over Momma and Bethany, arms outstretched. All three rounds plummet into his torso, just below his rib cage. Blood dribbles from both corners of his mouth, flooding into his throat from the aorta that has just been ripped to shreds by bullets that weren’t meant for him. For a moment, he is frozen, slack jawed, slightly hunched, as if someone simply took the wind out of him. His fall is slow and deliberate; he goes to his butt and then to his back. No words, just his choking and gasping. It’s not heroic. It’s not beautiful. It’s a dreadful ugly thing to behold. His chest inflates once, like a parachute catching a rogue breeze, and then it settles.

  Dorian is up on his feet now. I can’t hit that sonofabitch, but I fire anyway. He jerks to the left, startled by the return volley. I’m next, no doubt, I’m next. If it’s got to be, then it’s got to be. I’ll die fighting. I prepare myself for it, firing two more unsuccessful bullets in his direction. He’s got me. He’s collected his wits. He’s steady on his feet. His finger is coiling over the trigger.

  He vanishes in a dust cloud of automatic gunfire, fifteen rounds tear into and around him. My right ear is ringing as if someone just used it to launch a bottle rocket.

  Bethany stands next to me, panting heavy, clutching a rifle from one of the fallen guards, an eddy of white smoke still dancing on the muzzle. She is dazed, staring down at her hands in disbelief, and then up at the twisted shrapnel ridden body of Dorian sprawled in front of her.

  “You did good,” I shake her by the shoulder. “Hey, you did good, now keep moving. Check the bodies for magazines, we need ammo.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I grab Vivian and pull her up, cradling her windpipe in the crook of my elbow. I jam the pistol into her temple. Her glasses hang comically from the side of her face.

  Momma holds Lee’s lifeless body in her arms. His head wobbles in her grasp as she runs her fingers through his hair, showering his face with kisses, begging him to come back to her. “Not in this place, baby, please, not here, don’t leave me here. I need you, I need you, come back to me.” His blood blends together with her tears, staining her face like war paint. “Oh God, please, no, please.”

  “The race traitor has paid for his sins.” Vivian spouts beneath the swell of my clutches.

  This time I bounce the butt of the pistol off her cheek, shattering her spectacles, and embedding the glass in her face. “Every time you say something that I don’t like, I’m going to hurt you. Is that clear?”

  “You’re going to die—”

  I pop her again, harder this time. Her cheekbone caves. “Is that clear?”

  Her knees give out against the pain. I squeeze tighter, holding her in place. She coughs the hair and blood from her lips, but doesn’t utter another word.

  Message received.

  “Momma, grab a gun. He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do. But Bethany and I, we need you, please, Momma?”

  She looks up at me and shakes her head, her eyes pouring like rain clouds. The optimism that has gotten us all through so much is no longer there. It’s all agony and sorrow now. She shivers and once more conceals his face in the curtain of her hair. She wraps both arms tight around his chest and back, pulling him up to her and rocking him as she lays her face in the hollow of his neck.

  “Timmy, look out!” Bethany is beside me again, rifle raised.

  It’s a small contingent of men from the congregation, some in suits, some in overalls, and suspenders. They don’t carry guns, but there are a few butchers knives and pipes present; one of them swings a butterfly blade open, letting it dangle next to his thigh. They draw confidence from their numbers.

  “Let our Pastor go.”

  The Rabid have begun pounding at the chain link fenc
e to my left.

  “You can have her once we’re clear of this place. Till then, you need to back away.” I dig the barrel harder into her temple, underlining my commitment to violence.

  “Nah, little nigger lover, you’ll let her go now,” He’s wearing a belly hugging V-Neck and a set of patterned suspenders; brown on white. He’s got a straw hat and an unkempt beard. His crystal blue eyes are huddled back in their sockets, gleaming like two tiny diamonds. He marches forward, parting the group like a man that is used to carving his way through life with his girth and a healthy dose of intimidation.

  I meet him mid charge, place the barrel right between his eyes, and pull the trigger. “Anyone else?” I survey the crowd with my weapon, drawing dots over each of them. They shrink away, tucking tail, and disappearing into the night.

