The Rabid (Book 1) (29 page)

I shrug.
“I give up.”

“
There was a Russian motto that was drilled into the head of those brave infantry men,
There is no land beyond the Volga!
The Volga is a river dividing Europe and Russia. Essentially, it meant that there was no land but the motherland. These men were told if they turned back, if they retreated, then they were traitors to their country and would be shot on the spot. Some tested it and got the business end of a bullet. So, the answer to my query regarding why they continued forward despite the certainty of death is simple, there are some things men fear more than death. These men, most of them, were ordinary like you and our guest here.” He slaps the man in the chair playfully across the cheek. “They held the same fear of death that you two gents do. Yet, there was something they feared more.”

“
Call me the slow kid in class, but what does this have to do with anything?”

The General moves back to the table, leaning over, his palms flat, facing away from me.
“Perhaps he doesn't know anything. Or perhaps, just perhaps, there is something he fears worse than the pain and the promise of the fist, the blade, and the bullet. Perhaps the same can be said for you.”

“
Perhaps not.” I sigh, growing bored of the tangent.

“
Yeah,” he comes off the table, a curved blade gleaming in his closed fist. “Perhaps not.” His steps and movements are so fast that I don't have time to look away. He slides the blade across the throat of the man in the chair. There is a gurgle followed by gagging, twitching, and a torrent of red.

Bethany clenches the bottom of my shirt and hides her face between my shoulder blades. Momma's grip tightens at the top of my arm.
“That's the way you get answers out of people, you just kill them? Seems rationale, seems smart.”

The general wipes the blood across the front of his shirt, his eyes wild with pleasure.
“He wasn't talking. Now we're going to try you. Bring his Momma, sit her down.” The General cuts the man's hands free and kicks his corpse to the ground.

The men with submachine guns grab Momma by her elbows and tear her away, Stiles groups in with them, backing towards the chair on their heels, his pistol
leveled on my chest to hold me in place.

“
Hang on, I'll talk. There's no need for this!”

“
Tim, it's okay, sweetie, I'm okay.”

“
Look at this, the whole family is coming together. We're going to play a game.” The General steps away from the group, tossing the blade and catching it by the handle as if it's a baton and he's leading a parade. “Stiles is going to turn your clothes inside out, and if we find anything you've been holding back from us, we're going to kill your Momma. Then we're going to kill your sister. Then, after allowing for a few days of reflection, we're going to kill you. Stiles, check him.”

Stiles lowers
his pistol and moves towards me, sneering. “With pleasure.”

“
My gun, I've got my gun.” It's barely a whisper, but I hear her. Bethany pulls my hand back and drops the cold steel into my palm.

A tent full of trained military
, and me, the kid, the kid with the pocket pistol. These aren't hillbilly zealots running on the fumes of religion and racism. These odds aren't in my favor, but when have they ever been? If we die, at least it'll be together. I'll go down fighting. I suppose that's been the plan all along. I go down, the hero, but a hero nonetheless.

Stiles is
reaching for me. “Turn them inside out, kid, let's go.”

My hand tightens around the grip
of the cold steel resting against the back of my right hip, it's as good a time as any.

Outside
a barrage of gunfire and an explosion stop the procession in its tracks. Seconds pass, another barrage of gunfire fills the air. Stiles, and the General, seem to forget about us for a moment as they await the next bolt of lightning and the next crash of thunder.

Disembodied voices fill the room. “
Goddamnit, get that 50. up, get men on that perimeter and get the fence line back up, now, goddamnit, now!”

The flaps on the tent roll back and harsh light fills the void. “General, we've got Rabid attacking the front gates
. ”

The
General grumbles something, the coat of sweat on his body glistening like the surface of an icy pond at sunrise. “You two, get out there, help them get it back up and running. ”

Stile
's guard dogs salute dutifully and disappear onto the battlefield. There is more gunfire, and another small explosion; a grenade most likely, a compact and fleeting sound.

The General turns his attention on us once more. He twists the chair around with Momma locked in place so that we can see her, so that we'll be able to witness
, in her face, the impact of every cruelty he visits upon her.

“Stiles, as you were.”

