The Rabid (Book 1)

by J. V. Roberts

  “Deal.”

  I bound quietly to the cover of the three dumpsters lined up caddy corner from the police precinct; they form an awkward black on green half circle of metal and muck. Years of rotten trash have left their mark across the tarnished metal, seeping into the pores, forming an everlasting cloud of stink that overwhelms me. The rocks at my feet are dyed black and brown from the rivers of rainwater that have run through the rubbish sieve. I hold my breath, blink the gag induced moisture from my eyes, and persist onward. Through the rusted seams, I spy the small mob; their single-minded persistence is kept afloat by the incessant call for help sounding on the other side of the walls.

  At the last dumpster, I crouch with my back against the surface. Bethany is knelt down using the driver side door as cover. Even from here, I can see her shaking. Her shots won’t be steady; she’ll most likely hit every damn thing except for the Rabid. The poor bastard inside will be lucky if he doesn’t catch a round in the face. It’s the best option though. There’s a survivor. Someone that can potentially help us, maybe point us in a more fruitful direction. Food. Ammo. Fortified shelter. These are opportunities worth risking it on.

  Bethany looks to me with an expression of hope lining the corners of her mouth and raising her eyebrows. Hope that perhaps I’ve realized what a stupid idea this is. Hope that I’ll creep back to the van and we’ll put our guns away. Hope that we’ll find a building somewhere that doesn’t have a mob of angry ghouls pounding away at the back door.

  I hate to disappoint.

  I give her the nod, roll around the dumpster, take up sights on the decaying scalp closest to me, and I fire. It’s a direct hit. Blood and tissue spray the crowd like the remnants of a wave smashing against a wall of rocks. Again and again I squeeze the trigger and control the recoil, three go down, and then four, puddles of carnage splashing against the wall and door. Bethany fires in double-digit bursts. Her shots peck and smash the brick and glass, a few hit the chests and legs of our targets, pushing them back and giving me extra time to line up for the kill. The rectangle window above the door takes a shot from her, pouring glass down on the heads of our would-be reapers. It’s over in less than ten seconds. None of them make it off the bottom step.

  Smoke still rises from the pockmarks in the mortar as we approach the scene.

  “Help me! Whoever is out there, help me!” It’s a man’s voice. He’s made it through the barrage of bullets and shrapnel.

  I move up the steps, kicking aside the arms and legs of the leaking cadavers. I put my cheek to the door. “Hang on; we’ll be in to get you.”

  “Help me!” He calls again.

  “This guy is freakin’ out. You stay here and cover the area. I’m going to run around front to try to find a way in.” I pull a fresh magazine from my back pocket, switching it out with the half empty one. “You good on ammo?”

  She nods quickly, still eyeing the bodies at our feet.

  “Bethany, you got this?”

  “I’ve got it, Tim, go before more show up.”

  “Alright, you yell if you need me.”

  I hesitate at the corner of the police precinct before turning into a grassy alley. There is a multi-story office complex to my right and a steel sign pinned above my head bearing a mucked over black arrow pointing in the opposite direction for deliveries. With a police precinct in such close proximity, that meant the building probably housed lawyers and bail bondsmen, it may have also served the function of city courthouse and utility department, an all in one sort of deal. Small towns are like that, conserving their space, expanding up instead of out, making the most of their limited resources. The place was most likely a circus on the day everything ended. Courts in session, pre-trial hearings, mediations, money being exchanged, sentences being handed down. Did the monsters come through the front or were they already inside like at my school? There were probably a lot of guns present, a lot of security. It probably spilled out into the streets, cars, bullets, and blind panic. If the Rabid didn’t get you, then a wayward hollow point or an adrenaline fueled driver would have.

