The Rabid: Rise (5 page)

7

“Winter is blowing in, temps are gonna keep dropping. You two need warm clothes?” Katia is leading us around the back of building
9
and around the edge of a stagnant pond.

There is a black plastic piece protruding fro
m the center of the murky water. A fountain that used to put on shows for paying residents.

It's quiet now. 

Overgrown and glistening with a thick layer of green slime.

“
We've got a few things we've picked up along the way, but we can always use more. Do ya'll really get a winter around here?”

Katia shrugs.
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

“
Well, here's to hoping this year is a
no
. That could present a problem.”

“
We're prepared for it. Planned ahead. Few guys went out and scrounged up a decent supply of firewood. We've got the generators. Some heaters. A small army of heavy blankets. I won't let you freeze, don't worry.”

We're
being led up a small hill beneath a couple of low hanging Cedar Elm trees and onto another walkway. “Watch your heads, shortcut.”

“
Where did you learn to use your swords?” Bethany asks, her words jumbled, as if she'd been holding the question behind some dam that had finally broken, sending the words toppling from her lips, the letters slipping and sliding around one another.

Katia spins around to face us and continues walking, backwards, slowing her pace a
bit, as she speaks. “I mostly taught myself.” She pulls a black hair tie from around her left wrist and with one swift motion twirls the jet-black locks atop her head into a full bodied ponytail, flipping it down across her right shoulder. It accentuates the two lines shaved into either side of her head, rising and falling in a rainbow pattern and disappearing around the back of her scalp beneath her ponytail. She has the presence and appearance of a Nordic Warrioress: mysterious and fierce.

“
No one taught you?”

“
I was in gymnastics when I was a little girl, up until I was around your age, which definitely helped my footing and agility.”

“
My age?” Bethany sounds slightly insulted. “You don't even know how old I am.”

“
I'm gonna say 14? Maybe 15.”

“
Lucky!” Bethany rolls her eyes.

“
Good guess. How old do you think I am?”

Katia doesn't hesitate with me
, “16, definitely.”

“
Wait, what? What does definitely mean? Am I wearing some sort of sign?”

“
Meh, maybe it's just a good guess.” Katia winks at me and flips back around.

“
Well, how old are you?” I ask as she pulls away from us.

“
Onward, troops,” she shouts, raising a fist high above her head and ignoring my question.

We circle around the side of another apartment building, identical to the rest. A man
moves towards us carrying a propane tank and wearing a silver wheel gun on his hip, similar to the one I recall Bo wielding. He calls Katia by name and nods as he passes us, the smell of oil mixed with dirt flowing strongly in his wake.

The laughter of children breaks the air around us moments
before a clearing opens up off the sidewalk. There is a small playground, a basic operation; jungle gym, a see saw, a slide, and a few chain link swings. It's nestled back in a small alcove at the base of three apartment buildings. There are two men with long rifles looking down over the children like castle gargoyles. One puffs a cigar, forming clouds of white smoke that quickly dissipate in the late afternoon air as he shuffles back and forth, diligent in his watch.

“
We've got a few families, so this is where the kids that aren't of working age spend most of their days. They're the future, so we keep a close eye on them.” She runs a finger between the two men above us. “We're looking into creating a school of sorts. Don't really know that we've got anyone qualified to teach, but we've gone through a few nearby schools and have started to stockpile some books, you know, in case we've got to build from the ground up.”

“
You really think it's gonna come to that?” I ask, watching as a little boy wearing a cap of blond hair swings effortlessly from the underside of the monkey bars to the top, his peers cheering him on and moving quickly to mime his technique.

“
Who knows? Did you think it'd come to this?” she asks, watching the children with a slight smile pulling at her lips.

It's not a question that really requires an answer.

None of us thought it'd come to this.

The switch was flipped. We figured they'd flip it back.

Didn't happen.

Switch was left in the off position.

The walls
were torn down.

The bulbs ripped from their sockets.

“Come on, your room is just around the corner.”

