The Rabid: Fall (17 page)

“And I can’t forgive you.”

I pull the trigger.

***

Percy is standing in front of Ronald’s house. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. In lieu of the medical bag, he’s carrying a revolver, the hammer cocked back, ready to go.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah.”

“Both of them?”

My silence serves as confirmation.

As I step down onto the street, I notice everyone watching me from their windows; mothers and fathers clutching their children, old folks, and teenagers, all of them waiting to see what I’ll do next.

“Ronald is dead.” I turn in place, watching them as their eyes widen in disbelief, their shock reaching my ears as indecipherable murmurs. “I know that you have suffered under him, that he’s used your loved ones as leverage to keep you here against your will. As of tonight, you’re free. You can stay in Próta or you can take your loved ones and go. Percy and I are heading over to collect the hostages. They are being held under heavy guard. We could use the extra hands. There are plenty of guns lying around, so come on down and take your pick.”

Soon front doors are creaking open and folks are popping their heads out, looking up and down the street suspiciously, as if this is all just some big prank. I let them take their time and feel it out. A small group of men and women collect the scattered weapons from the bodies and gather around me and Percy.

“Alright,” I look to Percy, “let’s get our people back.”

It’s a ten-minute walk to the cellar. We venture beyond the fence line and into a sparse patch of forest. The four guards see us coming from a ways off and take up cover behind some of the nearby trees.

“Stop or we will shoot you!”

I hold up a fist, signaling the group to halt. “Get down,” I whisper. They fan out behind me and I continue on. “Ronald is dead. His daughter is dead. His guards and Daniel are, you guessed it, dead. Now you boys have two choices: throw down your guns and run your asses out of here or stay and die. Choose quickly. I’m tired and would really like to see my girlfriend.” The way I see it, enough blood has been shed.

A few tense moments pass.

A moustache-adorned face leans from cover. “How do we know you’ll keep your word and let us go?”

“I guess you don’t.” I’m not in the mood to coddle the men that have held and abused Katia. If they give up, fine. If not, I’ll add them to the pyre.

The wind whistles through the trees as the folks at my back chamber rounds and ready their weapons. I’m standing in the middle of it all like some wannabe John Wayne; drunk on the knowledge that I just singlehandedly killed a small army.

I hold my breath, waiting for the pot to boil over.

“Alright, we surrender.”

A rifle is thrown out.

Then another.

Then two more after that.

The four men, wearing dress shirts and jeans, step out with their hands in the air. I’m pretty sure I can see their knees rattling. Their eyes are on the rifle in my hands, on my trigger finger, all of them probably questioning their decision to give up.

“Go on, get out of here.” I gesture with my weapon.

They exchange glances.

“Just like that?”

“I’m a man of my word. Now get the hell out of here.”

The cellar is a square of old wood built into the forest floor.

“Watch my back.”

“I’ve got you.” Percy raises his rifle over my shoulder.

I lift the circular, brass handle and prepare to rip the door back. My desire to hold Katia in my arms is clashing furiously with my survival instinct. I use the door as a shield, steering clear of the mouth slowly opening in the earth. Everything inside is pitch-black.

“Someone get me a flashlight!”

“Flashlight!” Percy echoes.

Before anyone can respond, a hand emerges from the abyss, clawing the loose earth around the opening. Another follows. Then there’s a head. It’s as if hell is giving birth. But rather than a demon emerging from the void, an angel appears.

My angel. 

“Oh baby, I’ve got you.” I throw my rifle aside as if it just burned me and fall to my knees, pulling her the rest of the way. I slide back on my butt and sit against the nearest tree, guiding her onto my lap.

“Where’s that flashlight?” Percy sounds off again.

Everyone is scrambling for the cellar now, calling out for their loved ones, each name running into the next.

I’m holding Katia around the waist. Her head hangs limply across my forearm. Her eyes are open and glistening. Her face is broken and bruised. She stares at the cellar as if she can see down into the darkness and touch the evil that resides there.

