The Rabid: Fall (16 page)

23

Lydia left the house early, again. She told me she had to make a run with Guy and the rest of the crew and that she’d be spending the evening with her father. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and floated from the room. I didn’t fight her advances last night. For the good of Katia, I remained compliant. I kept my eyes closed and my senses dulled, dutifully molding myself to meet her whims and desires.

I’m coming down the stairs, still buttoning my shirt, and see Percy standing at the bottom; he seems to be waiting for me. “Come to tell me I’ve got cancer?”

“Told Trask that I think I detected a heart murmur. He sent me back to do a follow-up.”

“I have a heart murmur?”

“Come to the living room.”

I take a seat on the couch as Percy begins the familiar routine of kneeling over his bag and withdrawing his instruments. Except this time, rather than withdrawing a stethoscope, he withdraws a vicious looking pistol.

“This is an FNP .45 tactical handgun. It’s got an Osprey 45 suppressor and a dual-illuminated amber dot sight. See that yellow dot? It’s got a phosphor lamp that illuminates the reticle in low-light conditions. It’s everything you need to get the job done. It’s got fifteen in the mag and one in the pipe; make them count.”  He sets the pistol on my lap and starts digging in the bag again.

“You know your guns. You sure you’re just a doctor?”

“I had a brother that was really into them. Taught me a lot. Took me shooting. I was never much on it, but it was our way of spending time together. Here, I got you this too. Tactical folding knife, four-inch blade; in case you run out of ammo or just want to get up close and personal.”

There’s a warmth moving through my chest, a flicker of hope. “What made you change your mind?”

He shrugs as if the answer should be obvious. “You did.”

“How so?”

“You’ve got courage. I saw it yesterday when you asked me to help you. It scared me. I’m not used to it. Not too many courageous people around here…in fact, I’d say there aren’t any. Everyone here is a coward, including me. That’s the only way that men like Trask come to power; they need a collective of cowards to hold them up. No one has the heart to go up against him and his goons. But you do. You’re the best shot…the only shot…we have to get free of him. This,” he lowers his eyes to the piece, “is all I can do.”

I take the pistol in hand. The weight feels good, the square-shaped suppressor and fully loaded mag balance each other out nicely. “I can do this. I can definitely do this.”

“Who’re you trying to convince?” Percy is looking up at me over the tops of his eyelids.

“These guys trained? Are they good?”

“Daniel has a military background, for sure. The rest of them, I don’t know. As far as I can tell, they’re couch potatoes playing dress-up, but I didn’t know them before all this. Listen to me, Tim, you really can do this. Just don’t get in a hurry and do not hesitate.”

“When do I make my move?”

He zips up the bag. “Tonight is your best chance. It’s movie night.”

“Which means?”

“Your better half is going to be out late with her father. Most of the guards are going to be concentrated around his house; Guy, Daniel, all of them.”

“Fish in a barrel.”

“Pretty much.”

The front door pops open. “Time’s up, Percy.”

“Be right there.” He stands, bag in hand. “Whatever happens, good or bad, at least you took the shot. That’s more than the rest of us can say.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. A carpenter ain’t nothing without his tools.”

“Yeah, well, if I had any guts, I’d have used the tools myself.”

“My momma used to say that there’s a time and place for everything.”

“Let’s hope your momma was right, otherwise we’re both dead.”

24

Once the sun is beyond the horizon, I make my move. Down the stairs I go, dressed in my blue jeans, boots, collared black polo, and my Stetson. I’ve got the blade attached to my waistband and the pistol extended out in front of me.

Downstairs, I flatten myself against the wall beside the front door and knock twice.

“What the hell? You were told to keep your ass upstairs,” the guard says as his key hits the lock.

“Gonna have to throw this little bastard a beating.” It sounds like his partner is right behind him.

The door swings open. The room is vampire black. The floor creaks beneath their feet as they move past me into the living room. The one holding the keys brandishes a flashlight and slices at the darkness with a weak yellow beam. “Am I crazy? You heard a knock too, right?”

“Yeah, I heard it.”

“Where the hell is he?”

I raise the pistol. Their bodies light up like a Christmas tree on the other side of the phosphor lit, amber sight. “Right here, fellas.” I pull the trigger twice and catch each of them in the head. They go down without making a peep. The blood leaking from their skulls sounds like milk escaping from a broken jug.

Glurp-glurp-glurp. 

Outside, the street is empty. There are floodlights placed intermittently along the path to Ronald’s. The loud buzz of the generators covers my footsteps. I move low and slow, gun down in front of my waist. I sidestep the circular splashes of illumination boring holes in the concrete. Around the next bend is the entrance we came through when we arrived. The bus is parked on the other side. There are three guards standing around the entrance, laughing, rifles propped on the ground.

They never see me coming.

The two guards closest to me have their backs turned.

All is fair.

I hit the first one in the head; the bullet shreds his hat as it blows through the top of his skull.

