I glance up at the last second, just before I get my arms around their waist, and I see the face of my gym teacher, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I also see the two-foot wooden spear he is clutching in his hands, drawn back, ready to plunge into my chest.
I skid to a stop like some cartoon bird at the edge of a cliff, almost spilling backwards onto my rear end.
These boots are anything but practical.
“What in the world kid, what are you doing over here?” He asks, still reared back like some tribesman, the business end of what I now see is a converted broom handle staring me in the face. Red stains dot his button down oxford. His eyes pulse in their sockets. He’s been on the front lines, he’s seen things.
Maybe he's seen Bethany.
“My sister, I’m looking for her, have you seen her. You know, Bethany, she’s got the purple in her hair, face piercing?”
“I dunno kid, but you can’t stay here. The halls are crawling with those monsters.” He grabs me underneath my arm with one of his oversized mitts before I can form a protest, using the other to tote the Broomspear. I lock my legs, leaving black scuff marks in my wake, as he tugs me along behind him as if I am luggage.
“You need to let me go, right now, sir. I’m not leaving here without my sister.” I strike out at his hands, pounding at his knuckles with the heels of my palms. He keeps right on moving as if he doesn’t even notice.
“Quiet down the racket kid, you’ll get us both killed.” He is pulling me further away from my mission, and putting Bethany’s life in jeopardy with each additional second he delays me. She is out there, waiting for me, and if it’s up to Coach Fitz, she’ll stay out there to die.
Bethany is smart. She'll be hiding somewhere. She'll be waiting for me. She'll be waiting for the sound of my voice telling her it's safe for her to come out.
Unless those things have gotten to her already.
No, not an option, she is safe, and waiting.
As we enter the atrium, my legs are starting to tire of the struggle, we are quickly closing in on the double doors with the big red exit sign, when something inside of me clicks over. These are drastic times, and in drastic times, drastic measures have to be taken.
I straighten up, take two steps forward to match his stride, and kick up from behind with a steel toed boot tip.
THUMP!
Right between his legs. I feel the crunch of his testicles, a surge of sympathy, and a hint of regret. He gasps like a punctured balloon and falls to his knees, the Broomspear clattering to the floor beside him. His face is strawberry red as he rocks back and forth clutching his crotch, muttering broken lines of profanity with the little bit of voice he is able to muster.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s my sister, and I’m not leaving without her.” I grab his weapon, figuring I’ll have more use for it where I’m headed.
2
Back at the entrance of the freshmen wing, I pause to catch my breath. The sensation still reverberates through my leg where I let loose on Coach Fitz. I feel awful, part of me secretly hopes he’ll get chewed on so I don’t have to answer for my crimes down the road.
With my conscience soothed and my breathing steadied, I slither around the corner, Broomspear leading the way from the confines of my chattering hands. An entire section of lockers are overturned, and buried beneath them is a familiar face, Ray Goodman, one of my sisters close friends. I’d caught them in the woods a month ago gathered around an old stereo, smoking cheap cigarettes and listening to unlabeled CD’s from some obscure garage band that his cousins played in. She’d begged me not to rat her out to mom, and so far I hadn’t. It appears now that I won’t need to.
Ray looks dead from where I stand. It’s the way his arms are splayed out, all crooked, like some gore soaked snow angel. Lines of blood dribble from the corner of his mouth. I inch towards him, part of me expecting him to kick the lockers through the wall, and come at me with those bleached out eyes.
He stirs and startles me with the sound of his voice. “Tim…my…are we dead?” The parting of his lips frees the dammed up river of blood that has been building inside his mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice as it splashes violently to the floor, dotting the tops of my boots upon impact.
“No, we’re still in school.” I crouch beside him, letting the Broomspear rest on the floor above his head.
“So we’re in hell then.” He gives a weak smile, observing me through tiny slits.