“Please don't do this, you don't have to do this, please?” Momma is craning her neck, trying to catch the General's gaze, to reason with him on some emotional plane.

Stiles is
once more reaching for me. I take a step back, bat his pistol arm away with one hand, and raise my own weapon with the other. I empty three rounds into his chest in rapid succession. He gasps and falls, choking, out of words, the life quickly fading from his eyes. Before I can raise the gun on the General he's behind Momma, a knife to her throat.

I try to draw a bead on him but my hand is shaking, fear rattles my chest, my words are the words of a
scared boy. “You let her go, let my Momma go.”

“Timmy, run,
take your sister and run while you can.” Momma strains against the blade, a thin line of blood running down her neck.

Outside
, the gunfire grows more ferocious, more constant, and the break in time between each barrage grows thinner, filled with the voices of fighting men yelling for ammo and reinforcements. I'm almost sure I can hear the rabid as well, growling as they throw themselves against the ark doors, threatening to break through and drown us all.

“Timmy, you be a good boy
, you gimme that goddamn cross, and I'll let you, your momma, and sister, walk out.”

“He'll kill us all. Take your sister and go, now, before those men get back. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you, go, now.” Momma yells
from beneath the blade of the General.

I back towards the opening in the tent, shielding Bethany, my gun still raised. “We'll be coming back for you
, Momma.” I meet the General's eyes as they peer up over Momma's left shoulder. “I'll be coming back for you as well.”

“The anticipation is coursing through my veins
, my little dancing man.” He laughs, flaring his eyes at me.

Another bout of gunfire.
More battle cry's.

I drop out of the tent, pulling Bethany with me.

“Momma, we can't just leave Momma, no.” Bethany fights me, digging her nails into my wrist. I jerk her harder, lifting her heels from the ground.

“We're not, we're
gonna come back. But, if we go back in there, she dies, right now, right here, we all do.”

The camp is in chaos. Smoke billows in the air
, and heavy machinegun fire quakes the ground. Men run past us carrying ammo crates and stacks of guns. We aren't worth noticing, not with the Rabid threatening to overrun the operation.

The Rabid, what if they make it through? What of Momma then?

They won't. They can't.

What choice do we have? This is the only way. The only way any of us live. The only way I can protect them.

Something cracks past my head and destroys a lantern hanging from the doorway of the tent in front of us.

The General.
He's on open ground, aiming down the sights of Stiles handgun.

I push Bethany forward. “Get to the
hummer, the keys are still in the ignition. Turn it on, and if I don't make it, then drive out of here.” Our bag is still tied to the back. It's twenty-five yards out, but with the General on my ass, distance isn't a factor.

I don't give Bethany time to argue. I turn around and take a knee. The general has me dead to rights. This is the real deal.
Time to own up to my vow, to protect my family, whatever it takes.

Two Rabid barrel through the perimeter and make a line straight for the General. Three men in tan fatigues are on their heels, guns raised, but they do not fire. They risk hitting the General if they do. I hold my fire as well. The General is all that stands between Momma and death.

The General winks at me, then he turns and drops both Rabid with a single round each to the head.

I take advantage of the distraction.

I'm in the Humvee, dropping it into drive, when the bullets start pinging against the armoured plating, and bullet resistant glass. I take down a back portion of fencing and drive us up onto the freeway entrance ramp.

“What the hell are we going to do Tim? How the hell are we going to get Momma back?”

“I..I honestly don't know, sis.” There's no protecting her from the truth. Not this time. I guess no one plays the hero forever.

Read on for a free sample of The Dead Ground

Acknowledgments

There are a couple of people I need to thank for the existence of this book. First and foremost
, my wife, Lizzie, for listening to me chatter on about this project for the past year, I know you don't like zombies and I thank-you for pretending that you do.

To my
mom, Nancy, for encouraging me never to give up on the dream I had of seeing this book through to completion, thank you, and yes, I know you don't like zombies either.

To Daniel and Amanda, the best brother and sister
a guy could ask for; thank you for cheering me on, it means more than you'll ever know.

