The Rabid (Book 2): Addendum

by Urban, Ami

  “Oh, no you don’t.”

  He pulled my hair so hard I lost my grip on the door and toppled backward. When I hit the ground, I landed on my coccyx. Dull pain shot up into my back, causing the air to escape my lungs. My wrists caught the brunt of the rest of my weight. I felt something shift. Nothing broke, but it was close.

  Scott began to drag me down the hallway by my hair. Each step he took brought more pain shooting through my skull. It was unbearable. I tried to fight but got nowhere quickly. Every time I tried to curl my fingers around my ponytail, he’d tug at it again.

  We passed by an old gurney. Stretching out my arm, I tried to grab one of the legs. My fingers grazed the aluminum. The gurney moved an inch, then stopped. Not wanting to give away my plan, I grunted, keeping the expletive on the tip of my tongue.

  But I wasn’t done yet. Using my left leg, I caught it with my foot, dragging it behind me. Its rusty wheels screamed across the floor. Then, it got stuck on something and toppled, sending medical instruments scattering in all directions.

  The glint of a scalpel caught my attention. It’d slid across the linoleum and under my shoe. I reached for it, but Scott pulled hard on my hair. Instead, I brought my foot toward me, slid the scalpel into my palm and reached behind me to begin sawing through my hair.

  I could feel it letting go bit by bit. Each movement of my hand cut away more of my thick locks. I knew it was getting too long.

  Finally, I cut through the last strand. And before Scott had a chance to react, I stood and took off running in the opposite direction, my shorter hair flowing behind me. Pain shot up my back from my injured tailbone. I crashed into the push bar and the door smashed into the glass surrounding the old OR where Brendon and Jack would spend some of their evenings. A crack began to web its way into the window. But I didn’t care.

  I reached the center of the circular operating theatre and spun around, desperately searching for a way out. But the only door was the one I’d come through. When Scott marched into the room carrying what used to be my hair, I backed up as far as I could until I was pressed against the wall.

  A smile spread across his face. It was mischievous; as if he’d just found a new toy to play with. And that toy was me. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my wrist and twisting it in front of me. I felt a snap, and pain seared through my arm, bringing bursts of light to my vision and reminding me of my bruised tailbone. But I refused to drop my weapon.

  I pushed through the pain of my injured wrist and struck out, nearly sinking it into his face. Instead, it swept across his cheek, leaving a thin, red line.

  “Gah! Bitch!” He brought his knee up into my stomach, sinking it about two inches in. A new pain bloomed in my middle. Something caught and pulled. I wasn’t sure what. My fingers no longer worked. They opened, and I dropped the scalpel.

  Scott put a hand to his face. Blood streaked across his cheek when he drew his palm back, staring at it. He looked back up at me and lunged again. I winced.

  When his face was inches away from mine, he said, “I’m really…” He leaned even closer. “Really fucking mad.” He hooked one finger into the top of my button-up shirt. There was a slight tug as one button came undone. “And before I kill you…” His hand was in my hair. He curled his fist around a handful and tugged my head back. My neck popped again, sending electric waves tinkling down my spine. “I’m gonna use your tight little body. I’m gonna fuck you until you like it.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, because something very bad happened then. I felt a familiar tingle of arousal wind its way around my middle. The feeling pooled between my legs and immediately I felt terrible guilt. In that moment, I wished Pavlov had never done his stupid experiment.

  Rex and Lexi popped into my head. I was letting everyone down. Unable to avenge Jack’s death. Those kids were going to be orphans because of some overgrown child’s rage. Tears burned behind my eyelids. It wasn’t fair.

  With my last ounce of self-proficiency, I opened my eyes to meet his gaze. And for a second, we just stared at each other. But that same creepy smile crawled across his face. His fingertips brushed my cheek. I felt violated already.

  “That’s my girl.”