  I clear the narrow alley and find my prophecies confirmed. The building is a utility knife of city services. The front steps are glossy marble, wide, long, and official with choice morsels of the constitution etched into every other one. There are decaying bodies positioned at every angle a human body is capable of; arms, legs, neck, waists, all wound up and turned around, as if they were playing one big group session of Twister. Their skin is peeled away and now resides in the stomachs of their friends, neighbors, and family. Their appearance is as horrific, if not more so, than the Rabid themselves. Their lips are gone, leaving behind skeleton smiles, and their eyes have either been pecked out by birds, or served up a la carte to the Rabid. Cars, both emergency and pedestrian, clog the two-lane road in front of the government vestige. Most of them are missing their windows and have soaked up a couple dozen rounds of small caliber gunfire, a few still contain the putrefying carcasses of their drivers.

  There’s no movement on either side of the street as I back towards the front door of the police station.

  I try the handle.

  Unlocked.

  The call for help amplifies ten-fold as I open the door and step inside, as if I’ve just torn the lid from a box of yelping puppies. There are no lights. No power. I left the flashlight sitting in the vans cup holder. Lucky for me, the rooms inside had been built with natural light in mind. The last few servings of sunshine fill in the spaces before and around me.

  I move quickly through the front offices, pivoting left and right, knees slightly cocked, ready to roll against the punches. You try to take me left and I’m rolling back right. Come forward and I’m springing backwards.

  Situational readiness, that’s my muse and right now, I’m satisfying her desire.

  There are cheap cloned desks sitting in neat little rows of two’s and three’s scattered with bundles of paperwork; unfinished reports, warrants, old case files. They bear big backed computer monitors and coffee stained keyboards. Chairs had been rolled away in frenzy, some of them flipped to their backs and sides, revealing the dust clogged wheel bases underneath. Folks had gone in a hurry, there were discarded blazers, purses, and cold cups of coffee.

  At the next doorway, the placard reads Jail Cells. That’s where the cry for help is coming from. Right through these doors.

  The rattle of metal bars and the feeding call of the Rabid weave in between the desperate pleas for assistance. How many Rabid are in there? One? Two? Maybe three, at the most. Still, even one Rabid in close quarters is no easy business.

  I take a deep breath and shoulder through the door, weapon up. There are stairs to my right, and a row of three cells to my left.

  The cry is coming from the central cell.

  The light spilling in from the skylight above reveals the source of terror.

  One Rabid in a police uniform is banging at the cell door. He’s got one arm outstretched through the bars, his face morphing against the metal as he tries to reach the man inside.

  I take a deep breath and set my sights, securing the stock against my shoulder.

  I slowly take the slack out of the trigger.

  I whistle, once.

  The Rabid dressed in officer garb turns on me. He betrays no surprise or fear. He doesn’t see the rifle. He doesn’t see my eye running the sights or my trigger finger opening the doorway to his demise. All he sees is me. He sees a meal, in the open, no cell doors, no pesky metal bars.

  His nostrils flair. His lips quiver.

  His entire body seems to betray excitement. Anticipation. His legs tense as his heels go back and he prepares to launch himself at me—on me.

  I squeeze the trigger and blow his brains through the back of his skull.

  35

  His hair sits atop his head in a wispy comb over style. His face is narrow. His nose prominent. His eyes are deep green. He comes up off the wall mounted bunk, his striped jailhouse blues hanging loose and
tarp like across his body. He looks to the dead Rabid with the pool of black spreading around its skull, and then to me, and then to the weapon in my hands. He licks his lips and chews his tongue, spreading his fingers through and around the metal bars of his cell door. “Let’s say you go ahead and let me outta here.” He nods, smiles, and raises his eyebrows as if we’ve struck some sort of deal.

  “Let’s say I don’t.”

  “Nah, now, you listen, you saved my life, now you’re responsible for it…sir…except you don’t look like no sir, maybe a little mister, but not a sir.”

  “I don’t care what I look like to you, but you’re not getting out of that cell. Not while I’m here.” I walk over to the fire exit and bump it open with my hip. Bethany is there with her gun at the ready, the pile of Rabid we’d gunned down still laying at her feet. Momma is out of the van and hunched over with her head in her hands by the front bumper; the meds must be wearing off. “There was one in here. I’m gonna drag it out with the rest if you want to grab Momma and the duffel.”