We continue up the path, up and over a small hill, and past a broken down tennis court
where the net is split in two; the white lines on the pavement are all but faded and gone.

“
Here we are, building 12.” The door to room
1210
is ajar. One of the men that had been saddled with unloading the truck greets us. He nods to each of us as he wipes his brow with a pair of canvas gloves. “Everything squared away?”

“
Yes ma'am, it's ready for livin'.”

“
Thank you, Casey, dear.”

He shuffles past us and disappears around the corner.

The apartment looks just like the other one had, except there isn't a computer in the living room, or a generator humming away on the balcony. In their place is a forest green cot positioned in the center of the room, covered up by two layers of blankets and a single pillow. In the far corner sits our duffel bag.

“
We jacked the cots from a military surplus store. We all sleep on one, well, almost all of us. If you don't like it then you're welcome to go scavenge a mattress, trust me, some people have. There's another one in the bedroom. Figured you two would appreciate having your privacy. There is a gallon of water in the bathroom, along with some soap and shampoo for you to clean up with. There's another gallon in the kitchen that you can use for drinking. You'll get a fresh gallon of each every day.” She props her hand under her chin. “Let's see, what else. Oh, yeah, meals are served in the apartment clubhouse; breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We don't really have enough food to pass out for snacks, so, it's essentially a three hots and a cot scenario. There are some candles in the closet for when it gets dark. Just don't leave them burning when you go to nod off.”

“
Sounds good.”

Hell, it sounds great!

“You two don't have to worry about anything else tonight. We've got a rotation of guys pulling watch duty.” Katia drops a hand gently over my arm. “If you two decide to stick around, we'll probably work you into a job rotation in the next few days. Probably mechanical or something. Bethany can work stock or whatever she wants to do.”

I nod. “Sounds good to me.”

Bethany isn’t paying attention. She’s checking the rooms out, ducking her head into the bathroom and kitchen.

“Alright then.
Ya’ll have a good night.” Katia pulls the door open, the distant laughter of children and the sound of an idling motor fill the room.

“You too.” I wave and
grin. The grin, it’s a little too much. A little too Mr. Rogers. It’s too late to stop, so I just go with it.

She returns the smile before softly shutting the door.

God, Tim, you’re such a tool...

***

I take up residence on the cot in the living room. It puts me closer to the front door. Closer to the trouble, should it find us. It makes Bethany feel better. Let's her sleep a little more soundly.

I'm okay with that.

It's far from comfort, but it beats sleeping in a storage shed.

I should be snoring away right now. It's the first night of uninterrupted sleep I've been offered in some time. Usually my rest comes in spurts of two and three hour increments. I check the gold plated watch, still ticking away, undeterred by the chaos and the shit.

Focused on a singular goal,
time: past, present, and future.

It's well past midnight.

Well past quittin' time.

Bethany fell away hours ago and hasn't stirred since.

Good for her. As long as one of us gets it.

I drop the watch on the carpet beside the
Ruger.

It used to be that after a day like today
, my adrenaline would still be pounding in my ears.

Explosions, bullets, and blood; I've got a high tolerance now.

My pulse is steady.

I feel nothing.

Happy, maybe?

Perhaps relieved is a better word.

Relieved that I'm still breathing.

That we're still breathing.

That I didn't have to witness my sister gunned down in front of me.

That I've come across a creature as beautiful as Katia in the middle of all this ugliness.

Y
eah, I'm no dummy. I know I don’t have a shot.

But, perhap
s the world ending evened the odds a little bit? It's not like she's running with a lot of options. I've gotten a pretty good look at the other guys around here. They’re all older, uglier, and fatter than me.

But
, how old is she?

Like I said, my guess,
19, maybe 20.

Does that make me illegal?

Ha, illegal!

There's a word that doesn't mean shit.

I wasn't any good at reading females before all of this. I doubt I'm any better now. Never had a girlfriend.

Never kissed a girl.

Held hands, once.

