The Rabid (Book 1) (22 page)

33

It took us two days to make it across the state line into Texas. We moved slowly, scrounging as we went. One night, we spent held up in a liquor store with the burglar bars drawn across the glass. Momma slept curled in a ball behind the counter, high off of her med supply, while Bethany and me took turns on watch duty. We didn’t drink the alcohol, but the overabundance of barroom snack foods along with a healthy supply of seltzer water and fruit mixers, made for a worthwhile layover.

Shortly after we cross the invisible line into
Texas, the interstate splits and splits again. There is a traffic jam as wide and as deep as I’ve ever seen; cars upon cars upon trucks. There are bloated bodies and evidence of gunfire all around us, expended shells and magazines, scarred metal. One of the great battles in this war had been fought here,
The Battle for Interstate 20!

“You’ve
gotta exit onto the service road. No way are we getting through that.” Bethany says.

My eyes roam from the road to the map and back to the road, doing my
damndest to keep us on the right path. “Looks like I can circle us down and go around and then connect back with interstate 20; see here.”

“Yeah
, sure.”

I exit the service road, curve left under the interstate and begin southwest down highway 271. My biggest concerns are over the risk of a flat tire or a broken ax
le. Each time we bump across a sea of scattered debris, I flinch like a ship captain steering his fishing vessel through a field of ice, knowing that the next bump or scrape could leave me floundering and at the mercy of the elements.

It’s another hour before we happen upon a few of the
survivors
from
The Battle for Interstate 20!
They’re haggard and worn. Few have shoes. The ones that do are avidly working to wear them to threads as they drag their feet against the rugged blacktop. They seem to move in small disconnected packs. They are docile and glazed over, shuffling off of instinct, and instinct alone. The only visible ferocity comes from the dinner parties feasting on the entrails of recently downed prey; nothing excites them like their food.

It’s usually the same crime scene.

The dislodged water bottle. The backpack with the broken straps, ripped away from the body during some futile escape attempt. They are twisted broken bags of flesh. Their abdomens exist now only as hollowed out serving trays. They will rise once more, once they’ve served their purpose, and they will help to carry on the gospel of death. No one escapes from the insatiable horde. When the Rabid lock you in their sights, it’s fight or die time.

The Rabid don’t see us coming. We run through them rather than waste the ammunition. It’s a morbid amusement. They always turn at the last second, their eyes meeting mine, somehow emitting a look of surprise despite their inherently blank expressions. We drag them beneath the van, they are crushed by the tires, and left mangled in the road, alive but worse for wear. Sometimes we get lucky
, and they burst like a poorly sewn incision, spraying the windshield with black goop, their arms and legs taking to the wind, their head bumping around on the hood before rolling off into a ditch.

“You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

I shrug. “Gotta pass the time somehow, besides, they’re already dead.”

The sky is hazy and foreboding. Winter will be here soon. She will be floundering about, barely able to breathe, strangled by the southern climate, but she will be here nonetheless;
dropping temperatures into the 30’s and 40’s and threatening those forced to live out-of-door with a hard freeze or two. If the mood tickles her right, she may grant us a snow flurry, an aesthetic reprieve from otherwise miserable living conditions.

Rarely is she so kind.

She’s usually kind of a bitch.

We’re fooling ourselves.

We duck, we dodge, and we fight to survive, while the Rabid screech and claw and gnash their teeth. But when all is said and done, the only one left standing will be old mother earth herself. She was there from beginning. Through the dinosaurs and the asteroids, the floods, and the dustbowls, she’s always been there, passing her judgment with merciless finality. All of us do our best to leave our mark upon this planet in some conscious or subconscious manner, but it’s all going to be washed away, or eventually blown out into the farthest reaches of space. We are tiny candles of insignificant matter resting on a vast cosmic alter, just waiting for our turn to be blown out.

So why fight it? What’s the point?

That is the point I suppose, to struggle, to fight, to matter.