  “Sure thing, what about the screaming we heard?”

  “Prisoner in one of the cells, he’s fine.”

  “Oh, well that’s good, right?”

  “Yeah, grab Momma.”

  I pick officer Rabid up by his ankles and begin struggling towards the exit, the contents of his skull leaving broken streaks of carnage behind.

  “Where you takin’ him?” The man in the jailhouse blues asks, craning his neck against the bars.

  “Just throwing him out here with the rest.”

  “Yeah, well, goodnight and good luck I say, tried eating me like a hot meal, that’s what happens. Karma, karma happens, bullet to the head, kablooie! Good shooting by the way little mister.”

  “Please don’t call me that.” I roll the body off the stairs and step back inside to watch Bethany as she makes her way back. She is carrying Momma on one arm and the duffel on the other, her rifle barrel poking through at one end of the zipper.

  “What should I call you then, not like I’ve got a name to go by?”

  “Tim will do fine.”

  There is a slight pause.

  “Well, don’t you want to know my name?”

  “Not really, the prisoner will do for now. We won’t be here long.”

  “Now that’s slightly rude, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe slightly, but I can live with it.”

  “The name is Derrick; you can call me Der if you want to rest your tongue though.”

  Bethany enters, breathing heavy. She drops the duffel at my feet and grants Der a wary once over. “Where should I put her?”

  “Well hello to you too!” Der croons.

  He’s staring down the barrel of my rifle before another word can leave his lips. “Don’t you say a word to her unless they’re the last ones you ever wanna speak.” He raises his hands and takes three steps back. I redirect back to Bethany once I see he’s gotten the message. “Prop her next to one of the desks in the office for now until we figure the layout.” I pull the exit door shut and make sure it’s locked tight.

  “Where are we…anyone get shot…” Momma mumbles as Bethany hustles her past.

  “She get bit, ah man, you can’t be bringing them in bit man.” Der is practically hopping against the bars, jabbing an accusatory finger at Momma’s back.

  “Chill, she’s not bit.”

  “Tim, you’re gonna get us killed. Shoot me straight now, she’s bit, she needs to be put down before the change happens. Put her down, Tim.” There’s no pause, no breath between his words, the guy runs like he’s on a battery.

  “Will you shut up please, she’s not bit. She’s not scratched. She’s just tired. We’ve been through a lot out there. I’ve got the gun; remember that before you speak again.” I drag the duffel through the door and into the office area and crouch beside Momma to check her over.

  “You should really learn to ask nice.” Der calls after me.

  “I need my medicine; it’s time for my medicine.” She rolls her head back and forth. There are sweat beads breaking through on her forehead.

  “We need to eat first, Momma.”

  Bethany has cleared a space for herself on one of the desks by brushing the paperwork and keyboard onto the floor. She leans back swinging her feet. “I am seriously getting sick of vendor food, almost tempted to go back to survival rations.”

  “I’m with you, but we’re limited.”

  “See if they’ve got a kitchen.”

  “It won’t be much use unless they’ve got a backup generator. You look after Momma while I go check?”

  “Yeah, sure, there’s nothing better to do.”

  I retrieve a pistol from the duffel and leave my rifle before going back through the door to the cell area. “Does this place have a generator?”

  Der is sprawled across the paper thin mat supported by pointy springs and a flimsy frame. “Maybe.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Um, how about I don’t use you for target practice, that sounds like a fair trade?”

  Der snorts. “Please, Tim, you’ve still got your down feathers, you’re still floatin’ around on the pond with ma and pa, peeping every time they get more than two feet away. You ain’t goin' to shoot me. So let’s make a deal.”

  “This isn’t a game show.”