It's stu
pid and petty, perhaps, but with everything falling down around us, with every
tomorrow
as fragile and uncertain as a corn harvest in Kenya, one of my top priorities is getting that elusive kiss.

I wouldn't mind getting laid either.

I don't want to die a virgin.

I don't want to die at all, obviously, at least not anytime in the near fut
ure, but, if it's got to happen, I'd at least like to see the female body void of clothes, up close and in person. I'm willing to bet it beats the internet and the occasional titty magazine stowed away under the mattress. It's a deep yearning at this point, I'm not gonna lie, it really isn't that far down the list from the basics; food, water, and shelter.

In fact, it's probably next in line.

Number four.

I've always considered myself confident.

Years of being on stage has that effect.

I have
a pretty thick skin.

Years of being on stage and getting laughed off the other side has that effect too.

But, despite all that, girls have always caused me to get all wobbly.

Katia, she is just a girl. Just a gorgeous and deadly girl.
The kind of girl that's so damn beautiful, all the appropriate words sound hollow and cliché, so you honor her appearance with silent leering.

I've dodged Rabid, crazed
religious fanatics, and the bullets of the United States military.

Sack
up, Timmy.

Talk to her.

Get to know her.

Ask her out.

That's exactly what I'm going to do.

Just as soon as I get some sleep.

8

I awake to a familiar, yet surprisingly pleasant, sound.

The laughter of children.

The party on the playground is in full swing once more.

I throw back the covers, feeling better than I have in quite some time, despite the delayed onset of sleep.

I walk to the balcony door and slide it open. The sound of the rambunctious youngsters intensifies, like someone turning a stereo knob. I stand shirtless in the chilled morning air, the sun bright on my face, relishing this new sense of security.

T
he whimsical feeling of others standing watch on my behalf.

Momma is not far from my mind and neither is the guilt of knowing she's out there wi
th a gun to her head, waiting on us to come back for her.

Or, maybe she's not waiting.

Maybe she's given up hope. Resigned to her fate. Satisfied with knowing her children made it out alive.

I'll never give up, not
till I've emptied my last shell and spilled my last drop of blood.

An elderly couple crosses on the grass in front of me, hand in hand. They're not carrying anything. They're cloaked in thin sweaters, squinting against the sun, just out for a stroll, enjoying the day.

“You're new in town, ain't ya?” the old man asks, breaking off from his wife and approaching the metal railing.

“
Yes sir, came in with my sister yesterday. Ruiz and Katia pulled us out of the fire.”

“
They've got a knack for that.”

“
That they do.”

“
Looks like you just woke up.”

“
I did, sleep has been hard to come by.”

“
Oh trust me, I know what ya mean. When you get to be our age, it's hard enough to come by a few winks when conditions are ideal. Now, well, till we come here, findin' rest was like tryin' to pin down a greased pig while bound and blindfolded.”

“
Did Ruiz bring you in?”

“
No, me and my darlin’ got lucky; got picked up by one of their scavenging expeditions. We were just about ready to give it up.”

“
Well, there's always hope, it seems.”

“
I had my doubts there for a bit, but, I'm startin' to become a believer again.” He holds out his hand. “I'm Bill, by the way. Over there is my bride of fifty-two glorious years, Alma.”

I shake his hand, the grip firm, the skin like paper
. I offer a nod and a smile to Alma who returns my gesture with a warm smile of her own. “Pleased to meet both of you. I'm Timmy.”

“
Well, Timmy, you better get yourself over to the clubhouse and grab some grub. They'll be starting up lunch in a few hours.”

“
God, did I go that late?” I pat my pockets down and then remember the gold watch is inside by the Ruger.

Bill saves me the effort.
“It's going on ten.”

“
Crap, well, I better get dressed then. Pleased to meet ya'll.”

I rush back inside, pulling a fresh shirt from the duffel ba
g in the corner. I grab my hat, situate it atop my head, and retrieve the Ruger and wristwatch from the floor.