He’s fading fast, and I have questions. I don’t want to be rude, he is dying after all, but this is the closest I’ve been to finding my sister. “Bethany, do you know where she’s at?”
“Yeah…I...I seen her.”
He grimaces as I grab his arm, a reflex borne by the jolt of unexpected revelation. I pull myself together, sort of. “Come on man, I know you’re hurtin’, but you gotta tell me, where’s Bethany?”
More blood, darker than the last batch, beats his voice to the punch.
“Hang in there, fight it, and just tell me where she is.”
He is choking now, coughing, and speckling the front of my shirt in crimson. It doesn’t faze me. I'm not sure if my indifference is due to the horrors I've seen, or my eagerness to locate my sister; probably a little of both.
I grab his face in my hands, the fleshy area between my thumb and index finger acting as a miniature cliff for the river of life that flows from deep inside his belly. “Look at me, Ray, where is Bethany? Just a few words, that’s all I’m askin’.”
“Home…room...” The syllables are muted bubbles of sound, but I catch every single one.
“You saw her in homeroom last, Mr. Stewart’s class?”
A tiny nod of affirmation, and then nothing.
I let his head fall, and shut his eyes the rest of the way. It’s the third time that I’ve seen someone die. It feels heavier than the rest. Probably because it’s the first time they haven’t come back as some flesh eating rage demon.
Time to get my sister, and go home. Mr. Stewart’s homeroom is just around the next corner.
I’m slithering and sliding against the wall once more, inching towards the edge, just trying to get a glimpse of what lay in wait beyond the bend. My hands are hot and soggy as they grip Broomspear tight against my chest.
I break the corner, expecting to find instantaneous death staring me in the face.
In a sense, my expectations are met.
Blood streaks the walls and has gathered in boorish puddles around four mangled bodies spread out across the floor. I forget about my own safety, and surge forward to check their face. My heart is about to explode. My breathing comes in spurts. My ears ring as my pulse takes the needle into the red, “Don’t be Bethany, don’t be Bethany,” I fall beside each corpse, desperately turning their face in my hands. I do my best to subdue my gag reflex as I recklessly handle each mangled body. They’ve been chewed up and spit out, or swallowed. It’s like scraping through a bowl of partially solidified gelatin, pieces slip and slide between my fingers.
Three girls, one boy.
Bethany is not among them.
Thank God, oh thank God.
The bites hadn't caused their deaths. Broomspear had. There are gaping holes in their head and neck, maybe even a few in their chest, I can't really tell, it's all peeled flesh and black holes. Coach Fitz had definitely been on the front lines. The blood on his shirt told the tale.
I fall back on my butt against the lockers, resting in the makeshift graveyard. Fatigue overtakes me like a shadow; my legs feel like noodles, the adrenaline high is dying off just when I need it the most. I feel a mess, for crying out loud, I look a mess, like I've jumped into a pool of molasses with all my clothes still on. That sickly sweet smell of copper tinged with feces and vomit, it’s starting to become familiar to me. A constant companion. Can I teach myself to like it the same way folks do with grain whiskey and pop music?
I gather my strength, and my stomach, and slide up the wall of lockers, steadying myself so as not to bust my butt in
the filth spread out beneath me.
Mr. Stewart’s homeroom is just over my shoulder.
With Broomspear leading the way, I press down on the L-shaped handle and venture into the darkness beyond. There is movement in the shadows, dancing between the strips of light that creep in through the pulled blinds. There are two of them. Their backs are to me, they are hunched over like gorillas, sniffing the outside of the metal supply cabinet at the rear of the room. Their breathing is low and frothy. They are hunting.
Bethany!
It has to be. She is in there. I move forward, quickly, desperate to reach her before they do. I’ll stab them…
or I’ll bop them across the head…
whatever…
it’ll come to me.
:::SNAP:::
A pencil explodes beneath my shoe just as I get beyond the first row of desks.
They turn on me.
Growling. Wet and ragged. Just like the others.