  The Rabid grow louder, shaking the chain link, threatening to up heave the cement encased poles rooting it to the earth.

  Vivian laughs. “There is nothing to call them off. You killed Dorian. Now they’ll come through that fence and they’ll kill you.”

  “Yeah, and they’ll kill you too, so laugh it up.”

  She shrugs, wiping at her nose. “I took up this cross ready to die. Did you?”

  I ignore the implication, tighten my grip, and glance over my shoulders for any more stray bullets or battle ready mobs. “Momma, now, please,” I want to drag her to her feet and out the front gate, but I’m not willing to let loose of the only leverage we’ve currently got.

  “Momma, we need you,” Bethany lays the second rifle across Lee’s belly. She hugs Momma from behind, wrapping her arms around her chest.

  Momma curls her hands up around Bethany’s arms, weeping into her shirts sleeves. “Oh my God, oh my God! Why? Why? I don’t understand.”

  Bethany kisses the back of her head. “Shh, it’s okay, just take a deep breath, calm down. Let’s get out of here.” Bethany looks to me for some sort of impartation.

  “We’ve really got to go, we are out of time here.”

  There is a deep metallic grind that echoes from the pool of blackness hovering across the ball field. The poles are bending beneath the weight of the Rabid. The fence is coming down.

  Momma stares out at the noise, and then at us. She pats Bethany on the arms and unlocks her grasp before leaning forward and wiping her nose. She blinks her tears away and kisses Lee one last time, stroking his beard with the back of her hand. Her gaze lingers just long enough to stand and check the magazine. She chambers a fresh round and nods to me.

  We move down the side of the church towards the front parking lot. I lead the way with the pistol, half-dragging Vivian. Her stiletto heels aren’t able to keep the pace and are quickly ripped from her feet by dust and stone. She winces and groans now as my boots trample her toes and the earth shreds the soles of her feet. Momma and Bethany move to the left and right of me, shouldering the automatic weapons of our enemy. Fresh magazines, loaded and ready, protrude from Bethany’s waistband; I pray we don’t need them.

  “Anyone steps in front of us, you put them down hard. Don’t hesitate.” I say as we circle around a buzzing air conditioning unit.

  Momma turns, checking our retreat. “It’s clear behind us.”

  “Clear in front.” Bethany responds.

  We come around the front left corner of the building into the parking lot. There is a black sedan and three church vans. The black sedan’s engine is running, the headlights washing over the front of the building.

  “Take a knee, take a knee,” Momma and Bethany drop down, their sights set on the double mahogany doors. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” I strangle Vivian to the ground, stooping behind her.

  The doors swing open.

  It’s Donny and the other henchman I’d seen dragging Ms. Cassie to her final resting place. They are double teaming a six foot duffle bag out to the black sedan’s open trunk, their weapons slung over their shoulders.

  “Blast em’,” I whisper.

  Momma and Bethany pull without hesitation. The entire rear end of the sedan lights up as if under siege by a string of firecrackers. Donny drops the duffel as his hands spastically swat at the air. He bounces backwards against one of the white church vans and ducks low before pitching himself sideways and taking cover on the driver side of the sedan. The guard that’s with him isn’t so lucky. He takes a baker’s dozen in the back and comes to rest beside the sputtering exhaust pipe.

  “Who the fuck is out there? You shot me goddamnit!”

  “Who do you think it is, genius?” I can see him scooting back against the rear tire.

  “You listen up you little shit…”

  “No, you listen up. You’re it, you’re the last man standing—supreme hombre, you reading me? Your crew is no more. Dorian is now a sad tale they tell little kids to keep them away from meth and religious fanaticism. If you don’t believe me, ask your pastor here.” I lay my lips across the back of Vivian’s ear. “You tell him, you get stupid and you get dead.” I loosen my grip on her throat so she can carry the message.

  “Donny, they’re dead. The people have fled. I am their prisoner. What he says is true.”

  “Concise and to the point, I like it.” She gasps as my grip once more closes across her windpipe. “You heard all that. Now while it sinks in, I have another question, the keys to the vans, where are they?”

