The Rabid (Book 1) (23 page)

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 bumpe
r; 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 with 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.

I start up the stairs to the kitchen.

***

It’s a bare essentials operation; I imagine the kitchen didn’t look all that different than it does now, even before the hysterical crowds barged through grabbing what they could. It’s a room only slightly larger than the cells downstairs. There is a knee-high refrigerator, a sink, a splinter prone countertop, two pots, a pan, a rusty four-burner stove, and a pair of crusty spatulas. The sink hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed, and by the looks of it that was right around the time indoor plumbing was invented. It’s missing the hot water knob and there’s a fine layer of white soap scum clinging to the bottom and sides. The sponge is a withered clump of gruff fabric with bits of burnt and fallen food stuck between the fibers. The dish soap bottle has been left open. The
stay-clean
cap is clogged with dried gel. I swivel left and right, up and down, trying to spot something edible without having to touch anything. No dice. The cabinets are closed and I need to see inside. I hold my rifle at the ready under one arm, while I open the cabinet above the sink with the other. I’m not sure what I am expecting to jump out at me, the space is barely big enough to hold an infant, never mind an adult sized flesh eater.

Flesh eating rats or mice, maybe.

The shelves are bare save for the peeling cabinet liner, a bargain brand box of enriched spaghetti noodles, Styrofoam plates, and a rolled down bag of bargain brand granulated sugar. I doubt the cops were much for baking. It was probably a staple in their morning coffee. Someone took the coffee pot though. They are probably out there right now trying to find a place to plug it in. The end of the world and all people can think about is their morning caffeine fix.

I grab the noodles and a pot. There’s no point in checking the expiration date. These things would still be good eating three generations from now. The one knobbed sink
sputters, spits, and finally surrenders a steady stream of water into the pot. It’s tinged a few shades darker than clear and it stinks, but I’m not too concerned over the contents, I’ll boil off whatever may be lurking.

The pot sits at a slight angle on the front left burner as the noodles rattle their way towards edibility. I open the mini fridge and duck down, sticking my head into the chasm of pale light. It’s as sparse as the cabinet. There’s spoiled milk, a half-eaten candy bar, two onions, and a
bottle of bargain brand ketchup. Some marinara would have been nice, but the ketchup will have to serve in its stead.

As the noodles finish out
, I approach the only window in the room, pushing aside a plastic table and a handful of metal chairs. I crack the blinds with two fingers, there are a few broken panes of glass and a gathering of shell casings are at my feet; someone tried to play sniper. I gaze out over the battle ravaged streets. The moon is high as the creatures of the night call out to one another in varying pitches and intervals. I smile. What else can you do when you realize that the insect is now a more viable life form than the human being?