  “Well, I say it is.” He sits upright. “Let me out, and we’ll go see about that generator.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Why the hell not?” He jumps to his feet. “Because of how I’m dressed, because I’m in a jail cell?”

  “That’s exactly why, thanks for saving me the trouble.”

  “Oh c’mon, that’s a bit on the narrow minded side don’t you think?”

  “It’s called survival, Der. It’s called I’ve got my Momma and my sister with me and I’m not letting a guy wearing jailhouse coveralls out to roam free among them. Now, no offense, but those cards just aren’t on the table.”

  “Well, offense taken.” He kicks the wall. “Little bastard. You know why I’m in here?”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

  “I’m in here for being a man. For living outside the lines of what society labels as the norm. Drunk and disorderly, and maybe spitting on a cop; that part I don’t remember, but they say it happened, so I’m willing to entertain the possibility.” He falls back on the mat again, head down, seemingly defeated. “That crazy cop you shot was my cousin.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”

  He shrugs. “How could you. Besides, he was trying to eat me, so I should be thanking you, I suppose.”

  I approach the bars. “You could start by telling me if there’s a generator.”

  “One floor down. It should be ready to roll.”

  “And a kitchen? Food? Supplies?”

  “Upstairs. Not sure what they’ve got left. Half the city came running through here.”

  “Well, I’ll go take a look. We’ll fix you something to eat and get you some water.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  ***

  The built in standby generator was out of fuel. Lucky for me, all it took was a bit of scrounging with the flashlight in order to find the kerosene supply. After I refilled the tank and reset the beast, the lights around me flickered to life.

  The basement has been ransacked in the chaos. Boxes are overturned, filing cabinets cast aside, and racks have been ripped from the wall, leaving behind ragged plaster encased wormholes. I kick through the rubbish looking for anything useful. It all seems to be cast off material. Plastic wrap, boxes for bullets, pieces of paper with random headers and number sequences. All the good stuff is gone. The guns and the ammo were the first to go, no doubt. The tactical equipment would have been next; vests, helmets, shields, if a town this size even had the funding for such things in the first place. It’s a small room. I can almost picture it full up wi
th cops and panicked citizens crashing through each other, bloodied, anxious to get back out on the streets in search of their loved ones. I’d been there. I’d gotten lucky. I wonder how many of them were fortunate enough to come by the same luck.

  I give up my search and start back up the stairs. Bethany meets me on the landing, a smile working her lips.

  “I can’t believe it, we’ve got electricity.”

  “At least until the generator burns through the kerosene. It should hold us over until we dip out in the morning.”

  “Momma is still asking for her meds.”

  “I’m going to try to find food upstairs. She’s got to eat before she takes anything else. I don’t want her just passing out on an empty stomach, it’s not healthy.”

  Bethany nods. “I’ll ward her off.”

  Behind us, Der is rattling the bars of his cell door. “Hello there, what about me. Can we hurry it along, I’m starving. I’m about to drink my own piss over here.”

  I wave him off. “Don’t worry about him, he’s harmless.”

  “I’m not worried about him.” Bethany shrugs. Maybe not worried, but she’s marginally uncomfortable; she’s too stiff and formal, and her eyes keep darting to the cell and the guy in the prison blues staring holes through us.

  “Well, good, cause he’s harmless. Ain’t that right?”

  “As a butterfly without wings.”

  “See, harmless.”

  “I said I’m fine, Tim; go find us something hot to eat.”

  “By us you mean me too, right?” Der pushes in closer to the bars.

  “As long as you plant yourself on that bunk and don’t speak until I come back down these stairs.”

  He pushes off the bars and rides the momentum back to his bunk. He closes his thumb and index finger together and runs them across his lips as if he’s zipping a pair of jeans. The guy is a character, he would probably be fine out of the cage, would most likely make us laugh and lift the mood; I’m sure he’s got some tales to tell. But, I can’t be certain about him. There are unknowns. If I call it wrong and something happens…well…that’s just not a wager I’m willing to make.