“Katia, look at me.” I prop two fingers against her cheek and try to turn her face towards me. She doesn’t resist, but her eyes refuse to meet mine. It’s as if she’s still in the cellar, lost, with no hope of salvation. As soon as I remove the support of my fingers, her face falls away, flopping back across my forearm as if her neck is broken; it’s not, I can feel her breathing. “I’m so sorry. Do you hear me, baby? I’m so sorry. You’re safe now. No one can hurt you. I’m here.”

But I wasn’t there. Not when it counted. 

The revelation feels like hot coals in my belly.

Momma, Bethany, and now Katia; it’s three strikes and you’re out, right?

I hug Katia to me, hoping she’ll respond, hoping that her arms will coil around me and she’ll tell me it’s okay, that it’s not my fault, that she forgives me and everything can go back to how it was.

What’s going through her head right now?

Is she reliving the beatings?

Sonny’s execution?

Is she seeing Lydia…my hands on her body?

She made me! There was a gun to my head—to your head! Forgive me, please?

Time, that’s what it’s going to take. If I start bombarding her, it’s just going to push her further down the rabbit hole.

Folks are milling around in front of me, hugging their family. Some are in better shape than Katia, some are worse. Percy shuffles over to me, propping up an emaciated black man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in rags. The man can barely lift his head; he looks at me with tired, bloodshot eyes.

“Roger, this is Tim, the kid I was just telling you about. Tim, this is my husband, Roger.”

Roger slides out of Percy’s grasp and falls down in front of me, weeping, clutching my ankles. He drops his forehead against my shins. “Thank you. You saved my life, you saved my life.”

“I’m…you’re welcome.” I don’t know what to say. Sitting here, holding Katia’s battered body…I’ve never felt more unworthy of praise than I do right now.

I think Percy can read the conflict in my expression. He reaches down and lifts Roger back to his feet. “Is she okay?”

I shrug. A single tear escapes from my right eye. “I don’t know.”

“What’s her name, again?”

“Katia.”

“Katia, you’ve got a brave man. He saved a lot of people today.”

She blinks. At least it’s something.

“I’ll be happy to take a look at her, before you two head out.”

I nod, brushing her hair back out of her face.

“I’ll let you two be alone. I’ll get everyone back and make sure everything is secure. Drop by my office whenever you’re ready.”

25

The ten-minute walk back to the settlement takes fifteen. I’m carrying Katia in my arms, stopping every couple steps to ask her if she’s okay, to plead with her to speak to me.

“Just one word so I know you’re okay, that’s all I’m asking?”

Her eyes remain unfocused and glossy, fixated on some dark dimension to which I don’t have access. Her body remains limp, her hands folded across her stomach, refusing to latch onto me.

When I walk into Percy’s office, he’s already waiting. There’s an empty cot with clean sheets all spread out. I delicately set Katia down and stand back, letting Percy work his magic.

“Has she said anything?” he asks as he checks her pupils.

“No. She won’t even touch me.”

“Don’t take it personally.” He checks her pulse against his wristwatch.

“Can’t say I blame her after…everything.”

“Eh, that’s not what this is.” He stands back and crosses his arms, looking down at her with a slight frown on his face.

“What the hell is it? I’m lost. I can take on the Rabid. I can take on Ronald. But I can’t fight what I can’t see.” Watching her lie there like a corpse, unable to bring her back to life, is eating a fresh hole in me.

“Almost positive this is a combat stress reaction.”

I shake my head.

“Combat fatigue, I’ve seen it once or twice. Folks get overloaded by so much horrible stuff that they just shut down. It’s a coping mechanism. Think of it like tripping a circuit breaker.”

“What do we do?”

He shrugs. “Nothing to do. It’s not permanent. It just takes time. Best thing you can do is give her simplicity. She needs rest and food. She doesn’t need to be doing any of the heavy lifting; physically or mentally. But she should bounce back.” He gets a small pen light and starts highlighting her wounds. He presses and prods the flesh, lifting her arms and legs. He pulls up her shirt and checks the bruising on her ribs. I half expect her to shoot up and wrap her hands around his throat. But she remains motionless. “Nothing seems broken, but they worked her over good.”

