The Rabid: Rise

Rise

The Rabid: Book 2

by: J.V. Roberts

Forward

I typically don’t do a
forward
,
I didn’t do one for my last book, but, there are a few things I want to communicate to you, the reader, before you begin your literary journey; I’ll keep this relatively short and sweet.

First, my deepest thanks to those of you that read The Rabid and enjoyed it, especially those of you that took the time to express your love through emails and reviews; it was a source of constant encouragement as I penned this sequel.

Second, if you haven’t read The Rabid, then I encourage you to pick it up before you read The Rabid: Rise. Rise continues exactly where The Rabid left off. That’s not me trying to sell more books. I just don’t want you to buy this book and then have no idea what is going on. The Rabid and Rise are part of a trilogy (yes, there is one more on the way).

The third and final thing I want to cover is the way I ended The Rabid. I know many
of you didn’t enjoy the sudden cliffhanger. In hindsight, if I could rewrite those last few pages, I’d have written something a bit more conclusive. But, I can’t. However, I did carry the lessons I learned from The Rabid over to Rise and I believe that you’ll find the ending of Rise is much tighter. This is the middle of a trilogy and there are still questions in the air and character arcs that need to be concluded, but, you won’t be left dangling on the edge of a cliff this time.

Rest assured.

So, with all of that said, happy reading!

J.V. Roberts

1

“It's the jackpot Tim, everything we need is up there!” Bethany squealed and clapped her hands together when she first set eyes on the storage facility. It was the first smile I’d seen from her since we’d left Momma behind.

There was bad weather b
lowing in.

We needed shelter.

The storage facility would do.

Only thing is
, this place has been anything but the jackpot.

It'd
been hard work followed by disappointment after disappointment.

All we've managed to find are a few winter coats
with which to battle the falling temperatures, a
katana
with a decent edge, an old WW2 era 9mm Luger with a loaded magazine and an extra box of hollow point shells, and a box of protein bars. The Luger is, admittedly, a nice find. We only have Bethany’s P32 and it's running low on shells. But, everything else in these units is garbage; at least as it pertains to our current situation. If you'd come to me a few months ago with a storage locker full of old Playboys, flat screen televisions, and Woody Allen movies, I'd have been a mouse in a cheese-wheel. But, right here, right now, if it can't help us survive, it's garbage.

Bethany
is staring glumly out of the second floor window. The rain is slapping against the tin roof. Chubby drops of water cut valleys across the face of the fogged over glass. Her forehead rests against her arm as she looks out over the crushed and twisted metal clogging both sides of the George Bush toll-way. Vehicles melded together, their drivers, the ones that had been granted the mercy of death upon impact, are now rotted down, their features melted away, and their skin a tight brown canvas pulled back viciously over an elaborate frame. The four lane toll checkpoint below us is just rubble and ruined tech with the body of a jackknifed tractor trailer peeking out of the detritus.

I've been piling
the few items we can use next to Bethany. The
katana
is perched in the corner, the protein bars and the coats are on the floor by her feet; minus the purple one she'd slipped over her shoulders. It doesn’t do much good. This place is all stone and metal. It’s practically an ice box. The Luger sits on the windowsill, locked and loaded. The P-32 is tucked in the back of her jeans.

I work the pry bar we'd found in the Humvee against yet another stubborn lock mechanism. It's the final unit on the hall.
I’ve been cracking these things open all day. I’ll spend tomorrow cracking and sifting through the next hall. Then the next, until we've sucked this oyster dry. Then it's on to our next host.

That’s been our pattern these past few weeks; stick and move, stick and move.

She doesn't startle at the loud crack of splintered metal as I break through. She holds her ground, her eyes peeled for trouble. A soldier. Standing watch. She's steady. Steadier than she's ever been.

“
Bethany, I'm going in. Call out if you see anything.”

“
Will do,” her voice echoes back at me.

I step
inside the unit.

It looks like it’s just
another disappointment.

The center of the floor is a mountain of cloth
es surrounded on three sides by a single line of boxes taller than I am. I crouch down and begin shuffling through the clothes, looking for anything that holds value: a winter jacket, some long johns, a pair of wool socks, anything.