“
Bethany?” I call for her as I secure the handgun against the small of my back. “Let's go, we're gonna miss breakfast.” Nothing. Not a clink nor a clatter. “Bethany?” I open the bedroom door, slowly, certain I'll find her still wrapped in her blankets, a pillow secured across her eyes to ward off the intruding beams of midday sun.

The cot sits empty.

The blankets are rumpled on one side and the pillow has been tossed to the other.

I make my way into the bathroom. Her toothbrush is still wet. I'm not that far behind her.

She woke up and started the day without me.

I'm conflicted.

Grateful that she would consider me enough to slip out quietly and allow me the extra sleep.

Slightly bruised that she felt no need for my company.

I decorate my own toothbrush using one of the tubes of mint paste we'd picked up during our travels and run it rapidly across my teeth. I rinse and swish my mouth out with the jug of water we'd been provided. It's running low. We'd spent most of it last night washing ourselves, especially Bethany, who'd spent an exorbitant amount removing the shampoo
and conditioner from her hair.

Squared away
, I head for the front door, swinging a lightweight leather coat across my shoulders before departing.

The complex layout is a mentally hazy affair. I doubt I could retra
ce Katia's steps from yesterday with a map and a compass. The clubhouse is bound to be towards the center of the property. I turn, pick a direction, and begin walking. I figure I'm bound to run into something of interest.

I drop down a small embankment. The playground appears to my right this time.
Different men stand watch, pacing slowly, their rifles in hand, the sunlight glinting off the high-powered scopes attached to the top. The same kid I'd seen yesterday is swinging beneath the monkey bars, attached by his knees, his arms hanging limply above his head as his shirt falls down and bunches around his chest, exposing his pale belly. A girl in a pair of track pants runs by and tickles him briefly before disappearing beneath the yellow slide.

I move up another grassy slope and find myself facing the pond. Across the way is the clubhouse. I hadn't noticed it last night.
It takes me about a minute to circle the path around the pond. The clubhouse has its own security gate with a combination lock. It’s only waist high. Easy to scale. I suppose property management installed it for looks. People have a thing for that false sense of security. On the other side of the gate, there is a flat piece of pavement decorated with umbrella cloaked tables and lawn chairs, all situated around an ivy colored pool.

At the center of it all is Katia and Bethany.

Katia stands with her arms crossed wearing a pair of pedal pushers low across her hips
and a black hooded sweatshirt. She watches intently as Bethany moves foot over foot, swinging and slashing the air with one of Katia’s
katanas
; the other remains sheathed on her right hip.

“
That's good, but remember, left hand on the bottom, right hand on the top. Think of it like you're casting a fishing rod. You’re pulling the sword like a lever with your left hand. After it makes contact with your target, then you pull back up.”

“
I've never fished before.”

“
Okay, well, just...left hand on the bottom, right hand towards the top. Easy enough, right?”

“
Yeah, I suppose.” Bethany swings the sword around in a half circle, keeping it eye level as she cuts the air, her face twisted with simulated blood lust. “Huhya!” She shouts as she decapitates her imaginary opponent.

Katia laughs.
“There ya go, Bethany, layin em' out.”

“Hey, someone
wanna tell me the combo so I can get through?” I yell.

“Oh, sorry,” Katia says
, “hold the top two buttons and then press the bottom one. It took us forever to figure that damn thing out.”

Judging by the sweat ring on Bethany's
collar, they’ve been going at this for quite some time. She's shed her jacket and is now dancing around in nothing more than cut up jeans and a white tee.

“
Teaching my little sister to slice and dice, I see.”

“
Yep, now when you run out of bullets, she can protect your ass. It's always gonna fall on the women.”

“
Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. “Haven't cut your arm off yet?”

“
I want one, Tim,” Bethany says, ignoring my comment.

“
Uh huh, well, we left the one we had back at the storage unit. Afraid you're out of luck.”

“
I'm pretty sure I can dig one out of the armory,” Katia says.

“
Woo hoo!” Bethany cheers, turning on her heels to face her next foe.

I raise
an eyebrow at Katia. “She falls on it, it's on you.”

