The Rabid: Rise (22 page)

Our next move.

I don’t have to think long.

“Fuck running.”

Katia looks up, slowly. “What?”

“I said, fuck running. Let’s go back and let’s take the fight to the bastards responsible for all of this.”

She squeals excitedly and jumps to her knees, hovering over me. “Oh, I was so hoping you’d say that.”

“We go back, we link up with Norton and Ruiz, and we
destroy them. Not just one or two, every fucking one of them, top to bottom.”

She throws a leg over mine and straddles my thighs, her silhouette extinguishing the light from the pale sun. She holds my cheeks and kisses me
like she means it. “I’ll be by your side, as long as you’ll have me.”

“Well then, you’re stuck with me.”

“I’m okay with that,” she says, kissing me again.

***

As the Dallas skyline forms before us the aching in my belly starts to burn. A small ember at first that quickly turns into a dark flame. An anger and determination like I’ve never felt before. I will look into the faces of the men behind Project Lockjaw. They will know of Momma and of Bethany
. They will know of the blood that is on their hands. They will know because they will see it burning in my eyes, right before I take their fucking heads.

Read on for a free sample of  Devouring The Dead

Acknowledgements

Well, like last time, there are
some people that I need to thank for the existence of this book.

Right off the
bat, I want to thank
YOU
, yeah, that’s right,
you
. Whether you’ve been there from the beginning or you’re new to this series, thank you. Your feedback, your patronage, the love you’ve shown through your emails and your reviews, it’s all part of what drives my passion.

My heartfelt gratitude to my immediate and extended family for their love and their support. I hope I'm making you proud.

I want to say a big thank you to my beta reader this go around, Ryan. Your speedy reading, combined with your eye for detail, was a valuable resource and really helped me put the final polish on this piece.

Thank you, once again, to Scalpel Arms. Your insight into the world of firearms and firearms tactics has added a nice thick layer of authenticity to both of these projects.

And, finally, to my wife, Lizzie, for allowing me the silence and space and encouragement that I needed to get this project finished in a reasonable amount of time. Thank you for understanding and for using headphones when listening to your music. I love you, forever and always.

Here are some cool websites:

Follow me at: WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/thejonvincent

Check out Scalpel Arms and their incredible work at: WWW.SCALPELARMS.COM

Until next time,

J.V.

3/24/1

About the Author

J.V. Roberts is a former Dallas film critic and blogger. He is a native of Athens, Georgia. He is the author of The Rabid and Rise, the first two books in The Rabid trilogy. He lives with his wife in Plano, Texas.

PART ONE: GROWTH

CHAPTER ONE

Andrew James Collins had gone through his regular Monday morning procedure like every other week: up at six, teeth brushed, face washed, and out the door by six fifteen for a run. It was getting harder to leave his sleeping wife, Grace, when he got up. All he really wanted to do was snuggle down under the covers with her. With a baby on the way, she had had to give up the running and he was sad she couldn’t come with him anymore. He was looking forward to being a father for the first time though. These early morning runs gave him the chance to think about the future. He forced himself out of bed nearly every morning, the upcoming marathon was his prime motivator. This one would be his third and he wanted to improve on last years’ time.

He kissed his wife goodbye and crept out of the bedroom discreetly. Andy pulled on his trainers and did his normal warm-up downstairs in the front room, doing some basic stretching. He left the house quietly and took off down the street. It was overcast and threatening to rain, so he planned to make today’s run a quick one and cut through the park. He passed through the streets, listening to the world waking up around him. The odd car and delivery truck passed him
by and occasionally he would run past someone on the path clutching a newspaper or a carton of milk.

He ran through Jamaica Street quickly, down another quiet residential road, until he reached
Stepney Green Park. He knew he could run around it this morning, double-back on himself, and that way hopefully beat the weather. If he was doubly lucky, he could get back in time for a cuddle with Grace before he had to get ready for work in the city.

As he jogged through the park, he enjoyed the smell of the grass and the trees. His breath fogged out in front of him in the crisp air and he ran past a park bench where an old man was sleeping, covered in soggy newspapers. There was another jogger on the far side of the park, but otherwise it was deserted. The sky overhead was darkening ominously and he increased his pace.

A boom of thunder rolled out above the trees and he felt a large raindrop break on his head. The thunder faded away and Andy followed the curve of the path through the park and out into the open. If the raindrops became a downpour, there would be little shelter. There was a crack and a flash and Andy thought it was lightning, but the ground abruptly exploded in front of him. Grass, mud, and dirt flew up into the electrified air.