Nothing.

It's a giant pile of fabric. A fire starter, at best. It's all Summer clothes, mostly in junior's sizes. There are a few onesies mixed into the bunch, stained with baby food and formula.

I begin pulling down boxes, two at a time. There is the crash and smash of breaking china and the dull thud of books and family photo albums. I tear open the tops and dump the contents out beside the useless pile of clothes.

Tupperware containers.

P
orcelain dolls.

Car s
peakers and a stereo face with neon blue trimmings.

Garbage, garbage, and more garbage.

I kick through the clothes one last time before walking back out
to the hall.

“
You see anything out there?” I walk up beside Bethany, picking the Ruger up from the ledge and tucking it in my waistband.

“
Just a couple of Rabid making their way up the on-ramp on the other side of the toll-way. They're moving away from us, nothing to worry about.”

“
Look out, let me see.” I shove in beside her and set my nose against the glass, my breath splashing back on me like a mini nuclear explosion.

There are six of them, maybe
seven. They're moving slow, arms dangling, heads drooped, shoulders hunched. Their clothes are rags that drag behind them, catching the wind like bicycle streamers. They're docile and hunting for prey. We're too far away and we're inside. There’s no chance of them catching our sound or scent.

We're safe.

For now.

“
Are you satisfied, can I have my personal space back, please?” Bethany pushes back in, shoulder first. “What'd you find?”

“
A couple laundry hampers of summer clothes and baby clothes. Some porcelain dolls. Picture albums.”

“
So nothing, you found nothing?”

“
Pretty much, yeah.”

Bethany plops her forehead back against the glass and shuts her eyes.
“I'm so tired.”

“
Yeah, me too, sis.” I reach for her shoulder. She pulls away.

“
No, Tim, that’s not what I mean.” She looks up at me. “I'm tired of running from the monsters, from those assholes that have Momma. It's like, if they're gonna kill us, then let's get it over with. It beats freezing and starving to death.”

I step back, squinting my eyes, trying to gauge how serious she is about throwing herself on the proverbial sword.
“Are you nuts? We've got two less-than-ideal handguns, a sword, and a kitchen knife. We're not going to keep running, not forever, but we've got to mount our offensive line before we go tossing ourselves into the fray.”

“
What about Momma? How long are we just gonna let her sit out there with them? We don't know what they're doing to her. We haven't even bothered looking. You think she'd just hole up and leave us out there?”

“
Bethany, we've gone over this.”

“
You think she'd leave us out there, do you?”

“
If she only had a handgun and a butcher’s blade, yeah, I hope she would. We find them and then what?” I lean in closer, one hand propped on the wall, hovering over her. “They put holes in us, take the cross, and bury all three of us together; one big happy family.”

Bethany shakes her head. The streak of purple that
had once been at the forefront of her hairline is all but gone. It’s been replaced by a brilliant black. “That's Momma they have Tim, I hate it.”

“
Those guys aren't going to leave this city without the cross. They'll keep Momma alive until they get it. Once we get our shit together, we'll find them, we'll hit them, hard, and get Momma back. You have my word.”

She nods, sucking
air in through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling with acceptance.

I haven't figured out
the significance of the cross and the importance that it holds for the General and his band of merry men. I know that whatever it is, it's worth killing for. I keep it around my neck, removing it from the collar of my shirt to paw at it from time to time, cycling the words of its previous owner over and over in my head,
the answers will find you.

Enigmatic bastard.

Winter found me. Scarcity found me. Death and decay found me.

The answers have
yet to make themselves known.

I
scoot up next to Bethany and cautiously attempt to snake my arm around her once more. There is no pulling back this time, she leans into me instead and lowers her head against the side of my chest.

“
We can spread those clothes out in there, turn them into a mattress, it'll give us something soft to sleep on tonight.”

“
Better than a stone floor,” Bethany agrees.

We have a few comforters that we've picked up along the way
. They’ll complete the picture nicely.

“
How do you feel about a protein bar and some cold green beans for dinner?”

“
Do we have any lemon Crystal Light left?”