One half of the duo is Mr. Stewart…
…sort of.
His typical white polo is nothing more than thin strips of bloody fabric, threatening to fall from his shoulders with each deliberate step taken in my direction.
The other half I vaguely recognize. Some girl, one of Bethany’s clique, she’s passed me in the halls on a couple of occasions after the final bell.
They are fast, uncommonly so, just like Jeff. They plow through the desks as if they aren’t even there, sending them pin-wheeling in either direction. I can practically see myself in the ivory of their eyes before my reflexes kick in. I retreat back, keeping Broomspear aimed in their general direction, as my lower back connects hard with the teachers table at the front of the room, rocking it up on its back legs, and sending the projector crashing to the floor. The pain is immaculate, surging up my spine, and quivering my legs.
Even more immaculate, I find, is my desire to live.
The girl comes at me from the left, the closer of the two. A hideous bite mark presents itself with pride across her jugular like the worlds’ most painful hickey, the mark that has turned her into this thing that now seeks a soft comfortable place on my body to sink its teeth.
I jab at her quick, deliberate, sinking the tip into her shoulder, and pulling back before she can get her hands around it and rip it from my grasp.
Momentum, use it!
I swing to the right, pummeling Mr. Stewart across the ear hard enough that it sends him careening off course, belly first into his own desk.
Momentum, it is all about momentum.
I continue the spin, sinking low as I come around, catching the girl across her right knee. She goes down on one leg. Even with all that, she is still coming towards me, resilient as all get out.
Do these things feel pain?
I come up under her chin, cracking her across the jaw. The force puts her back on her feet and sends her pirouetting far enough away that I am able to roll back over the table, and put some distance as well as a barrier, between us.
“Bethany, run, now, run!” I know she is in that closet, I can feel it in my bones.
“Timmy!” The metal doors of the supply closet crash open. She looks the same as she had that morning when mom dropped us off; purple on black hair, skinny pants, high top converse shoes, and that black scarf she wears no matter the weather. “Oh my God, are you hurt?” Two flesh-eating monsters stand between us, and the only thing catching her eye is my appearance. I know I look a mess, but perhaps it’s worse than I thought.
“I’m fine, run, don’t stop, I’ll be right behind you!”
Bethany hugs the left side of the classroom, eyeing the girl I’ve just stabbed and beaten as she scurries towards the open door. When the girl turns on her, I seize the distraction and slide across the table, shoving Broomspear right through the back of her neck in one swift motion. It bursts through the front of her throat and she falls to her knees, her hands pulling at the three inches of wood protruding from the cold flesh over her voice box.
Bethany locks up. Her face a collage of terror. Her eyes dinner plates serving up the reflection of the monster writhing on the end of my spear.
“Bethany! Pull it together and move!” She makes it quickly through the door as I use my heel to push the girl off the end of Broomspear. Mr. Stewart is lifting himself up from his desk behind me; his right ear is split completely in half from where I made impact. I race to join Bethany in the hall. “Don’t stop running!” I yell, trying my best to close the distance. “To the atrium and out the side exit, don’t stop until you hit the street.” These boots aren’t made for running, and I swear, if I make it out of this, I’ll never wear em’ again.
“I can’t believe you came for me.”
“No man left behind!”
We hop the fallen lockers. I’m not sure if she saw Ray’s body or not, there is no pause in her step, no double take.
Good girl, Bethany, survive!
We practically drift into the main hall. Me more than her, my boots slip and slide as I try to cut the turn without breaking speed. Behind us, there is a thunderous collision, followed by the sound of collapsing cinderblocks. I circle around, slowing my speed, still walking backwards.
Mr. Stewart is plucking himself from a crater he’s made in the wall. Talk about overshooting the turn. Perhaps it isn’t my boots after all. A plume of dust and debris rise around him as if he is some rock star taking the arena stage. Ceiling tiles fall from overhead like so many adoring fans bras and panties, bouncing off his shoulders, and coming to rest at his feet. He raises his head and lets loose with a roar, like some demonic jungle cat.
