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

team style,
    w incing each time a withered leaf or petrified twig squeals beneath us.
    “They’re going to hear us coming,” I crouch down, resting Broomspear 2.0 across my knees. We are about a quarter of the way into the one hundred yards of forest that separates our property from the roadway.
    “Yeah , well, it’s risk it or go back. You heard her, there’s a kid. Don’t know about you, but my sleep sucks enough without that on my conscience.”
    “And if there’s nothing to be done?”
    “I can live with trying and failing. I can’t live with not trying at all.”
    The cries have become more disjointed and hysterical in their composure now. No identifiable words. Just a broken petition for intervention.
    I know the brush and bramble well, could navigate with my eyes closed; I practically am at this point. I’ve gotten to know these woods through the good times and the bad: branches frozen bare by minimalist winters, leaves withered by heavy handed summers, only to be nurtured by spring, and struck down by fall.  These are fat times for the foliage, though lean times aren’t far off, you can feel it on the wind, that chill riding quietly on its back, sneaking in like a thief. Yeah, I know these woods. Lee, well, he doesn’t. The deeper we venture, the more treacherous the terrain. Branches scratch at our faces and eyes. Dead and dying tree trunks take spite-ridden aim at our kneecaps and shins. I dodge and duck, a trained professional. Lee recoils and falls, cursing beneath his breath. That underlying fear I’ve been carrying, the one about us being less a rescue team and more a casualty list, seems to sprout fresh fruit with each step Lee takes.
    We find ourselves, against all odds, on the other side of the woods, on our stomachs, inching towards the threshold. Before us, lies a steep embankment that turns into a drainage ditch clogged with the cast off chaparral of seasons past, and then beyond that, is the two lane farm road.
    “Careful now, easy does it.” Lee coaxes as we break the tree line, the earth dropping off beneath our noses.
    The scene is straight from the script of some black and white detective picture. A red compact sits framed in a thick pillar of moonlight. On any other night, this would have been counted good fortune, a karmic high five, and an angel on the shoulder.
    On this night, it is…
    …a broken mirror…
    …spilt salt…
    …an open umbrella in the living room…
    The hood is partially cracked, releasing the white smoke that pours from the mechanically deficient engine block, allowing it to dissipate against a starless sky. A body, male judging by the thick-soled timberland style boots attached at the feet, is sprawled face up near the front bumper. A half dozen of the Rabid have burrowed their way inside his stomach cavity and are tossing the contents to the pavement, while gulping down choice bits of loose flesh. A half dozen more are working their way across the body of the car, emitting that throaty gurgle I’ve come to know so terrifyingly well. They are hunting…I’ve seen it before, with Bethany and the supply closet. They are feeling the body of the car out as if it’s a trail marker written in Braille, while getting nose-to-carbon-fiber with the paint job, they are like blind dogs. Blind is a safe assumption. The pencil beneath my heel. The way they are constantly flaring their nostrils. Blind…but capable. Like bats. Giant bats. They can smell her. They can hear her.
    Her…
    …and the baby.
    She is scrunched up in the back seat, knees to chest, appearing as a cloudy figure beyond the tinted glass, a bawling infant tucked securely behind the tops of her thighs, just beneath her chin.  Her terror, though muffled by the windows, is still crystal clear in both message and tone.
    “Help me, please! My baby!”
    They’ve found their point of entry. The windows.  Six of them, working together like carpenter ants. Two come down on the windshield; hammer fisting