To my in-laws and the rest of my wonderful extended family
, for believing in me, for seeing the best in me, for taking the time out to speak words of kindness and encouragement to me, I hope this makes you proud.

To m
y brother from another mother, sir Heath, for being my wingman and touting my greatness to any and all who will listen, even if it is mostly bullshit; I'm not half as good as you give me credit for, but hell, they don't know the difference, right? In all seriousness though, you've been a constant friend, through the ups and the downs, and you'll always be family to me.

I'd also like to give a big
SHOUT OUT
to the good people over at Scalpel Arms. They took the time to pour over the numerous firearms related scenes in this story; their valuable feedback leant more than a little authenticity to this project. Be sure to check out their website for all of your zombie slaying needs.

Finally, thank you Severed Press for bringing me on board and for believing in this book. And thank you dear reader for giving me the time of day, I hope you feel it was time well spent.

J.V.
R.

9/14/13

About the Author

J.V Roberts is a former Dallas film critic and blogger. He is a native of Athens, Georgia, and spent many years living in the beautiful town of Watkinsville. He lives with his wife in Plano, Texas. The Rabid is his first novel.

1

Duke Blevins reached into the cooler at his feet, brushing aside the thick covering of ice and grabbed a beer. As he popped the top, it spit a little foam. Licking the spray from his hand, he kicked his feet up onto the railing and settled into the old porch swing. Rusted chains groaned under his weight and shed flakes of oxide with every little movement. It was a good evening to be home.

Actually, a perfect evening, he told himself, as he watched the sunset touch the horizon and cast its glow onto the underside of high clouds. The beer was cold, the heat faded, his bills paid and there was no one around to nag him about the high grass or the pickup truck resting on blocks in his yard. Life was good.

He took a slow pull on the beer, and then burped loudly, laughing. “Yeeeeeeah,” he shouted into the night sky, “it is good to be home.” Raising the can to his toast, he drained it in one long, last swallow.

Crushing the empty, one handed, he tossed it toward the bed of the old Chevy. It might have gone in if not for bouncing off one of the porch columns. As it was, the can flaked off
a chunk of old white paint and lost itself in the grass.

Duke eyed the new scar on the column. The house was over a hundred years old and thinking about it now, he could not remember it being repainted in his lifetime. His father, grandfather, and he assumed his great grandfather, had been hard working men, but all that energy and effort went into the animals, machines, and implements of farming, rarely into the home. Heck, his grandmother had cooked on a wood stove until they had switched over to propane sometime in the 70s. Now, it was all
his, and he was determined not to make the same errors.

Grabbing another beer, Duke swung his feet down from the railing and kicked himself upright. His boots made loud, hollow thumps on the old wood as he went down the steps into the yard. Taking a few long strides out, he opened the beer and took a more restrained sip as he turned back to examine his home.

At one end of the house, the porch was sagging and the lattice that had hidden the footings was long gone, so you could see the dry stacked cinder blocks that had been cheap repairs for the original brick and mortar. That would have to be taken care of. The handrail for the steps had been lost and replaced by something cobbled together from water pipes. He’d want to fix that too. The screen door was ripped and the frame was so far out of square that the main door’s upper hinge had to be shimmed out a quarter inch for it to close. He hoped fixing the porch would help that. A lot of work, a lot of time, a lot of money, and that was only what he could see from the front yard.

He took another drink.

This house was something he had been thinking about for a long time. Through both tours in Iraq and the one in Afghanistan, he had been saving and making plans. Everyone had a plan of some sort. He guessed, it was only natural when you're in the shit to think about what you have to do to stay alive and when things get quiet, think about anything but the shit you're in. Sergeant First Class Duke Blevins saved his money and made his plans to repair his parent’s home and restore their land. He felt he owed them that.

He turned the can up and let the last few drabs trickle into his greedy mouth, wadded it like paper and tossed it at the bed of the truck. He missed again.

For just a moment, he thought about making a pass through the grass to find all the old empties littering the yard, but then let it drop. He’d take care of it tomorrow before mowing. Right now, maybe just one more beer before Lyle gets here.