I catch the second one in the back of the neck. His throat blows open and blood sprays the face of the last man standing.

The last Mohican is stunned, mouth agape, face streaked in the blood of his comrades; he looks like a child that just got caught digging through his mom’s makeup.

I fire.

The bullet goes wide and hits his shoulder, spinning him to the ground. I run up on him before he can start screaming.

“No, please, wait—”

I put a bullet through his eye. The contents of his skull spread across the pavement like an egg being dropped into a hot pan.

Nine bullets left.

I watch the windows in the houses around me as I rapidly approach Ronald’s, staying to the shadows.

Two of Ronald’s guards stand watch outside the front door. They’re at attention, clutching their rifles, ready. As I move closer, one of them steps forward, head extended out in front of his body, like a dog that just caught a scent. Perhaps he sees me, perhaps not. I don’t wait to find out. I send hot lead right through the center of his face. Before he hits the ground, I shoot his partner through the center of his chest; the force bounces him off the front door. Blood erupts from his mouth almost instantly. He falls to his knees and dies, twitching as the last few beats of his heart push the lifeblood from his body.

The front door opens and another guard steps out to check on the noise, working his pistol like a blind man with a cane. I’m waiting for him. I wrap one hand across the gun and plunge the knife into his neck, all the way to the hilt. His eyes widen at the shock of the cold steel ripping through his windpipe. His lips part and gagging noises erupt from the back of his throat. He looks sideways at me, pleading with his eyes.

This is ugly business.

He releases the gun and grips my shoulders as the fear of imminent death takes hold. He’s shaking as I lower him to the ground, blood bubbling up around the hilt of the blade. I jerk the blade swiftly to the left, opening his throat and easing his suffering. I step across his body into the living room.

It’s clear.

As I mount the stairs, I keep my sights on the balcony above, prepared to pull the trigger at the slightest hint of movement. I can hear Trask and Lydia in the screening room, laughing in unison, a soundtrack of slapstick underlining their joviality.

Enjoy it, motherfuckers. The credits are about to roll early.

I move quickly across the upstairs balcony. I stand directly across from the screening room, back against the banister. I take three deep breaths, preparing myself to kick the door off its hinges.

I can’t wait to see their faces!

I reach for the handle.

The door swings away from me just before I can grab it.

Daniel’s battle-scarred face greets me. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks positively delighted; a killer clown set loose in a room full of toddlers, with a bottle of chloroform and a butcher’s blade. I freeze up and give him the only opening he needs.

He hits me like a linebacker, square in the chest with his right shoulder, driving the breath from my lungs as he lifts me off of my feet and carries me straight back through the banister. The wood splinters and we plummet towards the ground, Daniel hovering above me, smiling maniacally.

The coffee table shatters beneath me as we land, sending glass and wood flying in every direction. My pistol and blade have gone missing. Daniel starts hammering away at me. He lifts me to my feet by the collar of my shirt and hits me so hard that my vision turns to static. The next blow thunders into my ribs. My legs give out, but Daniel holds me in place, sinking his fist into my stomach again and again. I puke, covering the front of his shirt in blood and liquefied meatloaf. This only serves to stoke his rage. He releases my shirt and drops me with an uppercut. I go down like a discount whore, the glass embedding itself in my back; I’d scream if I could find my voice.

Everything is blurry, like I’m standing behind a wet panel of glass. I think I see Ronald and Lydia staring down at me from the balcony, standing where the broken railing used to be, but I could be hallucinating.

I can’t feel my face.

But I can feel a large shard of curved glass sitting beneath the palm of my left hand.

Daniel stands over me and laughs. “I survived three tours in Afghanistan. I’ve been shot five times and blown up twice. Did you really think a puny little bastard like you could take me out?”

“This isn’t Afghanistan.” I drive the glass shard into his leg, just behind the kneecap.

He screams and drops down.

I roll backwards, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.

Daniel rips the glass from his knee, huffing and puffing, looking angrier than ever.

I scramble around in the semi-darkness, patting around the floor frantically, like a man that just dropped his wedding band down a storm drain. There it is; cold steel, one of the fallen guard’s rifles.

Daniel sees what I’m doing and freezes. His face goes white. He’s been in enough gunfights to know when someone’s got the drop on him. But that doesn’t stop him from going for the pistol strapped to the small of his back. He’s quick, but he’s not quick enough. I stitch him from navel to neck; he flails as the bullets carve a dark, red trench up his torso and chest. He falls backwards at an awkward angle and rolls to his side.

I let off the trigger long enough to raise my aim to the balcony. Guy is standing there, shoving Ronald and Lydia back towards the theater room. My vision is still blurry and every breath I take ignites flames in my chest.

I shoot and shred the ceiling above Guy’s head.

He ducks down, aiming a shiny chrome pistol. I dodge right—which is to say I tumble over sideways and hope for the best. One of the bullets comes so close I feel the heat on my cheek.

