The Rabid (Book 1)

by J. V. Roberts

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you cut me loose, go get me my rifle, and we’ll do our little dance again. I promise, this time it’ll be much shorter and I won’t leave you feeling vexed.” I smile at Donny. He doesn’t smile back.

  “Whoo hoo,” Dorian claps his hands together, the acoustics in the building make it sound like a small bomb going off. “There it is boys, that—panache—didn’t I tell ya’ll, this kids got it? Lordy Jesus, lordy, lordy, whoo doggy.”

  “Well I'm glad I excite you.”

  Dorian shakes his head and crouches next to me, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. “You puzzle me, you don't excite me. Lucky for you, I happen to like puzzles.”

  “Taking them apart, or putting them together?” I wince at the pain still running circuits through my body.

  “Well now, I think you can answer that one for yourself.”

  “So, you and your little crew, you weren't looking for bandits, you were looking for colored faces, is that about right.”

  “Are the two really so different?” He laughs, looking to his crew for support.

  “So you being 1/20th Massai, that puts black blood in your veins, doesn't it?”

  His face goes grim, he's not as quick on the rebound this time. “I'd say anyone with a knack for observation can see niggers today, ain't the same as niggers from the past.”

  “Or maybe you and your needle dick hillbilly crew are just looking for a cheap thrill and don't really give a damn about whether your logic remains consistent.”

  His boot heel connects with my jaw like a sledgehammer. The impact torques my neck so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in two. “Ah, shit!” My face burns against the cool of the floor as I begin checking each tooth on the left side of my mouth to confirm that they are still intact.

  “Now that’s some panache right there.” Donny wipes a line of tobacco stained saliva from his chin.

  “Say something else smart, you goddamn little bastard.” Dorian chuckles.

  “He’s just a kid, c’mon, he doesn’t mean anything. C’mon, leave him alone.” Lee rolls back and forth like a hobbyhorse, staring up through half drawn blinds, reasoning on my behalf. They gather over him like a storm cloud. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t feel the bottom half of my face, let alone intervene.

  “Dorian, what have I said about using our Fathers name in vain in this house?” The voice stops them before they can bury their boots in Lee’s abdomen.

  “Ma’am, my apologies, I...”

  “Does our Savior go charging into your double wide smelling of stale beer and cigarette smoke, cursing your name?”

  “No, ma’am, He does not, blessed be His name.” Dorian is hunched at the waste, backing towards the entrance.

  “Leave, I want to be alone with these men.”

  “But, ma’am, I think...”

  “I don’t care what you think, Dorian, leave or I’ll have you gutted and tied to the poles with the niggers next feeding, am I clear?”

  Their exit is a shower of boot heels and slammed doors.

  She stands over us, arms crossed, her red lips curled in a playful smile, our reflections shining back at us in the lenses of her black rimmed glasses. “You were expecting someone a bit more masculine I’m assuming?”

  “Pastor…Waters?” My mouth moves as if there is a thousand pound weight attached to each side.

  “I would be lying if I said it didn’t please me to elicit such surprise upon each new meeting. It keeps things fresh. Some might say I should be insulted at such assumptions, why not a woman? Valid point, though it may be, I’ve never been one to hold peoples prejudices and misconceptions against them, though I do welcome the opportunity to prove them wrong.”

  “My mom and sister, where are they?”

  “Conscious and in one piece, downstairs in the kennels,” she puckers her lips at me. “Don’t you worry, I didn’t group them in with the niggers; though that hardly matters to a little race traitor like you, now does it?”

  Her patronizing air is easier to brush aside when accompanied by the knowledge that Momma and Bethany are alive and well. “How’d you find us? Was it the fireplace?”

  “The fireplace? No, I know of no such fireplace. It was that fat old coons nephew. He broke down like an old lawn mower.”

  “She said he’d been eaten up by the Rabid.”

  “It would appear, given your current state, that she was quite wrong.” She releases the top two buttons on of her white blouse and fans at the beads of perspiration that have begun to form along her neckline. “It is hot in here, isn’t it? I swear, when my daddy built this place, he must have purchased the cheapest AC system in the whole state.”