  File: JTReynolds_autopsy_6-21.avi

  Duration: 1:13:07

  Date: 6/21

  D.CLARK:

  This is Doctor Derrek Clark – harvesting organs and performing a post-mortem on a Jack Tiberius [inaudible]… Tiberius? Really? [Sigh] Jack Tiberius Reynolds. Deceased is six feet one inches, one-hundred-seventy pounds, blondish hair, hazel eyes, light complexion. Initial cause of death is asphyxiation after an accidental dose of penicillin sent him into anaphylactic shock due to wrongly labeled medication. Or something like that.

  [Footsteps] [Metallic scrape]

  D.CLARK:

  Body is that of a 35-year-old well-developed, well-nourished male. There is slight peripheral edema of the left knee with some bruising due to recent laparoscopic surgery. There is an area of swelling around the surgical site. The patient has no other major surgical scars.

  [Metal object falling to floor]

  D.CLARK:

  Fucking hell. [Muffled] History of surgeries for deceased is unknown.

  [Light ruffling of cloth] [Deep inhale]

  D.CLARK:

  [Inaudible]…post mortem vocalization. [Clearer] Nothing else remarkable about deceased. No skin lesions. No moles. Genitals unremarkable.

  J.REYNOLDS:

  You really know how to make a guy feel special, Doc.

  [Clang] [Metal instruments clattering to floor]

  D.CLARK:

  [Shouts] Jesus!

  [Metallic thwack]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Ow! [Crosstalk] Hey!

  [Metallic thwack]

  D.CLARK:

  [Unintelligible shouting]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Stop!

  [Metallic thwack]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  That’s it! [Grunts]

  D.CLARK:

  No!

  [Struggle] [Thump] [Grunts]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Gimme that!

  [Sheets rustling] [Metallic scraping] [Static]

  D.CLARK:

  [Heavy breathing] No! You’re dead!

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Sarcastically] And they say you’re a terrible doctor.

  [Metallic ping]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Ow! Stop!

  [Uneven footsteps]

  D.CLARK:

  Stay away from me, zombie!

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Agh! Chill!

  [Metallic thud]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Stop!

  [Ping]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Fucking!

  [Ping]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Throwing shit!

  [Muffled thud] [Silence]

  D.CLARK:

  Dear God…

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Laughs] Holy shit!

  [Uneven footsteps]

  D.CLARK:

  [Moans] No…

  J.REYNOLDS:

  I knew I had good aim, but this is just takes the cake.

  [Scraping wood]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  It stuck right in the cabinet!

  D.CLARK:

  [Groaning]

  [Cloth rustling]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Whoa, whoa, whoa! [Grunts] Jesus… Christ… Talk about dead weight. [Chuckle] Ah! Shit, my fuckin’ ribs! Well, I ain’t carrying you anywhere today, Doc.

  [Screech] [Fabric scraping against fabric]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Sigh] If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the morgue. [Long pause] That was stupid even for me.

  [Silence] [Rustling]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Man, I gotta take the world’s most wicked piss. But, crutches first. Crutches… Crutches… Yes!

  [Wooden and metal clangs]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Ooh!

 
[Static]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Hello, my little recording friend, you’re coming with me. Seeing as how you know more than I do.

  [Uneven footsteps] [Crutches squeak] [Rustling]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  The fuck are my clothes? [Sigh] Guess I’ll have to grab my stash.

  [Cloth rustling] [Door squeaks]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Did another apocalypse happen while I was out? Where is everyone?

  [Door slams shut]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  I better find clothes before someone thinks I’ve come back from the dead. [Inhale] Here we go.

  [Humming to tune of Secret Agent Man] [Squeaking crutches]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Okay… Four-thirty…

  [Muffled voices in background]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Shit, someone’s coming. That’s what she said. There’s no time.

  [Gravel crunching]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Holy shit, I really gotta pee. [Grunts]

  [Urinating]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  [Urinating continues]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Okay… Okay… Sheesh… Off again.