Katia
pats me on the shoulder. “She has a good teacher, no worries.”

I stand beside her and we watch Bethany as
she moves foot over foot beside the pool, from one end to the other, her elbows moving up and down like engine cylinders as she blocks and strikes, switching from left to right, left to right.

“Anything worth eating in there?” I toss a thumb towards the clubhouse doors.

“I’m sure we can find you something,” she says. “Hey Bethany, you keep practicing what I showed you. I’m gonna go make sure your brother gets fed.”

Bethany is in a different world. Right now
, Rabid, the General, and his men surround her. She can’t hear us.

We
both shrug and leave her to battle her demons.

I beat Katia to
the door and hold it open, tipping my hat as she passes me by.

“Quite the gentleman. And here I thought the end of the world had wiped your kind out.”

“We were in short supply before all this happened.”

The clubhouse is plush. A couple
of leather sofas backed up by an extinguished flat screen television and a fireplace. There’s a crystal chandelier and a couple large paintings spread across the walls; abstract, signed in the bottom right hand corner, the expensive sort. The wet bar is topped with marble tile. On the other side are a refrigerator, a microwave, and an assortment of cupboards and shelves.

Katia hops up onto a barstool and slaps the one next to her. “Grab a seat.”

Don’t mind if I do
. “So what’s good here?”

“Not a damn thing.” Katia pounds the countertop. “Francisco,
apúrate
, get your lazy ass in here.”

There’s a clatter of pots and pans and some frustrated stomping
. “What, what, what?” A dark brown man with a dirty apron and a thick moustache comes hobbling around the corner. He moves behind the counter and slaps his hands down in front of us, breathing heavy through his nose. His charcoal eyes slide between us. “You already ate, Katia, and lunch isn’t for two more hours.”

“Not for me
, stupid, for him. He hasn’t eaten.”

“Well, I’ve already turned off the generators, washed the pans, and put the stuff up. You snooze you lose
, kiddo. See ya in a few hours.”

I slide the stool back. “It’s fine, I can wait.”

Katia grabs my wrist. “No, you cannot.” She stands up on the stool, props her elbows on the counter, and leans over, getting nose to nose with Francisco. “Go fire it back up and make him a plate or I’ll make sure you play point man on the next supply run.”

Francisco studies Katia for a moment, trying to decide if she’d be willing to make good on such a threat.
He pulls at his moustache, hard. It’s almost painful to watch. Finally, he throws his hands up and stomps back towards the kitchen, muttering in Spanish.

“
Jódete
, just make the fucking plate,” Katia yells, situating herself back on the barstool.

“You didn’t ask what I wanted.”

“We all eat the same shit.”

“I’m just joking.” I twirl my hat from my head and set it on the counter, pushing my hair
back from my eyes and scratching at my scalp. “He’s going to spit in my food.”

“He spits in everyone’s food.” She turns sideways, considering me. “I like your hair. You should lose the hat.”

“My hair looks awful right now. I just woke up. I’ve got hat hair for days, I’m sure.”

She shakes her head. “Nah, doesn’t look bad at all.
You’ve got natural waves, good body. Plus, I like blonds.”

I choke a little and nod like an idiot. “Cool, that’s...cool.”
I drum the counter and bob my head, acting as if I’m jiving to the tune of some inaudible beat rather than looking for an outlet for the nervous adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

“So, why’d you want to know how old I am yesterday?”

I shrug. “Turnabout is fair play, and all that jazz. I told you my age, so, why not?”

“Uh huh.”

“What?”

“Turnabout is fair play, I’d forgotten that one. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Well, it is.”

“
You know you’re not supposed to ask a girl her age, I thought you were a gentleman?”

“
I don’t think you’re quite old enough for that to apply, yet.”

She laughs. “Touché.” She twirls back and forth on the stool, doing half revolutions, stopping herself with her hands before her knees crash into mine. “I’m seventeen. I turned seventeen two months ago.”

I’m caught off guard. “Oh, okay. Never would have guessed.”