The Rabid: Rise

by J. V. Roberts

  “Hey, sis...”

  “Yeah?” She looks up from the box she's tunneling through.

  I want to tell her I'm proud of her. That I love her. That, right now, she's all I've got and I can’t imagine having to do all of this without her by my side.

  The wall behind me explodes.

  I am off my feet, flying through the air, an immense pressure and heat at my back...carrying me. I bounce off the shed beside Bethany. The world becomes static and then I hear the gunshots.

  4

  I'm on the ground beside Bethany, coughing as smoke fills the air around us. There is still debris coming down on top of our heads; mostly disintegrated ceiling tiles and mortar from the wall that has just been blown apart.

  I have a vague notion that we are being attacked.

  That I need to get Bethany up and pull her into cover.

  My gun...

  I need to grab my gun.

  Bullets whip and crack above my head.

  Clarity!

  “Bethany, get up, come on!” I grab her under one arm, retrieving the Ruger at the same time.

  Another burst of gunfire fills the hall and splashes into the shed door beside us; the metal reverberates like a drumhead. I drag Bethany with me towards the end of the hall, straight towards the smoldering hole in the side of the building. I duck right, just as another volley of gunfire careens towards our backs. There is a cement column at the end of each row of sheds, dividing the halls. It's narrow. Just wide enough for me. I hold Bethany tight against my chest as I throw myself against it, one arm curled around her lower back, the other tucked by my side, clutching the Ruger.

  “Sis, are you okay?” I look down at her face. White powder from the disintegrated ceiling tiles clings to her hair.

  She nods rapidly, pulling the P-32 from the waistband of her jeans. “Yeah, I'm fine. I've got bells in my ears.”

  “Me too.” I pull her in closer and inch my head across her right shoulder, trying to see through the hole, trying to get a glimpse of the parking lot below.

  I don't want to expose myself too much.

  They've probably got shooters down there waiting.

  God forbid they lob another explosive through the breach.

  We're fucked if they do.

  The tail end of a pale brown Humvee comes into view. Then there is the gunner’s nest in the center, and the .50 barrel aimed directly at my head.

  I slam myself back against the wall as the dull :::thunk::::::thunk:::thunk::: of gunfire rips through the air and sends high caliber bullets whizzing towards my face.

  “Motherfucker!” I yell.

  White flashes cut across my field of vision as the tracer rounds zoom up from below, missing us by inches, embedding themselves overhead, tearing the ceiling down on top of us. Behind us the hollow pop of sub-machine gun fire kicks up again, chipping away at our cover, slicing off jagged pieces of cement and lobbing them at my cheek.

  We’re fucked both ways. They’ve got us pinned down solid.

  I blind fire three shots in the general direction of our attackers. “Fuck you!”

  The attack only seems to grow more ferocious in the face of my aggression.

  The strings of gunfire weave together until I'm no longer able to tell them apart; where they begin, where they end. They wrap themselves up and around our necks, strangling the air from our lungs.

  Just as the surface threatens to disappear from view a disembodied voice breaks through the madness.

  “Cease fire!”

  The order echoes its way down the chain and into the parking lot below.

  “Cease fire!”

  “Cease fire!”

  “Hey, Captain says to cease fire!”

  I straighten my legs up.

  Dare to breathe.

  The air is still heavy with smoke and powdered building fragments.

  I hack and spit.

  I check Bethany.

  She's rubbing a hand across her eyes, the P-32 hanging loose at her side.

  “Hey, kid, it's Captain Dwyer, Army, Special Forces.”

  “Are you Captain Styles’ replacement? You heard what I did to him, right?” I'm tensed up, ready for the pandemonium to break loose again.

  “I am no replacement. I am simply Captain Styles. Whatever you did. Whoever you killed. Better a bullet than a bite, I say.”

  “Well, Dwyer, he was a bit of an asshole, you've got some pretty big shoes to fill.”