“Yeah and they got theirs.” I suddenly want to pull the trigger on Ronald again. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen this before, with my mom. After my dad died and after her boyfriend died, she just shut down, started sucking down benzos and sleeping pills like they were candy.”

“Sounds like the same thing.”

I pull up a nearby chair, sit down, and take Katia’s hand. “How’s your husband?”

“Thinner than the last time I saw him. But it’s okay; he had a few pounds to lose.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Percy laugh. “You and the girl should stay for a few days.”

I shake my head. “No. We’ll pass the night and then I’m taking her out of here. This place has got nothing but ghosts for the both of us. If there’s any chance of things getting back to how they were, it won’t happen here. But you’re more than welcome to join us on the road to D.C.”

“You really think there’s something there?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“I think we’ll stay here. With Ronald and his goons out of the way, maybe we’ll figure out how to make this place a home. I’m in no shape to be bouncing around anyway. I’d just slow you down.”

Katia’s head is turned towards me, her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady; she seems to have fallen asleep. I pray that when she opens them again the spell will have lifted and I’ll have my best friend back.

“We’re going to need transport and supp—”

“Whatever you need, you’ll have it; we owe you. Now go upstairs and find yourself a bed. I’ll look after her. You’re going to need your rest too; this girl will be counting on you.”

Count on me?

That’s a dangerous proposition.

26

Percy delivers on his word. He sees that we’re outfitted with a white panel van and enough food and water to see us through to D.C. He’s also generous with the arsenal: three handguns, two rifles, and enough ammunition to reload each a half-dozen times.

When I hit interstate 40, Katia is snoring away in the passenger seat, her knees drawn to her chest. Her katanas sit on the floor between our seats, waiting for her when she returns from whatever nightmare holds her.

The interstate is two lanes on either side, divided by a shallow ditch. Both sides are flanked by tall, full-bodied trees. On a normal day, it’s a sixteen-hour car ride to D.C. But with the destruction and Rabid to contend with, I reckon our travel time will double. I switch between watching the road and watching Katia. We pass under lonely bridges and breeze past deserted rest stops and gas stations as the sun radiates through the windshield. I dig around in the center console and rummage through the glove compartment, hoping to find a misplaced pair of sunglasses. When my search comes up empty, I settle on dropping the visor and squinting.

The road is relatively clear at the moment. Most of the wrecks have been pushed aside by the survivors that have come before. The Rabid have thinned out. I keep the needle on the speedometer hovering around 30mph. By the time they realize I’m there, it’s too late. I watch their reflection shrink in the mirror, their arms moving like pinwheels, their jaws clacking away.

As each hour passes, the needle on the gas gauge sinks lower. I’ll need to stop soon. Percy outfitted me with a gas can and a hose. I can siphon with the best of them. It’s just a matter of supply. This patch of interstate has been well worn by survivors just like me; survivors looking for food and gasoline. After all, it’s the main artery to D.C. I keep an eye on the cars and trucks as I pass. Each one sits with their gas cap hanging like the tongue of some dead mutt.

I’m starting to get that rumbling in my belly. That knotted up feeling.

Rock bottom is rapidly approaching.

“Sure could use your help, baby.” I reach out and lay my hand on her thigh.

She doesn’t move. 

There’s a sign for a rest stop twenty miles up the road; as good a place as any to hunt for gasoline.

I’ve got to keep reminding myself that I’m not driving the Humvee; there’s not armor or a bullet-resistant windshield. This is just a plain, old-fashioned, white panel van. If it hits hard enough, it’ll go crunch just like any other vehicle. With that in mind, I go around the Rabid rather than through them. The last thing I need is an arm or leg bone penetrating the engine block.

Ten miles to the rest stop.

There are doubts that still tether me to Próta. 

Should I have taken Percy’s advice and stayed put? It’d have given Katia time to recover in peace. What if I can’t protect her? I haven’t been able to protect anyone up to this point.

What’s changed?

Nothing.

I try to find solace in telling myself that this is what Katia would have wanted. She’d have wanted me to keep searching for Ruiz, no matter what. That’s what I’m doing.

What’s waiting in D.C.?