Taking the steps two at a time, his old shit kickers rattled the wood and his heavy clopping footsteps echoed out into the deepening evening like jungle drums. He had his hand on another ice-encrusted can when the first soft sound came from the direction of the sunset. Duke cocked his ear toward the overgrown fields and waited to catch the sound again. There it was; a soft moan that wafted over the grass like a question waiting for its answer.

The short hairs at the back of Duke’s neck stood up and tingled, giving him that old monster movie feeling. He stood up straight with a beer can dangling from his hand, looking out over the weeds and overgrown fence rows for any movement. Keeping his eyes moving from point to point, scanning the fields in quick snapshots, he curled his index finger under the aluminum tab. The can spit with a short loud psst that brought another moan from the weeds.

“Just the
heebie jeebies,” Duke said, and took a drink.

The next sound was the crack of something dry and brittle breaking under a foot.

Duke flipped open the battered screen door and reached his free hand inside, while feeding himself another healthy swallow of beer with the other. He pulled out a short-barreled 12-gauge shotgun. Heebie jeebies or not, he was still a combat veteran only a few weeks out. He jerked the pump down and chambered a shell. The gun made that movie sound effect noise that will stop your heart if you know you’re on the wrong side of it.

“Okay,” Duke said, then drained his third beer in one quick chug. “Remember, guns and
alcohol don’t mix.” Without looking, he tossed the can, un-crumpled this time, completely over the bed of the truck. That was when he saw the dark figure silhouetted against the burning blood sky. It looked like a fat man, but walked like a drunken bear staggering and shuffling across the uneven ground along the western fencerow. Falling, then rising back up on unsteady legs, the figure began crossing the field heading toward the barn.

Duke watched for a moment, and then tracked backward with his eyes, trying to gauge from where a drunk might have come. There was nothing out there but a deep fallow field that butted up against a patch of woods and Ozarks limestone that could never be tamed. As he looked into the deep green hump of trees and vine that framed the limits of his family land, a little trickle of memory ran over his skin. It was the kind of memory that was more than memory; it was a real thing, a fear as tangible and fresh as the new beading of sweat that slicked his skin.

When he broke memory’s spell, and looked back to the field, it was empty. Whoever was out there had gotten lost in the old weeds and overgrowth. Duke sat down hard on the porch swing twanging the chain and put his feet back up on the railing to listen and remember.

Real memories came hard. They were mixed in with years’ worth of repeated stories and recurring nightmares. He did remember sitting on this same porch swing twenty years ago at the age of eight, listening to his father and grandfather argue in the front yard. Words that didn’t make sense to the
boy, were clear in the man’s mind now, taxes, revenue, government man. Then there were words that even the boy knew, shine, jail, and kill. Young Duke couldn’t put all the words together, couldn’t understand the argument, but he did understand his dad calling his own father, “old fool.” He understood the anger and hurt on his grandfather’s face.

That was when things got really quiet, the two men standing in the yard staring at each other until his grandfather finally turned away and headed for the barn. Duke’s father joined him on the porch.

Looking back, Duke could see his father’s movements perfectly. He was startled to realize that he had exactly mimicked them, reaching through the same screen door to the same spot for a shotgun, and then dropping into the same porch swing to sit and wait. He thanked God that there was no eight-year old kid with him now, and then cursed him just as firmly that he had been there twenty years ago.

Dad had sat with him on the swing for a long time talking. Duke just thought he was telling stories, scary stories to take his mind off the argument. Going on and on about old Indian legends and Duke’s responsibility, Dad had told him about things that sounded like ghosts but he said they were real, things that walked around but were still not really alive. It was our responsibility he said; the family’s responsibility to take care of these things and send them all back. He kept telling Duke he’d understand everything in just a few minutes,
then he would know what to do when it was his time.

That was where memory faded into the shadows of stories that he had been told and that he himself had told to others. They were all jumbled up in his head, because his father had told him things and said to keep them secret. His mother told the sheriff something else and swore it was the truth. People around town said other things. None of it was good.

There was a rustle in the brush that came from around the northwest side of the house out towards the barn. Something clattered against the barn wall.

“Hey,” Duke called out, “over here.” He raised his voice without quite shouting and felt like he was inviting the inevitable.