  “Can’t say I’ve noticed; the temperature is the last thing we’re really worried about at the moment.”

  She cocks her head, studying Lee’s condition, her shoulder length brown hair falling delicately about her neck, the silver hoops in her ears following suit. “I do apologize for my men. I beg of them, sharpen the wit and not just the sword, you attract more with honey than you do with vinegar, yes? You need not sacrifice one to sharpen the other, I ask you, can you not be proficient with both the mind and the fist? But alas, pearls among swine. What can you do?” She turns towards the altar, twirling on her stiletto heels. She walks, one foot over the other, staring up at the giant wooden cross topped with a three point crown that hangs against the back wall. “When the church pictures the Lords vessels, the ones that dove into the fray and did the rough and tough, they think of David, they think of Moses, and Samson. Yeah, there is Mary, but it’s that maternal image that springs to mind, not might, not valor.”

  “The rough and tough? Is that what you call this?” Lee is on his back still staring at the ceiling, laughing now. “Rounding up people of color and feeding them to the Rabid, that’s the rough and tough? That’s you being a vessel for the Lord?”

  She turns towards us and leans back against the altar, linking her arms under her breasts, and crossing her ankles, her black skirt rising just above the knees. “I don’t expect you to understand our cause. Few do, which is why humanity finds itself in such a precarious state. Here we stand, on a precipice, and you along with billions of other sheep see random chance. We see the truth, we see the Lords judgment.”

  “Oh, so God did this? What? Hurricanes and the AIDS epidemic just weren’t flashy enough anymore for his tastes?” Lee sputters with painful laughter.

  Her smile melts away. She considers Lee with a hand propped beneath her chin and a hint of pink tongue poised between her lips. “You know, tsk, tsk, on you Mr.” She wags a finger at him. “Tsk, tsk. You deride me, you attempt to hurt my feelings and yet here you are. You are helpless, or do you not realize it? You are at His mercy, which means you are at my mercy, or do you not realize it?” She takes to pacing. “You’re onto something, the natural disasters and the AIDS you speak of—messages—yet we did not listen. We were tapped on the shoulder and yet we didn’t turn around, so now, he has to hit us with a hammer. How long did you think he’d let us go on building a nation of mongrels over the ground he’d consecrated for his chosen? How long did you think he’d let us mix pure blood with the blood of savages?” She stands exasperated, arms spread, awaiting a response.

  I have none. What words exist that can possibly appease such overpowering insanity? My eyes go to the cross hanging behind her and the crown perched above it.

  Hand carved.

  Hand polished.

  Heavy and solid.

  My dad had a friend that dabbled in woodwork out of his garage. He whittled a few pieces here and there for me, for birthdays and once or twice for the sheer fun of it. I like to think I’ve got an eye for the good stuff, for the genuine articles. Right now though, more than anything, I’m just trying to avoid her glare. That spotlight glare. I’ve taken more than enough punishment for one day.

  However, Lee and I are not on the same page. Perhaps the puff pastries that sit across his eyes hav
e impeded more than just his vision, because he speaks, and he speaks without filter. “Jesus Christ lady, save the bullshit. I lived through the eighties; I heard your type rant all the time. Back then, you morons were trying to fund your little fringe group with thrill seeker liquor store hold ups and half-assed bank heists. Nothing has changed with you people; you’re still the same group of clowns, except now your little faction is led by a woman. I’m sure you make the feminists very proud. What do you want, a pat on the back? A high five?”

  She slowly folds her hands across her waist, nodding.

  Is she insulted?

  I cannot tell.

  “Okay then,” Just like that, she says it, all cheery like a black & white sitcom. She twists towards the altar, hands still clasped at her waist; I almost expect her to come back around with a pan full of muffins and an apron.

  She comes back around with a .38.

  She crosses the floor with punchy determination. Lee tries to shuffle back; he only seems to notice the gun as its being leveled at his forehead. She stops him cold by digging a stiletto heel into his shoulder blade.

  The squish of flesh and the crunch of sinew are audible.