Cleveland! Are you ready to ROOOCK?
And then he stands there, staring out at us with those white lamps and that sickly gurgle juggling around in his throat.
“What’s he doing? Why’d he stop chasing us?” Bethany huffs, her hands gripping the top of my arm.
Before I can answer, the air around us erupts with a soundtrack straight from hells own recording studio. The rest of the monsters…the ghouls—
Monsters & Ghouls: One Night Only.
—hundreds of them, all of them answering his call.
An army.
Marching.
Destroying everything in their path.
Closing in on our position.
One goal.
To…
…peel…
…the…
…flesh…
…from our bones.
“He just told em’ where we are, they’re coming for us.”
We are off again, through the atrium, weaving around benches and potted plants. The windows and doors of the classrooms and offices that line the large open room explode around us. They come from above. From below. From beside.
I can see the exit sign now, glowing red. “Keep going, just a little further.” We are going to die; I know we are going to die. I just don’t want her to be scared. I want her to die with hope still in her heart.
Empty.
Destitute.
That’s no way to die.
Bethany’s arms pump furiously, she is setting the pace a few steps ahead of me. The black scarf pulls behind her like a kite, the tiny arms of yarn on the end tickling my nose.
And then she is gone.
Wrapped up by the arms of some monster.
It’s our assistant principal, her face dripping with the blood of her previous meal. Her eyes the color of a fog shrouded sunrise. She vaults the planted divider that runs the center of the room, pummeling Bethany and sending her sprawling to the ground, inches from freedom.
This is it.
The end.
Not without a fight.
I lash out first with my fist, catching her on the jaw. She stumbles sideways, which puts her out of reach of Bethany. I want to die first. Selfish? Perhaps. The idea of watching them hurt her; helpless to interfere, to stop her pain…I can’t…
I follow up with my ever faithful Broomspear, right through her arm, finding my way in betw
een her ribs, and piercing her heart. I scream till my lungs crackle. I drive the weapon deeper, as deep as it will go, carrying her back and letting her rest against the wall on the other side of the exit doors. She is still alive, grasping for me with the one hand not tacked to her chest.
What does it take to kill these things?
I pull Bethany from the ground as the crowd circles around us. They grow in number with each passing second. I place her ahead of me, walking backwards to shield her as we retreat through the exit doors. Outside, we find ourselves on the canopied walkway that connects the main building to the gymnasium. There are sirens calling from the street, and a helicopter buzzing overhead.
Perhaps all is not lost.
We cut left onto the grass as the exit doors behind us rip from their hinges, the mob of horrors crawling over one another to take a bite out of us. One of the second floor gymnasium windows shatters to our right. The body of the women’s soccer coach, Alma Martin, thumps against the chemically enhanced landscape.
A.M.
Ms. Marty.
Marty ‘the Party’.
(ya know, cause she threw that punch and pie social for the girls soccer team last year)
She rolls to her side. Gasping. Her eyes widen as she spots us, she can’t speak, but her expression is enough.
Help—me…
The harbinger of her doom appears in the window frame overhead, surveying his fallen prey. He drops from his perch, landing atop her, smashing her spine upon impact before baring his teeth and nuzzling viciously into her neck.
We stop, we die.
The monsters have locked arms and now lay at our back, shoulder to shoulder, frothing and clawing, gaining two steps for every one we take. It's like trying to outrun a tidal wave on a scooter. We will run until they catch us, or our legs refuse to carry us, we will not die curled up and cowering.
“Straight through, and onto the street, do not slow down!” I yell.
The faculty parking lot is covered up by squad cars. They are posted in and outside the fence line, with officers crouched behind the hoods, staring down the sights of pistols and long rifles.
“They’re going to shoot us!” Bethany cries.
The Rabid (Book 1) Page 2