Something answered, not by calling back, not with words, but with a long, low moan that sounded like Frankenstein making love to his new bride, kind of angry and sad at the same time. It flowed like cold air, heavy and close to the ground, picking through the burnt brown grass to climb up the porch steps and dance on Duke’s spine.

Sights, smells, and sounds are like little land mines of memory. Hiding just under our feet waiting for the right combination of time and place, they explode into moments of perfect connection to the past. That is how it was for Duke just then. This one sound took him beyond memory to make him eight years old again. Sitting on this same porch with his father as the low moaning that seemed to be choked from the throat of death itself crept closer. He felt the same creeping fear he felt then.

Twenty years ago, the sound came out of the south cornfield directly facing the porch.

“Hey, over here,” his father had called too.

The moaning grew louder, like it was drawn to the sound of his father’s voice. His dad just sat there with him on the swing, as if this was just some company he had been expecting. Dry corn stalks rattled sounding as they did when a pig got lose in the field.

Duke watched his father stand up from the swing and lean against the porch railing, lifting his shotgun and pointing its long barrel at some invisible point in the cornrow. That was when Grandpa came out of the barn carrying his own
double-barreled shotgun.

“Dad, no!”
Duke’s father had yelled.

Duke didn’t really see what happened directly, he watched it reflected on his father’s face as resolve faded to worry and worry crashed suddenly to fear. When Duke turned back toward his grandfather, the thing had already come out of the corn and was on him. The old man was too slow and the big old gun was too cumbersome for a real fight.

Whatever it was that had come from the cornfield wore clothes and walked like a man, but it attacked like an animal, tooth, nails, and hunger. It sunk its teeth into the old man’s throat and ripped a huge bloody chunk off in one vicious lunge.

Duke watched the bright red swath of arterial spray spreading upward from the wound and feathering out in front of the fading sun, and wondered for a moment if it would make a rainbow like those he had seen in the water from the garden hose.

His father stormed down the porch stairs yelling for his own father in a voice that Duke had never heard before. He followed his running father and watched him raise the shotgun again as he got too close to miss.

The animal man swallowed the last bit of bloody red meat torn from Grandpa’s neck and turned to face the father and son. His eyes were hard black beads, the whites gone
gray tinged with brownish red streaks. The mouth was open and smeared with fresh blood, but the teeth looked white and hard.

It moved forward one quick step, unafraid of them or the gun, reaching out to take them just as it had Grandpa. Then its chest exploded in a dirty brown splash.

The concussion of the shotgun blast rumbled in Duke’s chest and he put a hand up to feel if he had been hit as well. The second shot tore through the thing’s neck, blasting away almost all of the flesh but leaving the yellowish-white column of bone holding up the head.

Duke could swear the thing smiled then, even as it kept coming. That was when the shotgun thundered again, shattering the head into nonexistence. The body fell in a slow cartoon tumble.

With no concern at all for the man-thing he had just killed, his father dropped the weapon and bent to take up the body of Grandpa. Duke stared at the headless body for a long time before turning to see both of the men of his family in the bloody grass. He had always vaguely wondered if his father and grandfather loved each other. They had never said it that he had heard and they always seemed to argue. He saw the truth of it for the first time as his dad cradled the body of his own dad and cried.

A moan that was other than memory came again, slipping around the corner of the barn. Duke’s past melted into the present and he blinked back the first tears he had ever shed for his father or grandfather. For twenty years, he had denied the events of that night, and written off his own father as mad for all his
stories about the returning dead and admonishments about responsibility. Now, despite belief and common sense, he knew what he needed to do just as surely as he knew his own name. He looked down at the shotgun in his hands and realized that he had been ready since the first whisper of sound had come off the fields.

Raising the weapon to his shoulder, Duke took his bead on the jutting corner of the barn.

“Here I am,” he called, and then waited.

Waiting didn’t last long. A shambling, fat wad of a man rounded the corner, stepping into the barn’s shadow, his chest lining up with the sights of the shotgun. Looking hard through the dim light, Duke could just make out the dark outline of a tie over a white shirt. It was wearing a suit.