He went sprawling, landing on the dewy grass. Clumps of sodden earth landed on him and he tasted blood in his mouth. He got to his feet and waved his hands in front of his face, trying to waft away the cloying dirt in the air. More thick droplets of rain began falling. Surely, the lightning hadn’t struck the ground; there was no conduit. Andy could see nothing for it to strike.

As the air cleared, he saw a hole in the ground ahead, about six feet in diameter. It was circular and deep, and Andy’s first thought was that a bomb had gone off. Why would a terrorist detonate a bomb in the middle of an empty park in the morning?

Carefully, Andy walked toward the hole. There was no burning smell, no smoke, and he began to think perhaps it wasn’t a bomb. It just didn’t make sense.

He scanned around the park but the other jogger had disappeared, and the homeless man was still on the bench sound asleep. Evidently, the noise and the light hadn’t been enough to shake off the old man’s hangover. Andy couldn’t see anyone else around; there were no prying eyes or hidden cameras on the trees, and no sirens or SWAT team sprinting toward him. He took one more step toward the hole and stopped.

A strange, moth-like creature flew up into the air and hovered about ten feet off the ground. If that’s a moth, he thought, it’s the biggest bloody moth I’ve ever seen. The body of the creature was the size of a rugby ball and its brown leathery wings stretched out about six feet from tip to tip. Two antennae were sticking out of its head, waving around like divining rods. They were covered in a light fur that appeared oily; the raindrops were splashing off the creature and onto the ground, leaving the flying beast dry.

Andy looked at it with amazement. The creature had no eyes or mouth that he could see; it was like a massive moth with no face. It fluttered its wings slowly and secreted a dark liquid from its rear, a dark gooey substance that dribbled down its belly before dripping onto the earth below. The creature still hovered in the air with only its wing flapping and its antennae wiggling around. Andy took a few paces away and the creature started to follow him. Its wings flapped slowly and Andy was amazed it could remain air-born. He tried to think if he had seen anything like this anywhere before; he’d seen bats and bizarre creatures that lived in remote jungle caves on documentaries, but nothing like this, nothing in a central London park.

He took another few steps and the strange creature followed him again, this time coming closer. He wasn’t sure if it was the developing rainstorm, but the air seemed alive, as if the very atoms were crackling.

Thinking he must tell Grace about the weird flying animal, he watched as the flying beast rose higher into the air. Relieved that it was leaving, Andy heard a low humming noise. Looking closer at the moth-like creature, he realised it was coming from the animal. Its body was vibrating, its wings suddenly flapping furiously, and its whole body shuddering. Andy stepped back, alarmed, and the antennae suddenly went stiff, pointing directly at him. He turned and ran as the creature swooped.

He heard the wings beating behind his head, as he ran on the soft and slippery ground. Panicking, he turned and the creature was right in front of his face. Its wings wrapped themselves around his head and the rigid antenna dug themselves into his eyes. Andy screamed as the stinking creature’s body enveloped his face, muffling his shouts for help, and covering his bleeding eyes.

Andy sank to the floor, blinded as the antennae probed further into his head, reaching into his brain. Unable to breathe, Andy pulled frantically at the creature, but his fingers could not find a hold and the more he pulled, the more the creature dug in. His fingers slipped uselessly off the creature’s furry body. Andy’s lungs filled with blood and his heart beat furiously. Aware he was dying, Andy tried with one last attempt, one final adrenalin-fuelled charge, to rip the creature from his head.

The animal’s body quivered and with a tremendous thrust, it ejaculated a brown thick liquid into Andy. Its antennae were used for both sensing prey, and delivering its fatal poison. Andy’s body pulsed, soiled itself, and lay still as the creature continued trembling, its sticky seed flowing into Andy’s brain.

Finally, it was spent and the creature unwrapped itself from him. With its job done, the creature used its last ounce of energy to fly up into the nearest tree where it curled up in the concealing branches to die. The animal knew it had a short life-span, but was content it had fulfilled its purpose. It had little energy left and would probably wait here for a while until it slipped into sleep; unless something else came along to draw its attention.

The storm grew stronger and the rain fell on Andy’s dead body, the water pooling in his empty eye sockets. Dark brown droplets of liquid oozed from his ears, nose, and mouth, mingling with blood before trickling down onto the wet ground. Blisters appeared on his face and painful red boils erupted on his neck that popped like fresh kernels of corn in a microwave.