  There's the sound of cast off shells clinking against one another like broken glass as boots shuffle and positions are changed.

  Coming in closer?

  Moving further away?

  Taking up vantage points that are more advantageous?

  There's no way I'm exposing my head long enough to find out.

  “Listen here, there's only two ways this is going down...”

  “Oh boy, the old tough guy book of clichés, exciting. Let me guess, we give up, or you kill us. Creative, really, I'm shivering.”

  “Listen up and listen good, you little shit. I've got a couple of the best goddamn crack shots in the business. Right now you've got two Seals and a Ranger staring down their sights at you. We've even got a Delta boy out there on that .50. Cliché or not, that's the score. So yeah, you've got two options.”

  Think Timmy, think.

  Two ways out.

  The hole in the wall or the stairwell.

  Both are covered up, thick.

  The bastard is right.

  We're dead, either way.

  Go down shooting or give them the satisfaction of dragging it out nice and slow.

  But Bethany...

  “So, Seals, Delta, and a Ranger; it's really nice to see everyone coming together during these hard times.” I check the magazine on the Ruger and find seven rounds left.

  “These aren't fellas to be trifled with, son.”

  “Well, I'm still kicking, Captain. Count me unimpressed. Have the asshole outside launch a few more rounds in. There are still a few ceiling tiles left.”

  “Throw out the cross and we'll let you and your sister go.”

  The words juggle around in my throat before appearing on my tongue. “No idea what you're talking about.”

  “There's no room for bullshit kid, we've already identified the item we're looking for and have confirmed that it's in your possession. Throw it out and we can all walk away from this.”

  “What if he's telling the truth, Tim?” Bethany tugs at the back of my shirt, looking up at me, her eyes wide, her face covered in dust and plaster.

  “He's not.”

  “But what if he is?” She says, trying to pull away from me.

  “Bethany, shut up, okay, just shut up for a minute.”

  “You can trust us, kid. We're men of honor. You know what it means to be a man of honor, don't you?”

  “Trust you? You just tried to kill us, you jack-ass.”

  “It was a show of force, nothing more. A shot fired over the deck, just to get your attention and now we've got it.”

  The image of their bullets flying past my sister’s head is still a fresh wound for me. “Yeah, you've got my attention.” I cock my arm around the corner and fire off two more rounds, retracting quickly in the face of the synchronous pop-pop-pop reply of the submachine gun fire.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!”

  The settling of shells.

  The sound of a magazine being ejected and a fresh one being loaded.

  “You listen here, you little shit. Your run is over. This is it. Make it easy on yourself. Throw out that cross along with any and all weapons or we will kill you and that little bitch.”

  I know it's over. That I am just stalling the inevitable. I always told myself that if it ever came to this that I wouldn't be like the other pathetic bastards; clinging and clawing to life. That I'd go out and stand tall and face my fate like a man.

  It's not that easy though.

  The reaper is knocking at the door.

  Hard.
/>
  I'm giving him every excuse I've got, but, he’s growing impatient.

  Be right there, fixing my tie, gimme one minute.

  I can't ward him off much longer. He’ll break through and take me.

  Worse...

  he’ll take her.

  Ready or not, here I come.

  “I'm ready Tim.” Bethany is looking up at me. Her eyes are glossy but her voice is steady.

  “Ready?”

  “To go down fighting. They're going to hurt us, bad. It's better to go down fighting. Better for it to be quick.”

  “No, Bethany, don't you dare!”

  Bethany is holding her gun. Checking the magazine. Pulling back the slide. “Tim, I love you, but there's no getting out of this.” I can feel her trying to pull away. “I love you, Tim.”

  “Stop, stop, no, Bethany!” She's wriggling. Clawing my one arm from around her waist while warding off the other with the back of her gun hand. “I love you, please, stop!”

  When did I start crying?

  When I realized that there was no stopping her?

  When I realized that I'd just held my sister for the last time?

