The Rabid (Book 1)

by J. V. Roberts

  “Yeah, Momma,” Bethany says. “Timmy tried it all. He stabbed two of them. You remember Ms. Griswald? The assistant principal? Timmy stabbed her and she just kept coming after us.”

  “They were just probably trying to keep from traumatizing the public any more than they already have been. The good news is that it’s being handled; we just have to wait it out. So, no more talk of killing and dying. Let’s watch a movie or something, what do you say?”

  4

  The music is up; Bethany is at the dial, switching tracks for me, offering her feedback as I sail around my bedroom.

  For a moment, it is normal.

  We are normal.

  Bethany is unmarred.

  The world is at peace.

  No one has died.

  Blood doesn’t stain the face of my favorite boots.

  “You can take the boots and the hat off, Timmy, it’s not a recital.” She leans back in the beanbag chair, crossing her arms over the face of the radio.

  “Can’t dance without boots, wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.” We laugh together as I twirl and dip low.

  Timmy Two-Step, that’s what my parents had called me when I was born. Just like the dance. They’d met in a country Western bar. The Two-Step had been their first dance.

  Done and done.

  “You think you’re still going to do the recital next week?” She lowers the volume slightly.

  I shrug, balancing on one heel. “Dunno, guess it all depends on how quick everything gets cleaned up. I hope so.”

  My dad passed when I was nine. He was an over the road truck driver. He was tying down a haul and a faulty chain slipped and landed a station wagon on top of his head. I don’t remember much from that time. I remember feeling sad and seeing a lot of councilors (we all saw councilors), but the rest is foggy. Repressed memories, is what they’d said.

  Delayed shock, perhaps?

  Still, the fashion sense he’d raised me with stuck. He’d had me in a pair of ropers and creased blue jeans when my knees were still wobbly. Folks always said I had the shell of a cowboy without the filling to go with it. It was probably because I never cared much for the usual cowboy things.

  Country music

  Hunting

  Muddin’

  Never did much for me.

  “I think you should pause right there, during that crescendo…yeah, just like that. Makes it much more dramatic,” Bethany rewinds and claps her hands, as I execute her suggestion with flawless form. “Ah, Tim, I hope you do the recital next week, this is killer.”

  “Hopefully, it goes better than the talent show.”

  “No worry, it will, all the douche bags from school won’t be there; automatic improvement right off the bat. We'll be rich and famous in no time.” Bethany has always joked about being my manager whenever I make it big.

  My love of dance, particularly interpretive dance, came from Momma. My dad and Momma were polar opposites. The only reason they’d met was because her friends dragged her to some little country bar. My momma is a free spirit. An eccentric.

  She’s all about Pink Floyd and French Impressionism.

  She’s all about exotic foods and old Woody Allen films.

  All of those things rubbed off on me to some degree or another.

  I prefer Animals over Dark Side of the Moon.

  Claude Monet over Degas, Renoir, or Cezanne.

  Afghan food is still my favorite, Kaddo Bourani.

  And Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask) is still Woody Allen’s best film to date; ask any true fan.

  But it’s her love for interpretive dance that has infected me more than anything else. “It’s feeling, emotion, condition. It's things you can’t put into words dispersed out into the atmosphere through movement.” She explained all of this to me one day as she sailed around the living room, sweeping her arms through the air, dramatically falling to the floor while some of the most beautiful music I’d ever heard filled the space around us.

  From that moment on, I was hooked.

  Loie Fuller became my idol.

  Loie Fuller is pretty much the pioneer of the interpretive dance movement. She was all about using fabric to express emotion. Momma had this picture of her on the nightstand. Coming out of the blackness, white cloth billowing around her, she was ghost-like. Not scary.

  Luminescent.

  The moon bathing a forest floor. Beautiful.

  “A butterfly emerging from the clutches of a cocoon,” Momma would say, lying beside me, both of us enamored by the image.