Could be nothing.

Could be everything.

Up ahead is a sign ushering me into the rest stop. I follow the arrow and enter the parking lot. The van rocks as I bump over an uneven slab of concrete. The open space is littered with bones and bloodstains. Cars sit at awkward angles, sporting open doors and broken windows. I take heart in the fact that the main structure, containing the bathrooms, is still standing.

I pull in sideways at the back of the parking lot and cut the engine.

Katia doesn’t stir.

I reach down and take up a rifle; I’ve already got a .45 tucked into my waistband. “Don’t go anywhere,” I say to Katia as I slide out with the keys in hand.

I remove the .45 and shoulder the rifle; the pistol has a suppressor and I’m trying to keep the crowd to a minimum. Every few steps, I pause and listen; just the breeze rustling the treetops. I step carefully as I slink between the cars, doing my best to avoid crushing the bones of the dead. All of the vehicles seem to have already been pillaged; open doors and open gas caps; some have even had their engines stripped.

“I could fall backwards down a flight of stairs and still not catch a break.” I go to kick an empty suitcase in frustration and stop just short of making contact. I notice something sitting beyond the parking lot, where the grass meets the woodline. It’s the underside of a truck; all I can see is the front half, the tires staring out at me like a pair of alien eyeballs. The truck is sitting straight up, the front bumper grinning at the sky. I pick up the pace, still being cautious of my surroundings, slicing the pie just the way Bo taught me; turning slow circles, making sure my sights sweep every possible threat.

The earth drops off completely at the woodline, giving way to a fast-moving creek. The bottom half of the truck is buried beneath the water, but the gas cap is still exposed.

Even better, it’s closed!

I race back to the van, leave the rifle, and grab the hose and the gasoline container, returning to the half-submerged truck as fast as my feet will carry me. 

Making my way down to the creek is a tricky endeavor. I slide down the steep hill on my butt, controlling my velocity with the heels of my boots, trying not to snag my balls on the roots looping out of the ground in front of me. I splash down, the water rising up over the tops of my knees and higher still as my feet slip and slide over the smooth rocks beneath me. It’s icy cold. It rips the breath from my lungs and sets my teeth to chattering. It’s dark down here beneath the canopy of trees, this little canyon doesn’t get much light, I’m guessing it stays damp year ‘round.

I shiver towards the cab. The door is open and the seats inside are empty; this is going to be easy. I squint as my hand searches beneath the dash for the lever to open the gas cap door. I prick my finger on something sharp and pull back, cursing and sucking at the swell of blood.  As I lean in for a second attempt, something breaks the water behind me. I cease all movement, my heart pounding the walls of my chest like a bass drum. The wet growl tells me all I need to know.

Rabid.

I toss the gas can and hose into the cab and turn, raising my pistol.

There’s just one of them, standing about twenty-five yards upstream, arms outstretched, green plant life clinging to its gray, rubber face.

It takes a step towards me with its left leg.

I line up my shot, waiting for it to take its next step.

It doesn’t.

Its right leg is stuck between the rocks. It looks like it’s been here for quite some time; it’s pretty much just torn skin and splintered bones. It’s straining to reach me, muscles and tendons tearing and popping; I figure I’m the first hot meal it has seen in some time.

Once I realize it can’t move, I start to relax. I lower the pistol. Why waste a bullet?

I chuckle.

I can’t help it.

This thing…this Rabid…something that has caused me so much pain and suffering, to see it rendered helpless and placed at my mercy…well, it has to be some sort of omen, a sign that things are getting better.

“Tides are turning, you sonofabitch.” I raise my middle finger.

I notice the water rippling about five yards back from where the first Rabid emerged.

Another Rabid slowly rises up from the depths. The water slides across its gray flesh in glistening sheets, its white eyeballs are already fixed on my position.

Then another rises.

And another.

Soon I’m staring at a field of a half-dozen, waterlogged Rabid. All of them are stuck between the rocks. All of them are desperately trying to get loose so they can sink their teeth into me.

I raise the gun and lower it. Then I raise it again, trying to make the smart play, trying to leave fear out of the equation.