  It is part scream and part growl, a sound perverted by tight lips drawn across broken teeth. His breaths are shallow and rapid, he dare not move for fear of her penetrating straight through and on down into the floorboards.

  She cocks the hammer.

  “Wait, wait, ma’am, no.” I’m trying to get closer, but what am I going to do? Belly bump her? Make her feel marginally uncomfortable? She’s just as liable to put a bullet in me as she is him.

  She studies him if he’s some insect stuck beneath a needle, her eyes focusing in and out like a camera lens. She smiles that Susie Homemaker smile again. “You used the Lords name in vain.” She bends forward, her skirt climbing the back of her thighs, touching the barrel to his forehead. “You will not ever use the Lords name in vain in my presence again. Am I clear? If you do, I will put a bullet right through your skull. I’ll even smile while I’m doing it, just like this, so the last image you’ll see in your miserable life will be something pretty.”

  “OKAY—KAYKAYKAY—”

  She pulls her heel from his shoulder, slowly savoring it. The gaping wound quickly dyes the surrounding fabric in a rich crimson. “I’m glad we’ve reached common ground.” She releases the hammer on the pistol and strolls back towards the altar, whistling some unknown tune.

  “Um, Pastor Waters?” I bite into each word, gently, careful to avoid the sharp edges.

  She turns once more, still smiling that smile. She brushes her bangs back with the barrel of the .38. “Call me Vivian. Don’t shorten it. Don’t call me V. Last guy that called me V, got tied to a trailer hitch and drug through town. He didn’t stop screaming for two miles, right about the time his legs got ripped from his body by a utility pole.” She giggles, covering her lips with her fingertips. “I’m just—oh go on, what were you trying to say?”

  “I uh, well, I just was wondering when I might see my mom and sister?”

  “I see no reason why there must be further delay. Let’s get you boys cleaned up and then we’ll take you down to see them.”

  Lee is in a bad way. His shirt clings to his body like plastic wrap, soaked red by a potent mixture of blood and sweat. His hair, normally a bushel of bounding curls, is sopping flat against his skull. He doesn’t speak, he whimpers and creaks.

  I wait until she is gone and I scoot close, keeping my voice to a whisper. “I know you’re in pain, man, but we are going to get out of this. Like you said, we’ve just got to be cool.”

  30

  The Kennels, they call them.

  It’s a row of padlocked dog cages bolted into the floor, lined side by side, up and down fifty yards of hallway. The hall is made up of white rebar enforced brick walls and the kind of smooth black on grey cement flooring you find in factories and auto garages. Hanging from the ceiling is a single file line of exposed bulbs, buzzing and popping like insects, faintly swaying with the passing of the single man patrol that comes through every fifteen minutes to check on and harass us.

  He’s nothing special. He looks like the rest, tee shirt and jeans, a toothpick hanging lazily from his lips. He carries an AK-47 in his arms and a pistol on his hip. He keeps the experience fresh by occasionally kicking our cages and slinging racial epitaphs at us as he goes by.

  “Nigger lover.”

  “Coon coddler.”

  “Race tradin’ monkey fucker,” (my personal favorite).

  Dog kennels are not built for human comfort—at the moment, I doubt whether they’re even built for dog comfort.

  My knees are buried against my chest, my upper back presses violently against the metal grating. Lee is next to me, contorted in a similar fashion. His shirt has been removed and his wounds wrapped. He ate most of the food they’d slopped us with earlier, and he’s been putting together words and sentences without them falling across his tongue like a drunken sailor. He still looks like hell though.

  Momma lost it when she first saw him. She threw herself against the cage, cursing like I’d never heard her curse before. Eventually, Bethany and me were able to talk her down. After that, she’d kept her cheek pressed against the bars, whispering with him, recalling stories of when they first met. She even strained her fingers trying to steal a touch of his head, to no avail.

  “Anyone seen Ms. Cassie or her daughter?” I feel like I am talking to myself, forced to stare straight ahead into the pitted wall. I can turn my head, but just barely. It hurts. It isn't worth the effort. Better just to find a moderately uncomfortable position and stick with it.