  [Several seconds of hurried uneven footsteps over gravel] [Crutches squeaking] [Metallic bang] [Door slams]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Quietly] To the West wing!

  [Gravel crunching] [Static]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  Alright, alright, alright.

  [Door slam] [Clatter] [Humming]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Singing] Nobody knows the trouble I seen. Nobody knows my [cut off]. The fuck?

  [Silence] [Muffled voices]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  What the fuck are you doing with my wife, Red?

  [Squeak]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Sharp inhale] Don’t do it, man. Don’t fucking do it. Don’t fucking… [Pause]. You fucking piece of absolute motherfucking garbage.

  [Muffled thump] [Cloth ruffles to floor]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Growling] Get your fucking hands off her.

  [Louder thump]

  J.REYNOLDS:

  [Deep] I’m gonna fucking kill you, Scott Langford.

  [END TRANSCRIPT]

  From the desk of Dr. Lisa Reynolds – June 21

  Just as I was about to spit in his face, the business end of a crutch met the side of Scott’s head with a loud whap. He went down hard onto the floor, effectively knocking him unconscious for a few seconds.

  When I lifted my gaze, a gasp escaped my throat. Jack stood there, naked except for crutches. He held one by the slim end, its underarm pad inches from my face. The other was tucked under his left armpit.

  “I’d sing, Here I’ve Come to Save the Day, but that’s Brendon’s thing.”

  Something wasn’t right. Jack shouldn’t have been there. What was happening? Was my mind just helping me cope? That must have been it. Jack wasn’t really there. But the purple D.N.R scrawled on his deltoid was.

  “Hey. Your hair’s shorter. I like it.”

  I opened my mouth. No sound came out. My heart thudded hard against my chest wall. Pain inched its way from my coccyx, stomach, wrist and back, culminating in a dizzying nausea.

  Jack’s eyebrows lowered. “I know I still look like death, but you could at least give me a hug for saving you…”

  My mind even had a hang of his sense of humor. How oddly delightful. And yet, I still hadn’t spoken. Fear settled into my stomach. This wasn’t Jack. This was a figment of my imagination. Nothing was going to bring him back to me. Nothing.

  With a guttural growl, Scott was up again. Without a moment’s hesitation, he tackled Jack to the floor. My husband wasn’t expecting this. They went down together, rolling over the floor, the crutches abandoned.

  Scott ended up on top at one point – straddling Jack. “You need to learn to buy people dinner before you mount them!” My husband was stronger. He held Scott back while the kid tried to get a punch in. Instead, he scooted back a bit and placed all his weight on Jack’s left knee. He howled in pain while Scott’s grin returned.

  “I don’t know how…” Scott grunted as Jack struggled under him. “…you’re still alive, but… Gah! I’ll fix that!” The struggle continued as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

  “You both don’t know when to quit, do you?” Scott caught my husband’s fist in his hand, rocking back just a bit. “This would’ve been so much easier and a lot less painful if you’d just kept eating in the cafeteria!”

  I was having a hard time figuring out what he meant. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at me.

  “You did like my food, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I made every—” He stopped another fist before it met his face. “Stop!” Using the flat palm of his hand, he struck Jack across the cheek, rendering him immovable for a second. “I made every dish special for you.” He shot me a look again. “I even kept in line with your grand plan. Could you taste it?”

  Then, it hit me. I’d been so blind. So stupid. Yet, I’d stopped eating at the cafeteria to avoid him. And now that I thought about it, anything I consumed seemed to cause gastric distress. And now I knew why. It wasn’t gastroenteritis that night at the hospital.

  “You poisoned my food.”

  “You what?” Jack reached out to grab Scott’s wrists, but missed. “You motherfucker!”

  Scott leaned back as my husband tried to attack him again. He looked around for a brief second. Grabbing one of the discarded crutches, he pushed it against Jack’s throat, intending to choke him. Jack sputtered a bit while trying to take in air.

  “I was gonna kill you like the rat you really are.”

