The Rabid (Book 1) (11 page)

I take aim and blast the attackers, spinning them across the hood.

“Don’t shoot the truck. Count rounds and call out reloads.”

Click.

“Out!” Lee takes a knee as he fumbles a fresh magazine from his ammo belt.

They are a relentless tide. Sprinting across the fallen bodies of their brethren, their eyes appearing as an ocean of floating white orbs spread before us, their arms outstretched, the gap between
them and us growing ever smaller. 

They are overtaking the truck as Momma cranks at the engine.

I can hear Bethany’s muted screams through the glass. “Hurry up, Lee, we could really use you here.” I shout, cracking off two more rounds.

“It’s…I can’t get the…fucking magazine is…it’s stuck.”

“Hammer the goddamn thing, stop playing footsy with it and slam it home.”

I hear the mag click into place and the metal caress of a round being chambered.

Lee is up and at my back once more.

The engine turns over and Momma tosses it into reverse
, just as I send another 5.56 slug through the temple of a flesh eater with its mouth suctioned to the passenger window like some grotesque cleaner fish.

She backs over three of them. The truck hops and bops as the tires make hammered shit out of the brain dead monsters.  The bumper rams through the bottom step before the truck jolts to a stop beneath us.

“Reloadin’,” Bo calls.

The ground between
them and us is nil.

I turn to cover his reload. As I
center my red dot above his crouched form, I see a shadow march over his grave. She'd been an elderly woman in her past life, probably a grandma with a legion of offspring. The kindly type of old lady you'd want as a next door neighbour. The type that would most likely have regaled you with tales of glory and youth from beyond the confines of her well-travelled walker or faded rocking chair. She looks like the type that would have graced your Christmas stocking with collections of state quarters and various flavors of taffy. But all of that is gone, and what is left, is death itself.

She flies over the side of the porch, with the agility of a much younger woman, and before I can take
aim, the few teeth she has left are buried in Bo’s forearm.

“
Fucking bitch, goddamnit!”

I want to take the shot, but I can’t, it's too close. She is on top of him, shaking his arm in her mouth like a
rabid
dog.

Bo falls onto his back, discarding his primary weapon and the partially inserted magazine across the cement and pulling his pistol. He buries the barrel in the soft meat of her right eyeball with a sickly squish and pulls the trigger. A shower of gore pours over him as her brains exit the back of her skull like a jack-in-the box
, as her body falls limp. He rolls her over, and stands clutching his arm.

“What’re you two still
doin’, get in the truck and go, now!”

I toss my bag over the tailgate and hop in behind it.

“Bo, your arm…” Lee trails off.

“Yeah
, moron, it’s why I’m not goin’. I’m makin' my stand here, but not you, now get your ass in that truck.”

The Rabid are pushing and shoving at the base of the porch like a bunch of concert goers crammed into an undersized venue, dying for a taste of the main attraction.

“I’m not leaving you like…”

Bo shoves him backwards off the stairs and over the tailgate. Lee tumbles past me, tangling up in the strap of his M4. “I’m not
givin’ you a choice you liberal jack ass. It ain’t your time.” Bo bids me farewell with a solemn nod. “You keep eyes on em’, Two-Step.”

“Thanks
, Bo, for everything.”

“No, for
God sake, there is another way, don’t…” Lee is trying to upright himself as Bo slaps the tailgate and Momma drops it into drive.

The Rabid topple in our wake, trying to get a solid grip on the truck as we fishtail down the bed of loose dirt and rock and spring right towards the farm road. The last image of Bo I see
, is him standing amid the mob, his pistol in one hand, his rifle in the other, giving em' hell.

The Rabid spring from the woods surrounding either side of the narrow outlet as we make for the pavement,
clamouring for us, falling beneath the tires, only to rise once more.

“Don’t let off the gas whatever you do!” I scream through the rear window.

The Rabid fill the space behind us like water flooding an aqueduct.

With a jolt and a bit of burnt rubber
, we touch down on the main road. Lee and I slide across the metal surface along with our two bags, as Momma turns hard left. Burned out cars, sprawled bodies, and a flaming horizon now lay before us. I can’t help but feel we’ve just traded one hell for another.

19

We are driving west. Momma says we’ve got relatives in Texas, namely an aunt and an uncle I’ve never met. Her hope is to find them and maybe join forces. At the very least, we'll find some shelter and food. At least that's what she says. I don't share her carefree confidence. Anything is possible at this point. There are no guarantees; our aunt and uncle are just as likely to be alive as dead. Just as likely to be out hunting for flesh, as they are to be stowed away waiting for help to arrive. Tread lightly. Always be ready to shift gears depending on how the situation presents itself. But, for now, I suppose driving west is as good of a plan as any.