  The piece ends and Bethany sets the radio at her feet, clapping. I take my bow; the heat generated by such vigorous movement begins to cloud my body. I remove my hat and fan my face.

  “I do hope you get to perform it, Tim, it’s your best one yet; I’m sure you’d win.”

  “It’d be nice, it sure would be nice.” I’ve performed numerous recitals and talent shows at this point, and have yet to win so much as a participation ribbon. Some positive reinforcement beyond my family of origin would be a welcome occasion. “Thanks for the help and the feedback, sis, as always.”

  She smiles big and blows me a kiss. “You can always count on me.”

  5

  I managed to fall asleep on the couch. The dancing did me in.

  I am jolted awake by the sound of the front door crashing back on its hinges.

  There stands Lee, framed against the opening. He is panting. His beard is disheveled. His circular spectacles are dotted by droplets of sweat. He unloads an armful of canvasses against the dresser in the foyer and then hunches over at the waist, propping himself up on his knees. “Downtown is gone, finito, goodbye, and so long.” He manages between gulps of air.

  “Geez, use a battering ram next time, it’ll make less noise.” Bethany pokes her head around the corner from the kitchen.

  “Oh, my baby,” Momma soars around Bethany, her green dress ballooning at her ankles, her hands coated with the flour of a gestating pie. “Are you ok?” She leaves white handprints across his back as she feels him over for injury.

  Lee has been dating Momma for going on two years now. He owns an art gallery downtown, wedged between a pawn shop that mostly sells KKK and Nazi memorabilia, and a floral design shop owned by the mayor’s wife.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, give me a minute.” He wards her off with a shaky hand.

  She steps away, lacing her fingers beneath her chin, looking on anxiously.

  He manages to bring himself upright and leans his butt back against the dresser holding his paintings in their vertical state. “Downtown...I barely made it out alive...it’s gone.”

  “It was getting really bad when we went through, but, it's gone…like gone-gone?” Her mouth is open in disbelief, as her hands fall slowly from her face, leaving powdery fingerprints on her chin.

  “Yeah, gone-gone. Those things—”

  “The Rabid,” I correct him.

  “The who?”

  “It’s what the news is calling em’.”

  “Yeah, well whatever they are, they’ve taken over. Police were shooting everyone, shooting them right down in the street, and some of them were just getting right back up. You couldn’t tell the ‘Rabid’ from the rest of us, it was just chaos. The gallery, it’s gone, burned to the ground.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  He accepts the affection this time, curling one arm around her lower back.

  Bethany rolls her eyes at the display and disappears back to her room.

  “I got most of the big money pieces out, lost the computer, and most of my supplies.”

  “Well, you’re not hurt, that’s the important part.”

  “I know, it’s just…my passion…you know? My heart? My soul? They were in those flames. It was tough to drive away from that.”

  Lee’s always had a flare for the dramatic; he is a painter after all.

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “My house, it’s cl
ose to downtown, so would it be okay if...”

  “Say no more,” She perches a floured finger against his lips, which he kisses without hesitation.

  I am seriously considering joining Bethany.

  “If there is a light to be found amidst this darkness, my dear, it is indeed you.” He clasps her hands between his own, and they both just stand there, smiling.

  30 seconds pass.

  They rub noses.

  Eskimo kisses.

  It's too much for me at this point.

  “So, I’ve got a few more things out in the van.” Lee conveniently emits this piece of ticker tape as I move to evacuate the room.

  “Oh, no worries, Timmy’s got two good hands, and a generous heart.” Her go to line whenever she volunteers me for a task.

  ***

  Lee leads the way down the porch steps, his curly shoulder length black hair erupting from beneath the confines of a multicolored headband. He is a loafers and no socks kinda guy. “I’ve got some cool stuff in here,” he tugs the side door of the rusty white panel van open with a clutter and a crash. “Let’s get this out of the way.” He heaves a floppy duffle bag out and tosses it to the gravel; most likely a bundle of shoes and clothes judging by the consistency of the bag and the carelessness with which he handles it.