They’re Rabid, but they’re caged.

The only problem is that I don’t know how strong the lock is.

As if to answer my question, the Rabid at the rear of the pack breaks loose, ripping its leg in half just above the left knee. It spirals towards me like a torpedo, carried by the current, bowling over the other five Rabid in its path. I scramble backwards, firing wildly at the tangle of gray limbs. Geysers illustrate where my bullets hit the water. I’m unable to keep up with the current and my shots are lagging a good five paces behind my intended targets. I jump backwards into the cab, right before the fleshy mass crashes into the side of the truck. The truck rocks with the impact. I pull myself upright, gripping the steering wheel and standing on the back of the driver’s seat. I level my pistol at the horde of frothing, one-legged Rabid. They’re now pulling their bodies over the door frame. I don’t know how many bullets I’ve got left; I pray it’s enough.

Something sharp rakes across my back, tearing through my shirt and the flesh beneath. I cry out and lurch forward, trying to escape the source of the pain. I lose my grip on the pistol and it goes flying over the heads of the Rabid and into the water. I turn and see two more Rabid climbing into the cab from the passenger side. One of them is already halfway in, hand outstretched, sharp claws now adorned in my blood.

I’m screwed. Totally and undeniably screwed.

I kick out left, catching the lead Rabid on the passenger side in the mouth. Its jaw snaps in half. I kick out again, harder this time. The heel of my boot caves in one side of its face and sends it sliding backwards out of the cab, taking the other one along with it.

I turn back to the six, one-legged Rabid on the other side, just in time to dodge a set of gnashing teeth. “Sonofabitch!” I lay into the top of its skull with my fist; one, two, three times. I don’t make a dent. I wrap my hands around either side of its head and plunge my thumbs into its eye sockets, popping the eyeballs like grapes. I shove the blind Rabid backwards, using its body to shield against the attacks of the five monsters trying to climb in behind him. I only realize that I’m screaming when my lungs start to crackle and my throat begins to burn.

I’ll go to my grave fighting.

Something splashes down in the water behind the flailing group of Rabid.

Damn it! Another one!

All six of their heads detach simultaneously, flipping into the air like graduation caps.

Katia!

She rises up to full height, holding her katana sideways in front of her face. Bruised and battered, the warrior has returned. I’m speechless and slack-jawed, holding the detached Rabid head like a bowling ball; two fingers in the eyes, one in the right nostril.

“You wanna put that down and move?” She’s panting, but the fire is back in her eyes. I drop the severed head and allow Katia to pull me from the truck. She pushes past me and, with surgical precision, finishes the remaining Rabid on the other side of the cab.

“Babe, are you okay?”

She shrugs me off and sheaths her sword. “Looks like I should be asking you that question. What the hell are you doing down here?”

“Getting gas.” I toss a thumb towards the canister and hose sitting inside the cab.

“Without a gun?”

“I had a gun. I sort of lost it in the creek.”

“Sort of?”

“I freaked out and dropped it.”

“A girl goes comatose for a day and the whole world comes apart.”

I can’t wait any longer.

I pull her face to my chest. The tears come without warning. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”

“Hush. Don’t do that.” Her arms fold around me and suddenly the world slips back onto its axis. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I couldn’t save—”

“I said don’t do that. All you could do was survive…that’s all any of us can do.”

Somehow, her forgiveness only adds to the guilt I feel. There’s a part of me…a very large part…that wants her to blame me. Scream at me. Hit me. Tell me it’s all my fault. Vindicate my pain.

“Just tell me that you killed that bitch.”

“I killed that bitch.”

She hugs me tighter. “Thank you.”

We stand there like that for I-don’t-know-how-long. Time doesn’t exist in this world like it did in the old. It’s no longer about clock faces. It’s the crispness of the morning and the warm massage of high-noon. It’s the shadows crawling slowly across the ground and the harmonic crescendo of the insect choirs. 

I can no longer see the sun through the trees when we finally break our embrace.

“Let’s get that gasoline and get back on the road, what do you think?”

I wipe my eyes. “Sounds good to me.”