Free The Rabid (Book 1) by J.V. Roberts

potentially to pull someone else up along with us. What is the point of physically surviving if we lose the other parts? Those things that make us tick , as dad would’ve said. Compassion. Love. Hope. Just to name a few.
    “What’s going on , Momma?” Bethany has rolled over against momma’s side, nuzzling, and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I am momentarily brought to jealousy by her somewhat incoherent mumbling. Ten minute power nap. Medication fuelled coma. I’ll take anything ! At this point.
    “Nothing , sweetie, go back to sleep.” She combs her hair back with her fingers and cups a hand across her ear. “What’s all this we stuff about?” It is a whisper, yes, but with a knowing edge—an air of defensiveness—attached to it.
    AKA : I know you’re not saying what I think you’re saying!
    “Well , he’s dealt with these things, two heads are better than one, the buddy system. Old Two-Step is practically an adult by Jewish standards.”
    “We’re not Jewish, he’s my son, and certainly isn’t an adult by my standards.” Take away? Blood is thicker than beatnik poetry and obscura art. Momma is usually all sweetness and nice where Lee is concerned, except when it comes to us. The claws come out, and Momma goes from flower child to scorned lioness at the drop of a hat, or in Lee’s case, a poorly turned choice of phrase.
    Lee stands, holding his hands out in meek surrender. “Fine , dear, I’m not forcing or even asking anyone to do anything. It was merely a suggestion. Now, I’m going out there to see what all this is about, fair enough?”
    I stand up next to him. “Me too.”
    “Absolutely not,” Momma clamors to her feet, facing us with clenched fists. She seems to have forgotten about Bethany completely, and sends her rolling across the floor as she rips the support from beneath her sagging head.
    “Momma, I’m not asking. If things ever get back to how they ought to be , then you can ground me for this, or whatever you'd like. But I’m going, Lee’s right, this world ain’t no place for boys. Boys die in this world, men lead the way, and they survive. Right now, I’ve got to be a man.”
    I hear d her sniffle and see the outline of her face as she brushes the tears away. “Lee, if something happens to him, I’ll never...”
    “You won’t have to, I’ll be dead, to get to Two-Step , they’ve gotta go through me.”
    “What is it , Momma?” Bethany asks, tugging at her nightdress.
    “Nothing , honey, you sleep, just lie down and close your eyes.”
    I make for the kitchen.
    “Where you going, Two-Step?”
    “We’ll need weapons.”
     
    ***
    I fracture the broom handle on the front porch using the heel of my boot and a bit of torque. The point isn’t as fine as Mr. Fitz’s had been, but it’ll make due.
    Broomspear 2.0 is born.
    Lee is armed with an 8” inch kitchen blade. German steel. Hand stamped. An old wedding present from our relatives out west. “I sure wish this thing were longer.” He turns it in his hands, the sliver strands of light leant by the moon above us glint against the surface.
    “Yeah , well, I wish water wasn’t wet and that porcupines were made out of cotton balls, but hopes and dreams died about 48 hours ago, so I guess it is what it is.”
    “Wow, give the kid a broom handle and he goes all 21 st century macho man, you got anymore quips you want to share, Two-Step?”
    “My baby, please, please, HEEEEEEEEELP!”
    The frantic pleas serve to quell whatever hesitance…hell, call it fear…that may have been creeping around inside my belly. It may be the lack of sleep, exhaustion fueled mania, the kind of stuff psych docs warn their bi-polars about. Anyway, whatever I am feeling, Lee feels it too. We move towards the tree line with an increased urgency biting at our boot heels. Not careless, but not with any sense of caution either. A bit of moonlight works its way through the canopy overhead, lighting our way.
    We move,
    knees bent,
    t ac