The interstate is redundant in its state of disrepair. Like a never-ending driver’s education
program, we weave our way in and out of crashed, abandoned, and overturned cars. There are jack-knifed semis with rummaged through payloads cast across the roadway, there are body parts, and downed power lines. It is smoldering ashes. It is ruins. It's as if we’re coming through on the heels of some conquering army.

It seems, as a collective, that we're beginning to grow immune to the carnage around us. Bethany has stopped shivering at every hollowed out skull and detached limb, most of them picked clean by the crows and
God knows what else. Bethany and me are crammed in the backseat of the pickup, my rifle tucked between my knees, her pistol tucked in the back pocket of the driver seat.

“Why didn’t we use the van, I’m like a pretzel back here, I can barely breathe
?” Bethany whines a little, wriggling around next to me.

“The van isn’t
manoeuvrable, sweetie, and that’s what we need right now, maneuverability, versatility.” Momma grips the wheel with both hands like a ship captain, hunched forward, scanning for the next patch of ice.

“May not be
manoeuvrable, but it’s comfortable at least.”

“You see how Momma keeps turning us, sharp? Van would go over, it’s top heavy; it can’t handle quick movements like that.” I try to explain. It doesn’t do much good.

“I can’t feel my leeeeegs.” She yowls, coughing the syllables like an engine that refuses to turn.

I give up trying to reason and stare out the window instead, doing my best to ignore her restless shifting beside me. I've journeyed this way once before, when Dad took me on the road with him. This route is by all weight and measure an utter bore in terms of scenery
, flat highways and large swaths of piney woods broken up by the occasional one horse town. But, despite appearances, with Dad, it’d been an adventure. I remember feeling center stage, hiked up in the cab of that semi, bare toothed and waving at each car we passed by. Most ignored me, some waved back, others prodded me to pull the horn; a request Dad was always happy to oblige. The weigh stations, the radio chatter, the late night diners; we were two cowboys racing the moonlight. Those were three of the best days of my life. One night as we bedded down in the cab, tucked in the back corner of a highway rest stop as the crickets chirped around us, and cars whispered past in streaks of white and red, I said to my father, “I want to live on the road. I could do this forever.”

He laughed, and responded with a
full-fisted yawn, “Careful what ya wish for, son.”

My father, the oracle
.

Lee has spoken six words since we lost his brother to the Rabid.  For the first hour or
so, he stared out the window swiping tears as they fell quietly from his eyes. Momma had held his hand and whispered textbook words of comfort.

I’d offered my condolences, “We owe him our lives.” Yeah, it was cheesy and
meager, as are most things when covered by the shadow of death.

“I’m sorry about your brother.” Bethany had spoken softly, following my lead.

“Thanks guys, I’ll be okay, really.”

That’s it, that’s all he’s said.

“We still need to find food and water.” Momma’s voice doesn’t betray alarm, just the facts.

“We’ve got emergency food supplies in those bags in the back
,” I offer.

“Those are only to be used if we’re up a creek and can’t find a paddle.” Lee says matter-of-factly, surprising us all with his input. “We’ve got to find some non-perishable items to keep us on the road; chips, jerky, canned beans, whatever. I saw a length of hose and a container in the back we can use to syphon off gas. We need to make it a one stop shop, so let’s keep our eyes open for a convenience store
, or something with easy access points.”

I look to Bethany and she shrugs. Momma is smiling. Lee is back.

“Alright, sounds like a plan to me,” I say.

Green signs boasting incoming exits and their particular array of offerings cruise by to our right as we continue to weave forward.

Cheap motels,

d
iners,

m
useums,

a
ll now vacant caricatures of Americana.

All that once defined our culture now serving as nothing more than elaborate tombs
.

“There is a Shop-It coming up at the next exit.” Lee points at the glass.

“Think it’s a safe bet?” Momma asks squeezing us through a small gap created by two compact sedans sitting at a perfect v-angle.

“Nothing is a safe bet.” Lee answers grimly.

Minutes pass before the exit we’ve chosen to stake our lives on fades into view.

“Well, this definitely isn’t a safe bet.” I grasp my weapon just a little tighter.

“My God,” Momma’s voice is barely a whisper.

The off ramp is blocked by an orange striped barricade usually reserved for road crews. A large cardboard sign has been tacked to the front, All Dead! Keep Moving.

“It could be a bluff, just to keep people out, you know, to dissuade looters.” Lee says with uncertainty, trying a little too hard to find the silver lining.

“Yeah, anyone
here willing to take that chance? I’m the optimist here and I’m not willing to take that chance.” Momma says.