  My mind was completely blank. It was as if I wasn’t able to form any kind of thought. Until that moment. Looking around for something to use, I spotted the scalpel I’d dropped under a nearby gurney.

  I launched myself at it, landing halfway on top, right on my broken wrist. White-hot pain zigzagged up my ulna to my elbow. The gurney groaned under my weight, wheels screaming as it inched across the linoleum. I leaned over and closed my left hand around the cold metal. It felt like power. The situation was with me. I had to kill Scott.

  With the scalpel firmly in my grip, I lunged at his back. The crutch fell to the floor with a clatter as Jack gasped for breath. Ignoring the fire in my right arm, I wrapped it around Scott’s chest. Then, I sunk the small blade of the scalpel into the soft flesh of his throat. When I pushed it away from me, it severed his left anterior carotid artery.

  A waterfall of blood rushed from his neck. Jack scrambled out from underneath, scooting as far away as possible. Scott’s hand flew to his throat. He tried to stop the flow of blood, but it was too late. I’d done too much damage.

  His angry glare never left mine. Even when the life drained from his eyes, it still seemed like he was staring at me. I was breathing hard. The only sound in the room was the blood rushing through my ears and my labored breaths. I cradled my broken wrist to my chest.

  “Sheesh. Scott’s blood drained faster than an iPhone battery.” Jack glanced at me.

  But my thoughts raced a mile per second. The synapses in my brain weren’t even firing or connecting in the right ways. I couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Jack had saved me. Again. Or maybe it was my own mind.

  “I mean, shit. Brittney Spears’ first marriage lasted longer than he did.”

  I turned my attention toward my brain’s version of him. While he was still looking at Scott’s corpse, I found myself realizing I’d done quite a job of picturing him. He was almost exactly the same as I remembered. Except…he wasn’t real.

  “Maybe he had all that blood in his body ‘cause he had a small dick.”

  But that would mean I’d made up the whole fight. No, something was weird. Something was…off.

  “This isn’t right,” I said for the second time that night as Jack stoo
d on his wobbly right leg.

  He looked at me, shrugging. “What? They can’t all be zingers.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You’re not right. You’re not real. Yet, you seem so...” I attempted to take a step forward but thought better of it.

  “Me not real? I’m pretty sure I’m real.” He probed his chest and stomach with his fingertips, his skin dimpling with each press. It did look enticing.

  I shook my head. “No. I know this is just my mind helping me cope. It’s a powerful thing.” As dejectedness flowed over me, I still couldn’t bring myself to step toward him. I’d want to hug him. I’d want to feel him. But that would’ve been impossible.

  He grabbed his crutches and steadied himself before speaking again. “No, no seriously.” He came toward me, but I backed myself into the wall. Stopping in his tracks, his features softened, and he raised his hands. “Okay. Relax. I know this looks weird.”

  “I wouldn’t quite use that word,” I said.

  “Fair enough but let me explain— ”

  Something heavy smashed against a previously unseen door across the OR, followed by the push bar crashing into the wall, leaving a considerable dent in its wake.

  “Or he can explain.”

  Dr. Clark was breathing heavily, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose, hair wild. Pointing a shaky hand at me, he opened his mouth. Then he shut it. “You… You…” The man swayed on his feet for a moment, his eyes glazing over.

  I looked back to Jack who hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Clark while holding the other over his genitals. “The man has a serious syncope problem. And I need to find pants.”

  “Dr. Clark.” I approached him, not ignoring my deceased husband’s comment but just putting it in the back of my mind.

  When he heard his name, Clark seemed to regain his sensibility. His pointing arm straightened, swinging over to Jack. “He’s supposed to be dead!”

  My heart began to race as I realized perhaps Jack’s image wasn’t all in my head, helping me cope with his loss. My knees felt weak and shaky. It was almost as if my world was crumbling beneath me for the second time that day. My injured wrist throbbed. I’d have to remember to set it.