  She’s standing in the hallway now. Raising her weapon. Answering the knocking at the door.

  “I love you, Tim,” she says, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  My knees buckle. I can't reach her. I can't save her. Not this time.

  That submachine gun pop pulls the oxygen from my lungs once more.

  Sinister.

  Like some tiny blade trying to sink its tip into a vital organ.

  There is the thud of bodies.

  I'm screaming.

  Arms reaching.

  Bethany...

  She’s still standing.

  Gun outstretched.

  Mouth wide with disbelief.

  5

  I step from cover. I stand beside Bethany. Knees still shaky. Eyes still wet. Gun raised. Ready to meet the reaper right along with her.

  The reaper isn't here for me.

  It's here for Dwyer and his squad.

  He’s a tall dark skinned man with a scraggly chin strap and hoop earrings. He carries a silenced machine gun. He wears a black tactical vest that carries two spare magazines across the right side of his belly. There is a pistol holstered diagonally across the left side with another magazine of ammunition in a Velcro pouch sitting directly on top of it.

  The dark skinned man's partner is shorter in stature. She's got fiery eyes that shift from blue to green in the changing light. Her hair falls across her right shoulder in streaks of blonde and black, the left side of her head is shaved close. She wears a white tank top, now stained red with blood. It falls just short of her navel, exposing a dark black tattoo that winds in elegant curves up her tanned torso, partially concealed by the cropped shirt and low riding brown khakis tucked into high top black combat boots. She carries twin katanas dripping with crimson and entrails. She twirls them into their sheaths and smiles with full red lips as Dwyer’s head lies detached beside her left foot. The machine gun pop I'd heard when Bethany stepped into the hall had been Dwyer’s trigger finger locked in a death squeeze, like a chicken running around with its head cut off; he'd sprayed MP5 rounds in a rainbow arch before coming to rest on his back.

  The tall dark man steps across the pile of severed limbs and punctured torsos, his gun pointed down towards the floor. I can't tell if he is a threat. “I am Ruiz, this is my sister Katia. You're the one with the item?”

  I take a step forward, placing Bethany behind me, ready to raise my pistol sights on him.

  “We're not here to hurt you or your sister. We're here to help.”

  A voice echoes up the stairwell behind them. “Hey, you two, okay up there?”

  Katia bounds over to the railing. She looks to be nineteen...twenty, max...not much older than me but a hell of a lot less scared. “Yeah, Loco, we're squared away. Give us a minute.” She turns around, gripping the railing. “Ruiz, rapido, we need to get moving before more show up.”

  “Listen...” Ruiz takes another step, extending a hand and waving us towards him.

  “Timmy. And this is Bethany.”

  “Well, Timmy, Bethany, we're not here to hurt you. We're the good guys and girls.” He smiles back at his sister. “We can explain everything in the truck, but we've gotta go. There's gonna be a search party scrambling for these fellas soon. We don't want to be in the area.”

  Bethany gives me a little shove forward. “Grab the go-bag,” I say softly. She runs into the open storage shed, scoops up our duffle, and secures it over her shoulder. I grab her hand and we move towards the stairs behind Ruiz and Katia, careful to step around and over the considerable pools of blood and severed flesh.

  Outside there are two men pulling the headless body of the .50 gunner from the top of the Humvee. Katia’s work, no doubt.

  “Loco, take that one,” Ruiz is addressing a heavy set man wearing a rifle strapped across one shoulder. His faded blue jeans sag low across the middle of his ass. “Draper, you drive theirs, it's parked around the back of the building.” Draper is a waifish man with a hawk’s beak for a nose. “Kid, throw me the keys.”

  I tuck the pistol away and fumble around in my pockets, emerging a few seconds later with the Humvee key. “Where are we riding?”

  “You two are in the truck with me and Katia. It'll give us time to talk.” He tosses Draper the key. “Here, give me that bag, I'll put it in the bed,” he says to Bethany.