There’s a break in the gunfire as Guy readjusts his position. I aim the rifle from where I lay by the bottom of the stairs. Guy is down on one knee, arms extended, lining up for the kill. I fire wildly, praying that I’m the first one across the finish line. The gun kicks against my belly. I’m not sure if Guy even gets a shot off. A geyser of red erupts from his neck, spraying the ceiling as he falls backwards out of sight.

I jump up and rush the stairs, keeping my rifle extended, expecting Guy to rise up at any moment, like a villain from some eighties B-movie. I find him still, eyes open, pupils fixed, lying in a pool of waxy-looking blood.

The theater room door is closed, but I can hear shuffling on the other side.

“Hello?” It’s a shaky whisper; it’s unmistakably female…unmistakably Lydia.

I kick the door, just to the left of the handle, and splinter the frame. There’s a pain ridden squeal as it rockets back into Lydia’s face and rebounds off the wall.

Lydia is crumpled on the floor at my feet, looking pretty as ever in her blue jeans and thin white T-shirt. She’s got her hands cupped across her mouth and nose, trying to stop the gush of blood.

A few feet back stands Ronald. He raises a finger and puts on a brave face. “Now you listen—”

I shoot him in the right kneecap. “No. You listen.”

He goes down screaming and shaking, rolling around on his back while he clutches his wounded leg to his chest.

“Daddy!” Lydia scrambles across the hardwood floor, forgetting all about her nose as she tries to get her arms around her father.

I grab her by her hair and throw her against the wall beside the door. “How does it feel, bitch?” I jam the muzzle of the rifle against her forehead, twisting it back and forth, leaving a deep indention in the skin. “How does it feel to see someone you love suffering and to know there’s not a thing you can do about it?”

“Please! I’m begging you! Don’t hurt us! Don’t hurt my father!” Her nasally sobs are nails on a chalkboard.

“Shut the fuck up!” I kick her in the side and leave her coughing. I turn on her father. He’s pulled himself up against one of the theater chairs and is breathing heavy. His face is pale and drenched with sweat.

“Please don’t hurt my daughter. I’ll tell you where you can find Katia. You can take all the supplies you want.”

“I already know where she is. I know where all of them are.” I blanket him in my shadow; the muzzle of the rifle is inches from his face. “Tell me about D.C.”

He shakes his head. “I’m the wrong guy to ask.”

“You’re not in a position to resist. I’ll take her head off right in front of you.”

“No, stupid boy, I’m not resisting anything. I simply…” he chokes on a ball of pain and manages to swallow it, “…don’t know. We lost all contact with them.”

“What do you mean?”

“We lost contact! We got one supply run from them and one transport. After that, it went silent. No more supplies. No more transports. What the hell did you expect me to do?” The blood from his knee is bubbling up slow between his fingers. I’ve heard the kneecap is the most painful place to get shot besides the belly. “I had to keep this place going. I needed people with certain skill sets, people that could offer resources. Without anything coming in from D.C., this place would have fallen apart. People would have panicked. They’d have lost faith and fled. So I did what I had to do in order to keep it alive. If that meant muscling folks into staying, then so be it. The survival of Próta, of our species, that’s something that’s more important than you, or me, or any of those people out there.”

“Is that why you beat my girlfriend half to death and executed Sonny, the survival of Próta?”

He raises his chin.

Proud.

Defiant.

“No, it was not. That was selfish…that was for me…for my daughter.”

“And this is for me.” The force of the bullet snaps his head back against the chair. He looks up at me for a second as a thin line of blood begins to leak from the hole in his head, then his eyes close, and his chin falls to his chest.

The king is dead.

I hear Lydia scream. Before I can react, she’s on my back, clawing at my face and trying to sink her teeth into my neck. I swing my body left and right, trying to shake her off, losing pieces of my flesh in the process. She doesn’t budge. I straighten up and run backwards, slamming her against the wall. She gasps and releases me, sliding down to her butt.

I turn and raise the rifle.

“Do it. This is what you wanted, right?” Her eyes are closed. Her speech is slurred.

“What I wanted? What I wanted was to leave with my friends peacefully. The bloodshed is on you and your father.”

Her eyes slowly open. She sees Ronald’s body and begins to blubber. “So do it! Shoot me!” She’s slobbering all over herself.

My finger trembles over the trigger.

“Can’t do it, can you? Because you love me!” Her eyes are angry slits. But beneath all that hatred, I can still see a spark of twisted infatuation. “You know we were meant for each other. I’d have been so good to you. I’d have been so loyal. I chose you, Tim. I chose you to be mine. That means something!” she screams, pressing one eyeball to the muzzle of the rifle. “We live in a world where we don’t get to choose stuff like that anymore. Don’t you see how rare and special that was? And now you’ve ruined it! And for what? Some spic bitch that will never love you like me!” She laughs a sick laugh. “You killed my father! I can’t ever forgive you for that.”