We need to feel connected to something. We need to feel like there is something higher taking place. We need to feel like there is something beyond the trees. To lie down and to die is not embedded in our DNA. For
that, we need drugs. Mind numbing chemicals to pull the chords and close our lids. For me it was dance. For Bethany it was her quirkiness. For daddy it was us and driving his truck, it was Sunday morning breakfast, and laughing with Momma on the couch. Momma was the same, us, daddy, late night laughter. But, the chords get tangled. We get tangled. Things get fuzzy.

Momma is asleep on the back seat, oblivious to each bump and rock, her medicine in full effect. From here
, she seems pretty well put together. The cloudy eyes, the lines in her face that seem to appear daily, they all melt away under the umbrella of sleep.

We’ll have to find shelter and hunker down soon. The sun is lowering itself across the sky. Soon darkness will be upon us and travel will become an
endeavor for the foolish and the suicidal.

34

“So how far away are we from interstate 20? The sign said we’re in Tyler.”

Bethany fumbles with the map. Turning it every which way but up. “We’re not that far off, just south of 20.”

“
Lemme see.” I flatten the map across the wheel and trace my finger in a semi-circle, down and up. “Yeah, not too bad, looks like 69 will take us back up where we need to be. I’m thinking maybe 10 miles max to connect back with 20.”

“
It’s gonna be getting dark soon.”

“Yeah, so let’s hold up here in town, and then we’ll set out again tomorrow morning.”

“Any ideas?”

“This is new to me
too; let’s just see where we end up.” I steer us across a set of railroad tracks and turn left down a two-lane road paved with a wall of red bricks. We run parallel to the tracks, passing signs for bail bond services tacked to the back of graffiti laden office complexes. The image of the thug with a bottle of spray paint and a mask marking their territory, sneaking around under the cover of darkness, seeking that which they may deface, is laughable now. Those that once owned the night, those that prowled alleys and poorly lit lots in search of handbags and dignity, had been run out of town by a new gang. A more vicious gang. One that doesn't need to mark its territory. One that doesn't demand or negotiate. One whose sole pursuit is suffering and death. Spray all the walls you want, the Rabid will write over it with your blood.

“I think the outbreak may have improved this section of town.” Bethany tilts her head trying to read the swirling black spray paint.

“Wouldn’t be hard would it?”

Up ahead there is movement. I slow the van to a crawl.

“What is it?” Bethany already has her M16 poised.

“I can’t tell, too far out, and those dumpsters are in the way. Be ready.” I pop the gears into neutral and kill the engine, letting it quietly roll forward. The dumpsters clear our sightline and the rabid banging at the back door of the city police station come into view.

“Whoa.”

I stomp the brakes and put it in park. “I count six.”

“Me too.”

They are shoving one another aside, hammer fisting the one way metal door and the brick frame around it as they struggle to keep their footing on the two narrow stairs leading down; every few seconds
, one of them slips and another takes its place. “Something in there has them riled up.”

“Food, probably.”
Bethany says with a small hint of anxiety.

I crack the window and immediately pick up on another sound rising above the gurgling and snarling, a voice, a human voice, sounding a cry for help. “
You hearing that?”

“Yeah, I hear it.” Bethany grips the smoke grey barrel of her M16 as if it’s the last life raft leaving a sinking ship.

I open the door and remove my rifle from between the seats. I step delicately, checking the ground for bottles, bricks, or any other potential slip-ups that would give me away.

“What are you doing?” Bethany's tone is hushed as she moves into the empty driver seat.

“I’ll take up behind the dumpsters. You stay here. I’ll signal and we’ll tear them down; fan of fire, just like Bo showed us, we’ll make that stairway a kill zone.”

Momma sits up rubbing her eyes. “What are you doing? Why are we stopped?”

“Lay down, Momma, there is about to be some shooting.” Bethany puts her forehead against the steering wheel and groans. “Alright, Tim, your show. But if they get me, you’re the first one I’m biting.”

“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.