A young woman, another jogger, entered the park a moment later and saw Andy lying on the floor ahead of her. She raced over to him, but she knew that he was clearly dead. Assuming he had suffered a heart attack, she didn’t touch his body, but left him alone and called for an ambulance, the police, and then finally her boyfriend to tell him of the excitement. In all the confusion and drama, she didn’t notice the unnatural hole in the ground. She was so busy tweeting about the dead jogger in the park that she failed to notice when the ambulance men took Andy away, and a strange, furry, creature with huge wings flew up into the air above her.

* * * *

The bus journey to work changed little, no matter where you were headed, thought Tom. He looked around the bus at the coughing lady, the stinking old man with rolls of newspapers under his arms, the obnoxious school children playing obnoxious music from their obnoxious phones, and the atypical surly driver. Tom tried shuffling further to the window, away from the fat woman next to him whose blubbery rolls of fat were threatening to engulf him and his bag. He cursed her in his head and focused on the street outside, raindrops spilling down the glass and obscuring his vision. He used to get off here, go into college, grab a coffee, chat to a couple of guys on his course, pretend to be interested in what his boring tutor was lecturing him about, shoot home as quickly as possible to avoid doing any real work, and get straight back to doing nothing.

There was no escaping it though - those cushy days were over. One week. His parents had given him one week’s grace between leaving college and forcing him to get a job. So here he was, squashed up on a bus that smelt of piss and chips, headed to what was probably going to be a very boring day at a new job. His father had a word with a friend, and got him in ‘Fiscal Industries.’ Even the company’s name sounded boring. Apparently, it was a call
centre and he didn’t know what he’d be selling. Thanks dad, thought Tom.

He yawned and his breath fogged up the glass. The fat lady got up as the bus stopped, and Tom was grateful he wouldn’t have to squeeze past her when he got off at the next stop. The streets were full of people, scurrying through the rain to work. His father had told him he was wasting his time taking media studies at college. Certainly Tom couldn’t see how he was going to use his knowledge in a call
centre, selling foot-rot pills to old folks for seven quid an hour.

He’d rarely been to this area of the city, but then he’d seldom had cause to. Tom preferred to stay near home or college; there were enough pubs not to need to go into the city. Here, executives, rushing from one meeting to the next, populated it. Why would he want to mix with people he had nothing in common with? Abundant skyscrapers scratched the skyline whilst at ground level, the rain pelted down on grey concrete and black suits.

Tom finally spied the building he had to get to, and pushed the button to get off. He tried not to breathe in as he passed the old man with the newspapers. He slung his satchel over his shoulder, and stepped off the bus into the rain as it pulled up by the side of the road.

“Watch out, idiot,” said a nondescript man bumping past him, trying to dodge the raindrops as he rushed to his office. Tom shrugged and looked at his watch: nine a.m. He looked around at where he would be working as the bus pulled away. He stood under the bus shelter, sheltered from the rain,
marvelling at the skyscraper in front of him. He tried counting the floors, but could only get up to twelve before the misty rain hid the rest. We used to build churches, he thought, now we have giant, glass, monoliths to worship, and money. C’est la vie.

Tom checked the road and ran across to the entrance. He was struck by how much glass there was: the doors, the walls, and even the tables. Hope they’ve at least got proper walls in the toilets, he thought, as he slipped unobtrusively through the large sliding doors. The interior of the foyer was huge: marble columns sprouted from a smooth, slippery marble floor, and vast chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Men and women bustled past him, to and fro, ignoring him; Tom felt invisible. He approached the reception desk.

“Good morning,” said the beautiful young girl behind the glass desk. Tom couldn’t help but notice that her complexion was perfect, and her hands were perfectly manicured. Through the glass desk, he also noticed her long legs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad working here.

“Hi, I’m Tom, Tom Goode. I’m here to start work today at Fiscal Industries,” he said, smiling, while reading her nametag: Jessica.

“Certainly, sir, please take a seat, I’ll get someone to come and fetch you,” said Jessica. She gave him a smile and picked up the phone.

“Thanks,” Tom said. “So, Jessica, what’s it like working here? You like it?”

She ignored him and proceeded to ask someone to come down to get him.

“Seats are over there, sir,” she said, ignoring his gaze, and spinning her chair around to talk to her colleague.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” he muttered, walking away to the black leather sofas. He sat down and marvelled again at the building. The entrance alone was bigger than his entire flat, and the whole place was spotless. Men and women sped past him to the lifts at the far end, already at work on their mobiles. Suddenly Tom felt very out of place. He straightened his tie and looked down at his shoes; he hadn’t even polished them this morning. He surreptitiously licked one finger and bent down to rub the scuff marks and dirt off. As he did so, his phone vibrated and he took it out.