  “We heard some screaming that sounded like them. I haven’t seen them since the house.” Bethany is on the other side of Momma and seems as comfortable as a mouse in a cheese wheel; if height and weight have ever granted her a leg up in life, let it be noted that it was on this day.

  “Yeah, hon, it didn’t sound good. I can’t even bear to think what these people are capable of,” Momma says.

  “Look at Lee’s face, that’s what they’re capable of, and he’s white. Our primary concern needs to be figuring a way out of here; no way they’re gonna let us go. Any ideas?”

  The roamer is back, I’m not sure if he’s heard my solicitation for an escape plan or not. I tuck my head and hope for the best.

  He stops in front of me, spits on the ground, and kicks the door of my cage. “Knees back, Purple Rain.”

  “Oh, a Prince reference, you guys really dig deep don’t you.” Lee laughs.

  No, no, haven’t you had enough? I want to reach through the bars and choke him. Let the redneck pass, let him get his remarks in, whatever keeps his feet moving. Don’t give him reason to stop. Don’t give him reason to hurt us more than we’ve already been hurt. Momma and Bethany, think of Momma and Bethany, you dumb hippie.

  He racks a round into the chamber of the AK and sticks the tip of the barrel through the bars, his finger skimming the trigger. “Faggot, I’ll shoot you in this cage like a dinner hog.”

  “Hang on, he’s just hungry and sleep deprived. Give the guy a break, look at his face? You think he’s got any marbles to rub together right now?”

  The sentry slides his tongue over his upper lip and slowly brings the rifle back to rest. “Well, alright then. Service is happenin’ here in an hour or so. Pastor said to let ya’ll know.” He disappears around the corner, his footsteps fading up the stairs.

  “Lee, what happened to playing it cool?”

  “Yeah, honey, that wasn’t smart.”

  He snorts through what is most likely a broken nose. “I’m just so tired of these racist pricks.”

  “I think we all are, but can you not get us shot over it.”

  “I’ve still got my gun.”

  Bethany speaks with such passivity that I don’t fully grasp what she’s said. “Come again, sis, what was that?”

  “I said, I’ve still got my gun. The one Bo gave me
.”

  “The pistol?” I want to jump to my knees and shake the damn bars with excitement.

  “Yes.”

  “Sweetie, you didn’t tell me that.” Momma sounds betrayed.

  “You didn’t ask, and I didn’t think it was something to brag about loudly considering the people listening.”

  “How’d you hold onto it?” Lee asks.

  “They didn’t search me.”

  “Sexist bastards, their bigotry may yet be their downfall.” He shakes his head between his knees, gasping in pain when one of his kneecaps accidently bumps the purple mound of flesh around his right eyeball.

  “Okay, we’ve got to get this right. We’re only going to get one shot at it. We screw it up and we’re done, they’ll shoot us right then and there. Where do you have the gun stashed?”

  “Under my shirt, in my back waistband.”

  “Alright, try to get it to me during the service. Just keep your eyes on me, and wait for my signal, alright?”

  Bethany doesn’t sound nearly as nervous as I’d like her to. “Yeah, sure.”

  Then again, I’m probably nervous enough for all of us. Dance recital nervous. That’s what I feel currently. That balled up feeling in my stomach of just wanting it to happen already. It was never about winning or losing, it was just about getting it over with. I wanted to know where the chips were going to lay. Every possible scenario played itself out on a mental reel-to-reel; tripping and falling, the crowd laughing at my routine, the music skipping—never about victory—I could handle loss. I handled loss. I just wanted to know whether it was coming or not. It's worse now though. The stakes are higher. It's not about being mocked or placated with a participation ribbon. This is Momma or Bethany being shot. Lee getting shot, or even worse, getting in the way and getting all of us shot. These are the scenarios I’m working with. It’s going to be a pistol in a roomful of rifles. I’ll be a field mouse in a vipers nest. What options do I have? Maybe we’re dead either way. I’ll go down fighting. I figure if there is an afterlife, and my father is there waiting for me, at least I’ll be able to look him in the eyes.