  “Shame about the shop…had a cool vibe.” I say, trying to appease the awkward lull in conversation as he continues to rummage around the rubber-coated floor.

  “Kid, it’s the life of an artist, to suffer.” He tosses something heavy and metal towards the front seats. “How’s all that dancing business working out, your mom told me you killed it at the talent show, sorry I couldn’t be there.”

  “I got killed is more like it, and no worries, you’ve got the business to look after.”

  “Not anymore I don’t.”

  “Yeah, well…at least you got some of the pieces out. And you’ve still got your inspirations, just a building, right?”

  “That is the silver lining. What’d you have planned for that recital next week?”

  “I was just experimenting, contrasting sound and silence, breaking up the noise with movement. You know, no music, just imagery. Hopefully this stuff gets fixed and I get a chance to perform it.”

  “We can hope, that is one thing they can’t take from us. You know, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it now, you’ve got the soul of an artist, Two-Step, don’t let them suck it dry.” He finds what he’s been seeking and turns on me wearing an ear-to-ear grin, his sweaty locks lounging across the front of his glasses like wet noodles. It is an 18x24-canvas painting of a black queen chess piece with the face of Freddy Mercury sitting in place of the crown. “Isn’t it fantastic?” There are at least a dozen of them.

  Pawns with the faces of politicians.

  A king piece bearing the likeness of Elvis.

  A Monty Python themed knight.

  I don’t recognize the bishops or rooks.

  “These are…something,” I try to sound convincing as the stack under my arms grows thicker.

  “My masterpiece, the entire line, it’s everything I’ve been working towards. I was getting ready to debut them when…well, when the world decided to end.”

  “Yeah, that’s unfortunate.” I find them to be more creepy than clever.

  The sound of rock crunching and shifting beneath tires grabs our attention. It’s Peter and Tony’s truck, our (friendly) garden tending neighbors. The bed of their pickup is brimming with suitcases, boxes, and a beige rocker.

  “You guys packing it in too,” Tony is leaning from the passenger window, a black sun visor casting a block of shadow across his eyes.

  “No, I’m buckling down with them for a while; my house in town isn't safe. We’re just unpacking what I’ve got left of the shop; burned to the ground.”

  Tony pops his bottom lip out. “Oh, you poor dear, my heart aches, we adored the place.”

  “Well, you know, to suffer, it is the life of an artist.”

  Tony crosses his hands over his heart and nods like some kindred spirit. “Poignant, and so true, so-so-so very true.”

  “Looks like you two are beating the bricks.” Lee gestures to the pile of belongings in the bed of the pickup.

  “The news said the plague seems to be moving North, so we’re moving West while we can, taking our chances.”

  “The roads are a warzone.” Lee shudders.

  “Sooner or later the war is coming for us all, may as well take it head on.”

  “What’s up with the chair?” I ask. It seems like an odd choice given the hurried nature of their retreat.

  “Blame this big galoot.” Peter nudges Tony with an elbow to the ribs.

  “Wherever I end up, I want to be comfortable when I get there, is that a crime?”

  “Certainly not, sir, certainly not. God-speed to you fellas.” Lee squeezes his shoulder.

  “And to you.”

  We all shake hands and then they put the gears in reverse.

  As their pickup backs down our drive, the urge to pack my bags and jump in right beside that old rocker stirs strong in my belly.

  6

  “I don't even know who this guy is.” Bethany is standing on the far side of the living room shuffling through Lee's stack of paintings.

  “Uh, that's Freddy Mercury,” Lee uncoils his arm from Momma's shoulders, his mouth slightly ajar.

  “And who is that exactly?”

  “Who? Who is th...what on earth are you teaching these kids?” Lee stands and shuffles his way across the room, crouching beside Bethany and pointing a rigid finger at the canvas. “That man is a legend.”