We idle on the bridge, staring down into the one streetlight highway pit stop. There is a police cruiser hiked up on the sidewalk, trampled parking meters beneath the tires, the roof lights nothing more than hollow bulbs. The outline of a body is visible in the front seat, hunched across the steering wheel. The street around it is stained with blood. Discarded limbs line the gutters like cast off party
favours. Broken windows and splintered doors outline the blackened interiors of abandoned shops. And at the center of it all, beneath a lifeless traffic signal, stand three of the Rabid.

“Still think it’s a bluff?” I ask as we pull away.

20

We make it just inside the Mississippi state line as night begins to force itself upon us. We park the truck in the middle of a group of abandoned sedans and kill the engine and lights.

“We’ll find some food tomorrow. Tonight it’ll have to be the emergency rations.” Lee says, stepping from the cab to retrieve the food bars and a water jug from the duffle in the back.

“I seriously hope these don’t taste bad.” Bethany groans, grinding her feet against the floorboard.

“It's not going to be steak and eggs, but its food; let’s be thankful for that.” Momma says.

“We’ll snatch a candy bar for you tomorrow.” I assure her with a smile.

Lee is back with a tightly wrapped silver block of survival rations and the water. The rations make a rather unappetizing
thud,
as he drops them on the center console and begins chipping away at the airtight package with his thumbs and forefingers. “Geez, they don’t make these things easy to open.”

“Guess they want you to work for your survival rations
,” I laugh.

“It’s an omen
,” Bethany utters flatly.

“Or perhaps it’s a sign that it’s delicious. Anything worth having…”

I cut in right on cue. “Is worth working for, yeah, yeah, we know, Momma. That’s stretching it a bit, don’t you think?”

The package finally submits, sliding away to reveal the pale bricks underneath. “There we go. Break a piece off and pass it around.” Lee hands it back to me after severing a
brownie-sized slab for himself.

“This looks disgusting.” Bethany accepts the pale slab of carbs, fat, and protein from me with the utmost hesitance.

“It doesn’t taste much better.” Lee manages through a mouth full of the stuff.

“Like a really bad ginger bread cookie.” I conclude after testing a small bite between my molars and choking it down with more effort than should be necessary for something that’s supposedly edible.

“My God,” Bethany spits into her hand, “forget it; I’m just going to starve.”

“No here, swish it around with the water and just swallow it. You need food.”

She accepts the jug from Lee and, with a few gags and whines, nibbles another bite into her mouth, mixing the water in immediately after. “Still tastes disgusting.”

“It’s pretty bad, I must admit.” We all start laughing at the sight of Momma staring down at her barely eaten ration with her eyes squinted shut and her lips puckered.

“The optimist relents,” I announce.

“You got me; I withdraw my previous support from this product.”

Lee shakes his head and sighs. “Well, looks like Bo called it, these things do taste like gopher shit.”

“Yep,” I stare out the window at the setting sun
, “he called it.” For a while, we just sit and choke down out rations. We pass the water jug and listen to the world as it winds down around us.

***

The dashboard clock reads half-past one when it's finally my turn to sleep. I drew first watch, which basically entailed holding my eyelids open while everyone else snored and shifted around me. As soon as the clock turns over, I tap Lee awake and curl up against the backseat passenger door. My quick descent into slumber has less to do with the chilled over window and the sticky vinyl siding, and more to do with the sheer exhaustion I feel from the adrenaline dump we'd experienced earlier...

It doesn’t last long.

Lee wakes me with a slap on the knee and a harsh whisper. “Two-Step, we got trouble.”

“What the hell
, Lee, come on.”

“
Shh, keep your voice down, look.”

I rub my eyes, once, twice, and a third time just to be sure of what I’m seeing. The girls begin to stir. “Do not scream, do you understand, you can’t scream.” I implore Bethany, grabbing at an arm as she stretches and yawns, preparing to open her eyes.

“Oh my…” Momma muffles a gasp with her hands.

Bethany scurries backwards in her seat, her fingernails buried in the upholstery, but she doesn't so much as peep.

It’s the exodus of the dead. There are hundreds of them, moving with the slow and deliberate pace of a sediment-laden river. They bump against the cars on either side of us, rocking the truck chassis ever so slightly as they move past. Their breath is labored and wet, they groan like an old foundation, keeping time with their geriatric gait.

“They don’t see us, stay calm. We’re okay.” My whisper hits like thunder amid the panicked silence.

Minutes pass.

Hours pass.

Bethany falls asleep beneath my arms, and Momma while hiding her head in Lee’s lap. We, the men, are left awake to monitor the parade. As the first threads of sunrise weave across the skyline, the last of the Rabid shuffle past to our right.

“Let’s get some sleep
, Two-Step, it'll allow some ground to set up between us and them.”