  “I’ve got them.”

  “And what’s in the duffle there?”

  “Weapons and supplies.”

  “Good enough. So here’s how it’s going to play. You’re going to toss your weapon out and then I want you to load that duffle into the van, leave the doors open, and the keys on the passenger seat. Then you get your ass back inside that church.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “We’ve got plenty of ammunition, Donny. You can die now or you can die later. Just let me know how you want it.”

  Donny is a little bit smarter than I’d given him credit for. The gun comes spiraling from behind the sedan, scratching against the pavement and coming to rest by the front of the van. His hands come up next, as he stands, slowly, wobbly. A bullet has made a tunnel through the inside part of his thigh. Maybe he’ll bleed to death later. Maybe he won’t. I don’t care. Seeing him bested and bending to my will is enough.

  He unlocks the van, hefts the bag, and deposits the keys on the passenger seat. He stands there, looking out at us as if he’s got something to say, some smart ass remark or vow of vengeance meant to alleviate a little of the sting inherent in the walk of shame. Whether it’s the unblinking rifle barrels staring back at him, or the sight of Vivian in my grasp, he turns and walks back inside the church; quietly.

  “Okay, let’s hustle; they’ve got to be coming over the gates by now.”

  We rush for the van. Vivian falls hard to her knees. I move to reclaim her, but the encroaching gurgle and growl just beyond the corner of the building compels me against it.

  Momma and Bethany hurtle into the back as I retrieve the keys and slide across to the driver seat. As I crank the engine, I glance over to see Vivian on her feet. One side of her face looks like a pomegranate. Deep gashes stripe both of her knees. She turns circles, trying to find the best line of retreat.

  There isn’t one.

  I shift into reverse and tear through the front gates.

  The final thing I see before cutting a U-turn, is Vivian standing in the middle of the parking lot, arms outstretched, a monster trying to reason with monsters.

  32

  Momma lost it when we left the church. Completely. Bugnuts crazy. Batshit insane. Whatever they call it, that's what she was. The last scraps of her sanity had been blowing in the breeze during those few precious moments she'd helped us escape. Once that was out of the way, she made no further attempt at hanging on. She'd thrown down the rifle and started beating her head against the window and slapping her face. The depth and intensity of her hysterics had almost caused me to take us right off the road. Bethany scuffled with her and l
atched on. Bethany was crying too. She cried out of fear more than anything. Neither of us were used to seeing Momma like this. I had to find a place for us to hunker down. We couldn't stay out on the road. Not with Momma like this.

  “Hopefully, this will do.” I say as I pull up and park us on the steep mountain slope of a driveway, popping the emergency brake just to be safe.

  It’s an indistinct house on an indistinct block twenty exits down from where we left Lee’s body. I clear the living room, the attached kitchen, the two bedrooms, and the rest of the nooks and crannies, while Bethany waits outside in the van with Momma. Pictures of the middle class conservative looking former inhabitants still hang snuggly over the flat panel television set. Pots and pans still hang in a neat little line, smallest to largest, over the four-burner stove. Spices, table placards, fake flower arrangements, and a metal receipt spike stacked with numerical testimonies of a years-worth of doctor visits sit undisturbed around the quaint living space. The garage is pretty much empty except for a dusty single engine boat and a table saw with a knee high red tool chest sitting beside it. My guess is that the mother with short black curls, the father with a patchy goatee, and their son with his baby fat cheeks and his easy-to-make-fun-of slicked over hair-do, weren’t home when the world went to hell. They were most likely at their jobs, and at school. Maybe they'd become victims. Hopefully, survivors. But most likely, they were a little bit of both. Gaining a little and losing a little, just like the rest of us. In these times, in this specific time, their loss is our gain.

  Bethany carries Momma through the front door, an arm around her waist, using the other to keep her balance on a nearby wall.

  “It’s clear; checked every corner and closet. They’ve got some food we can use and some bottled water.”

  Bethany readjusts her weight. Momma’s head sags, lolling back and forth with the movement. “Okay, do you think I should just set her in the master bedroom?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry, let me help you.” I get under Momma’s other arm, standing her up straight.