  The truck is all black metal: a beast with 5 inches of lift and 35 inch tires. Two aluminum exhaust stacks extend upward off either side of the bed; they are growling, wound tight, waiting for the gears to drop, waiting for release.

  Ruiz steps up onto the passenger running board and pops the door for us. He gives Bethany an initial boost. She pulls herself the rest of the way using the back of the headrest. Next, it's my turn. He offers me the same treatment.

  “Nah, I've got it,” I say, waving him off.

  “Go for it, bro.” He backs away, arms folded.

  I claw my way up, slinging one leg over the side like a kid trying to climb out of the deep end of a pool with no ladder. I grip the bottom of the passenger seat and slither, grunting and gritting my teeth. I pull myself up to my knees, panting. I can hear Katia and Bethany giggling at my effort. I feel my face flush and quickly plant myself in the backseat, head turned down.

  “I offered the kid a helping a hand,” Ruiz says, as he pulls himself into the passenger seat with two graceful moves.

  Katia looks to Ruiz, her katanas stacked across the center console. “We good?”

  “Yeah, let's head back.”

  Katia drops it into reverse and torques her body back between the seats, staring through the rear window. “Excuse me.”

  There is a crash. We jolt towards the ceiling, smashing our heads against the thinly coated metal. The truck is sitting at an angle, the front bumper pointed towards the pavement, the back tires resting atop a wrecked Volvo.

  “You two may want to buckle up,” Ruiz says, gripping the hand bar above his head.

  “Whooooo, baby!” Katia squeals with delight before cranking it into drive.

  We come up out of our seats again as the tires drop back onto the pavement.

  “We need to have Carlos put another inch or two on this lift, bro, we could pancake everything, no more dodge and weave shit, ya know?” Katia looks at Ruiz with a glimmer of hope in her eyes, the corners of her mouth curling with delight; a wild girl.

  “No way! We aren’t putting anymore resources into this. You got your truck, you got your lift, you're good, sis.”

  She gives a halfhearted pout before turning back to the road and slamming her foot into the accelerator. “Deadhead, straight away.” We barely feel the bump as she tramples across a Rabid with the two left tires. “His walking days are over,” Katia announces, checking the mirror for any signs of life.

  Katia is a whiz behind the wheel. She’s able to turn the
hulking piece of metal around most of the objects in our path with little effort. When we can’t cut the gap, she takes it slow, popping the wheels up and dropping them down, ever so gently, rocking us in our seats like infants in a crib.

  I find myself staring, more than once, at the way the muscles work beneath the taut flesh of her shoulders and biceps as she turns the wheel, the curve of her torso, her legs...Katia is beautiful. The most beautiful girl I've ever seen.

  “So,” Ruiz jerks around suddenly, “Timmy, Bethany, how're you two holding up? Some crazy shit back there, ya'll feeling okay after seeing all that?”

  Bethany nods.

  “We’ve seen worse,” I say.

  “Yeah, I bet. World is crazy man, crazy,” he trails off.

  “Thanks for pulling us out of the fire.” I extend my hand.

  Ruiz accepts it with a firm double grip. “Hey, we've got you, hermano.”

  I lift the cross from beneath my shirt, balancing it on the back of my left hand like a jeweler enticing a customer. “The man that gave me this said the answers would find me. Are you two the answers?”

  “I suppose we are.” Ruiz grins.

  “The answers, eh,” Katia says. “I'm used to being called that bitch with the swords and the haircut.”

  “What are you going on about?” Ruiz asks.

  “That last arms shipment we hit over near McKinney. That one guy, soldier with the stars tattooed on the inside of his forearms.”

  “The guy who's head you cleaved?”

  “He called me a bitch, hijo de puta, had it coming.”

  Ruiz shakes his head. “Ignore her, she's a little crazy.”

  “I think we all are at this point.” I steal a glance at the mirror. She's smiling back at me. My heart skips a beat. I clear my throat to set it back on course.