“
Yeah, I think there are a couple packets.”

“
Throw in half a candy bar and I promise not to bitch too much.”

“
Deal.”

Slo
wly, the rain picks up intensity and lightning begins flashing across the horizon. We stand and watch the Rabid until they shuffle out of sight.

2

I'm sitting on the window sill, bathed by the light of the full moon, eating the last half of a protein bar I'd saved from dinner.

I always take first watch.

It's a Bethany thing. Something she's insisted on every night for the last month.
“Just makes me feel better, you know, you facing the night down first.”

Fair enough.

I guess she figures if something is going to happen, it'll happen once the darkness falls and that it'll happen sooner rather than later. I don't bother pointing out the holes in her logic and informing her that evil doesn't keep a calendar or an alarm clock, and that it pretty much operates when, where, and how it wants.

The facade kee
ps her warm. Comfortable. Safe.

E
ven if it is only an illusion.

W
hatever keeps your dreams alive, I say.

If the walls must crumble for her
, then they’ll crumble organically. I'll not be the one with the sledgehammer.

I
count the minutes on a gold plated wristwatch we found during one of our expeditions. The hands seem to match up with the day and night cycles, but it could be an hour or so off and we'd never know the difference. It's definitely seen its share of wear and tear. The plating has been worn down to silver on the backside of the face and there are deep scratches on the plastic cover protecting the hour and minute hands.

The individual that
wore it before me wore it well.

I pull my sweatshirt down over my hand and rub at the glass, clearing a po
rthole in the thin layer of fog. I look out over the pale-lit ruins. Despite the broken down urban landscape stretched out before me, I feel alone, secluded. I feel as if I've been wrapped in a straitjacket and tossed into a padded cell and left to rot.

To date
, we've come across one other survivor.

You couldn't really call her that though
.

She was alive, for whatever that’s worth
.

She had the shell of a woman. Hair as thin and delicate as pond ice in early summer. Ashen. Pouring across her eyes like a shallow brook. She
was pushing a shopping cart, filled to the brim with rebar, brass, and other pieces collected from the skeleton frames of bombed out buildings. Her jaw was chattering, like a windup toy, muttering insanities. As we wove past her, she didn't even pause to look. She just kept on pushing her cart, the wheels rattling across the imperfections in the pavement, swerving around the decomposing bodies littering her path; trapped in her own private hell.

Is she still alive? Still filling the night air with her
metallic ramblings?

Probably not. She is weak...

was weak...

whatever.

The Rabid prey on the weak.

Survive or die.

“Think we should stop and help her?” Bethany had asked me, craning back over the passenger seat to watch the old woman vanish from our sightline.

Bethany is still learning.

Don't offer a hand unless you're sure it won't get bitten off.

Unless you're able to see all the angles.

The days of taking people at their word, those days are over.

The
bad guys wear fatigues and dog tags.

The heroes have become the villains.

The only things I'm relying on are myself, my family, and a loaded magazine.

You want to survive, prepare to be a bit of a bastard. 

I check the wristwatch by the light of the moon. It's forty-five minutes into Bethany's shift.

I always cut in
some, you know, to let her sleep a little bit longer.

I
can barely draw her outline inside the open storage shed. She is partially buried beneath the pile of children's clothing I'd unearthed in the final locker. A couple of blankets are draped across her shoulders. She always looks so peaceful when she sleeps. She never stirs or startles. She just sleeps.

“
Like a log,” Momma would say.

“
Like a lump on a log,” Daddy would correct her.

I come down off
the window ledge, stretching, my joints popping and creaking like muffled firecrackers. I secure the Ruger in my waistband and approach Bethany, gently draping a hand across her shoulders. “Sis, you're up.”

She rolls onto her back and yawns loudly. Her eyes glisten as they flicker open. She sits up, pushes the clothes from her lap, and stumbles to her feet. I hand her the watch and rub her back as she shuffles past me into the hall to begin her shift.

I lay down in her spot, a ready-made cocoon, setting the pistol beside my head and pulling the stack of blankets up to my neck before closing my eyes. Sleep is merciful tonight and finds me quickly among the wreckage.