Page 15 of Rabid
Carrie’s trembling and jerky motions. The foam at the dog’s mouth.
Rabies.
Suddenly, the rabid dog sprang at Max. Guttural snarls cut the air, and their jaws snapped at each other before they collided. The force of the impact sent them rolling head over tail. They recovered instantly, twisting and turning as they tried to gain a grip on the other. The strange dog did a crazy lurch sideways again.
Joan didn’t think. She charged in, her shotgun raised over her head like a wild woman. Max backed off; seemingly like they planned it. She swung downward with everything she had, striking the dog’s back. He yelped, then snapped in her direction as he turned to lunge at her. Max grabbed him by the side of his throat and began shaking with enough force to lift the other dog off its feet. There was a short struggle before the dog’s body went limp. Max held on as his deep growls dwindled.
Panting and trying to regain her equilibrium, Joan considered what she knew about rabies. Not much. No one spoke or even thought about rabies anymore. What she remembered came from her childhood over sixty years before. Foaming at the mouth and hydrophobia were the obvious signs. Then she remembered that once outward signs ofrabies appeared, there was no cure. Was it still that way?
Carrie.
She was dead. No, Joan couldn’t accept that without seeing it for herself. Carrie and her mother had to be alive.
What if all of Jeb’s dogs were in some stage of the disease? There had to be over a hundred of them. She doubted he ever vaccinated any of them for anything.
Fear caught up to her, and an iron grip squeezed her chest, pulling tighter with every breath. Her heart pounded so violently it had to find a way out. Sweat trickled down her back, and her hands trembled as she gazed into the night, feeling the other dogs watching and waiting. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to hide and escape what she knew was out there.
Her mind cycled through worst-case scenarios, amplifying every possible horror until even the most remote possibility felt inevitable. Mental whispers were drowned out by the roar of anxiety. Time warped, slowing down so that every second led up to the moment of choice. Her stomach twisted into knots.
Willow floated in her mind, sweet precious child. No, not Willow, Carrie. Joan’s confusion blended their images inside her head. Her heart couldn’t tell one from the other.
Slowly, reason returned, and the fog of fearlifted. A rabid dog had bitten Max. It or another infected dog had bitten one of Jeb’s sons.
Joan had no idea what the rabies protocol was if a dog had its shots other than confinement. She knew she shouldn’t touch the dead animal. She had to get Max away from it so she could clean his wounds.
Jeb could deal with his kid. Joan’s concern was for her best friend.
“Good boy, Max. Come.” She hit her palm against the side of her leg. Max turned in her direction, his jaws still clamped on the other dog’s throat. He whined, and she called him again. “Max, come.”
His mouth opened. There was a soft thud when the body hit the dirt. Max walked to her side; his eyes glued to hers. Joan went to her knees. He pushed his entire body into her, almost toppling her over.
“You’re such a good boy,” she told him softly as she ran her shaky hands over his fur. She probably shouldn’t touch him either, but she didn’t care. She let the fear go. It could and most likely would come back, but she would face it.
Max’s front leg was wet. She lifted her hand away and knew it was blood. “Okay, boy, we need to go inside so I can see if the blood is yours or his. You did good,” she assured him. He followed her to the house, her hand on his neck steadying them both.
Joan turned the corner of the house andsucked in a deep breath. Lucy. She walked around the truck. There were four punctured tires and windshield damage. It was fixable, but it ramped up her anger to rage again. She took several deep breaths. Lucy was a truck. She could be fixed. It didn’t matter. Joan had to look away.
The front security door on her house and the main door were shot off the hinges. Items from inside were dragged out and littered the ground. Most of it destroyed. Joan carefully stepped over items and moved around larger pieces of furniture to get inside.
It was worse.
Bags of food storage were torn open, and cans tossed everywhere. They’d smashed a bottle of olive oil. A slick, glossy film seemed to cover everything. It was too much to deal with, and the mess wasn’t a priority, it was just something to keep her rage up.
Gazing around, she realized she couldn’t close the front door behind her for security. If the Hoggs or the dogs came back, she would be in trouble. This had to be quick.
Max followed her into the bathroom this time. She flipped the light switch, but it didn’t work. Jeb or his sons had most likely pulled the wires out of the fuse box. She propped the flashlight on the counter and turned on the water. She took a large towel from the cabinet and wet it before resituating the flashlight on the toilet seat so shecould see Max.
“This might hurt,” she told him after she sat down on the floor. Her fingers still trembled.
He had a small flap of skin on his snout. It wasn’t bleeding, but it was a puncture wound caused by a bite. Max stayed perfectly still as she examined every inch of him. She cleaned his fur with soap and water, then poured peroxide over the actual bites she found. Thankfully, most of the blood belonged to the other dog. She ran her fingers through Max’s fur one last time to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. Leaning in, she took a moment to breathe in his scent.
Joan needed this, even knowing she didn’t have much time. They could die tonight. It was a very real possibility. After a sharp shake of her head, she moved, grabbed the flashlight, and faced the mirror.
There were deep lines etched into her forehead, and her eyebrows were drawn together in a tight furrow. The crow’s feet and deeper shadows around her eyes reflected exhaustion. Her lips pressed into a thin, taut line, and the corners of her mouth pulled downward as she stared at herself. Her once-brown hair had been straight, and now it was a mass of white curls that she’d allowed to grow because getting it cut was a pain in the butt.
She leaned in and stared into her hazel eyes. Wrath and determination stared back. Joan had never killed a person. Before her son-in-law, she’dnever considered that she could. She hadn’t been there for her daughter Sammy. She wasn’t there for Willow until it was too late. It could already be too late for Carrie, and Joan refused to think about that possibility. It was time to fight back. She should have stopped her son-in-law. She’d buried her head in the sand, but she knew the signs of abuse, and it started with control. Neither Willow nor Carrie deserved the life they were born into. Joan was done minding her own business when a child’s life was on the line.
Her attention turned to Max, and she crouched down beside him. She might lose her best friend tonight. She didn’t think she would have survived Jeb Hogg this long if it weren’t for Max.