  “Relax dear, she's in middle school. You can't expect her to know your childhood heroes on a first name basis.”

  “I know who he is.” I raise the remote from my lap and increase the volume on the movie by five ticks. Sleeper, I've seen it at least a dozen times now, the instant pudding scene still puts me in stitches.

  “See, Tim knows who he is.” Lee says.

  “Well, Timmy has eclectic tastes. Bethany is still figuring out what she likes.”

  “I like U2,” Bethany shrugs.

  “U2 hasn't been good since the eighties, maybe the early nineties. Not to knock Bono, the guy is a heck a philanthropist, but his pipes, well, he's no Freddy Mercury.”

  Bethany continues fanning through the canvases, stopping to look briefly over one of the pawns before continuing. “I highly doubt that.”

  “Is she serious right now? Are you serious?”

  Bethany raises her eyebrows and gives him a small nod, unmoved by his hysterics.

  Lee falls back on his butt as if hit by a strong breeze, shaking his head. “I don't even know what to say right now.”

  “Lee, I didn't know you were such a Queen fan.” The pudding is flooding it's way past the doorway now, Woody Allen, dressed in full robot garb, is dancing back and forth behind it; classic.

  “I painted a shrine to the lead singer; of course I'm a fan.”

  “Honey, we've all got opinions, come sit back on the couch, let her be.”

  Lee pushes himself up. “If my home is still standing after this, I'm going to bring my Queen box set over here and we're going to have a little lesson time.”

  Bethany just rolls her eyes. “Sure, sure.”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon sitting around watching the television mull over the day's events, occasionally relaying vague updates via 'sources' working inside the government machine. The President made a speech. The Secretary of Defense made a speech. There were a lot of speeches. There were no real answers. There'd been reports of small outbreaks overseas, mostly in Europe, but no damage reports or death tolls are available.

  After dinner, my head hit the pillow. The sunlight had only just escaped the sky as I closed my eyes. I found myself wrapped up in the confines of a relatively dreamless sleep; fortunate considering everything that had transpired.

  “Timmy…

  …Timmy…”
>
  I startle at her touch, grasping her wrist, and scampering back on the bed, trying to find solace against the cool surface of my bedroom wall.

  “Whoa, chill. I’m not here to eat you.” Bethany escapes from my grasp, rubbing the red ring now forming on her skin.

  “Sorry.”

  “Freak.”

  “Really? Can you blame me?”

  “I suppose not.” She nods towards the living room. “Momma has been calling you.”

  I am still in my jeans and tee shirt. I’d shed my belt, socks, and patterned button down across the lip of an overflowing hamper. I’ll give the shirt a sniff in a few days to see if it is suitable for a second round of wear.

  “Timmy, get in here quick, look at this.”

  It sounds urgent.

  “By God, it’s unbelievable.” Lee sounds distressed.

  They are huddled on the couch in front of the television. Lee is hugging himself, rocking back and forth. Momma is rubbing his back, but it is obvious by her expression that she is in a similar state of emotional turmoil, she's just a bit better at hiding it.

  She's had a lot of practice.

  The news camera footage on the screen is being fed in from a helicopter hovering above a military barricade, set up to blockade one of the major interstates leading into the city of Atlanta (75? Or was it 85? I can’t tell from the angle and the reporter isn’t offering commentary on the exact location).

  Sandbags and barbed wire.

  Troop transports.

  Men in uniform retreating, shouldering long rifles, firing frantically into the black cloud of the Rabid sweeping towards them.

  The number is staggering.

  Disconcerting.

  They stretch shoulder to shoulder, both sides of the road, and expand back far beyond what the camera is able to capture in frame. Some fall under the hail of lead and stay put, victims of crippling headshots. But still, more rise to continue their charge.

  A tank rolls in behind the troops and fires off an anti-personnel round, turning the picture into a rectangle of static and crackle as the concussion reaches skyward; when the camera is able to regain focus, the Abrams is letting loose with its mounted machine gun.