Free The Rabid: Fall by J.V. Roberts

and security. Come as you are, bring what you can, and join your fellow Americans in taking back what is ours. Travel safe, God be with you.
     
    All three of us are gathered around the desk as the radio goes silent.
    “Is it the same message every night?” I ask.
    Martha thinks for a minute. “You know, it’s not, actually. He switches words up here and there.”
    “Alright, so it’s a live broadcast, which means he can’t be in D.C.”
    “Why not?” Katia asks.
    Martha fields the question. “I wouldn’t get the reception. D.C. is too far. This thing, at its best, has only done a hundred miles.”
    “So what are you saying, Tim, you think it’s bullshit?”
    I walk to one of the observation windows, the heels of my boots licking hard at the wooden floor. “Nah, not saying that at all. I think he’s being downright honest. He’s probably a scout. They may have guys like him scattered all over, putting the calls out for survivors; that’d be my best guess.” There’s a fire twinkling on the horizon. It’s small. Controlled. Perhaps they are survivors on the road to DC.
    “What if it’s a trap?” Katia asks.
    “I don’t think it’s a trap, my dear.” Martha falls back into her chair, slapping her hands down on her knees. “Word travels down the line. Someone would have put a warning out over the air. There’s something up there, something legitimate, and folks are flocking to it.”
    “So why haven’t you flocked?” Katia asks.
    “Me?” Martha seems surprised by the question. “I’m too old to be tearing up my roots. This is my home. I was born here and I reckon I’ll die here. If they manage to get all this straightened out before I take my last breath, they’ll be needing someone that knows this town, someone to help build it back up; I reckon I’d like that someone to be me.But y’all should go.” Martha’s finger slides back-and-forth between us. “Hopefully, you’ll find who you’re looking for, settle whatever score needs settling, and you’ll be able to start over.”
    “Sounds like a good plan to me.” Katia takes my hand.
    “That it does.”
    Martha watches us fondly for a few moments. “I suppose y’all will be passing the night here?”
    “If that’s alright with you, we’d definitely appreciate it,” I say.
    “Sure, got plenty of space. But before we do anything else, we need to get that bandage on your shoulder changed out.”
    I look down and notice I’ve bled through.
     
    ***
    Martha offers to make dinner for all of us. She’s got a fold-out table on the second floor, surrounded by plastic chairs. She sets up a portable one-burner stove in the middle of the table, breaks out a small pot, fills it with a couple cans of ravioli, and gets to cooking.
    “It runs off butane. Seeing as how I ain’t got more of the stuff, I only break this baby out on special occasions.”
    “This is a special occasion?” Katia scoots her chair close to mine and sets her hand in my lap.
    “A group of friendly survivors, folks that ain’t trying to slit my neck and take what’s mine, yeah, that calls for a little celebration.”
    Sonny is at one end of the table. “I must say, it smells downright delicious.”
    Martha scoops the final can of ravioli into the pot; there’s a wet plop and a little explosion of meat sauce. “There’s nothing like the little aftertaste of metal that sits at the back of your throat after each bite.” Martha collects the cans and deposits them into a white grocery bag. She ties it off and throws it in the corner. “I went through all the good stuff pretty quick. I had a bag of frozen chicken that had to be polished off before it went bad—spent a full evening grilling it over a fire in the parking lot. I also had myself a few tins of chocolate-covered cashews, a key lime pie, and a pineapple upside-down cake. It was some good eating in the early days.”
    “Sounds like you had a lot of special occasions.” My mouth is watering