Chapter Fifteen

Gone Rabid

L ocked in horror, Joan gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes stayed fixed on the binoculars. Her mind reeled, struggling to comprehend what she’d seen. Her heart pounded so fiercely it seemed to reverberate through her entire body. She blinked hard, half-expecting the insane scene might vanish. But there Jeb stood, alone in the stark moonlight, his hands clutched around the smoking shotgun.

Realizing she'd been holding her breath, Joan exhaled sharply, and a sudden dizziness hit her, sending the world into a brief, sickening whirl. It thankfully didn’t last. Her hands shook as she adjusted the binoculars to scan the area again. The darkened house loomed quietly, taunting her with its silence. She strained to see through the thick shadows surrounding the porch, her gaze darting from filthy window to filthy window.

No sign of the other boys? Where was Carrie? Susan?

Her chest tightened with a new kind of dread as she realized that Jeb was the only person in sight. Her ears caught the faintest edge of his voice, rough and sharp as he shouted something into the emptiness, his words just a garbled rumble from her vantage. She tried to make out what he was saying. If she understood, maybe she’d have some explanation for the crazed act she’d witnessed. But the porch remained empty except for the fallen body. Jeb stood like a dark sentinel, his attention somewhere beyond her view.

Even for Jeb Hogg, who had always been known for his simmering temper and erratic outbursts, this was madness on another level. Something in him had snapped. She could feel it as surely as if it were a living, breathing thing in the air between them. And then, with a chill that seemed to creep from her bones to her blood, the realization struck her like a slap.

Jeb Hogg had gone rabid.

Joan's breath caught as Jeb turned, his silhouette looming in the distance as he swung the shotgun toward the darkness. The barrel dipped, only to jerk up again, his movements erratic. Then, another explosion. This time, the blast hit the dirt close enough for her to feel the dull, earthy thud echoing through the ground beneath her. Fifteen feet. Did he know she was out here?

Jeb turned away, facing the driveway, and fired again, this time at nothing but the empty night. Each wild shot only deepened the despair tightening in Joan’s stomach. Reflexively, her hand moved to Max’s back, fingers threading into his thick fur as she sought comfort in his steady warmth. He leaned into her touch, his quiet presence grounding her even as her thoughts spiraled. She murmured to him, her voice low and unsteady.

“His leash is loose, boy, and the doghouse is empty upstairs. That man is insane.”

Hearing herself say it aloud was like crossing some invisible line, one she couldn’t retreat from. This was no longer suspicion, the rabies virus now unfolded before her eyes.

She lifted the binoculars again, her gaze darting back to the house. She squinted, desperate to penetrate the darkness beyond and find someone other than Jeb alive.

A dreadful thought took root, one that twisted through her mind like a creeping vine. Why didn’t his other sons come running? They would have heard those shots. The blasts had shattered the night. The silence held its own story. Her heart clenched, the horror of it overwhelming, yet the notion refused to let go.

They could all be dead.

Joan's mind raced, torn between the urge to hide and the knowledge that she had to take out Jeb. Rationally, she knew it was safest to hunker down and stay out of sight until the authorities arrived. It could be hours, and lives potentially hung in the balance. Max was a formidable presence at her side, but even he wouldn’t be able to protect them if Jeb decided to start firing in her direction again. Besides, she wouldn’t turn her back on Carrie.

Just then, Jeb lowered the shotgun, his posture shifting as he turned, looking in her direction. The moonlight caught him, and for a chilling moment, she felt as though he were staring straight into her eyes. Her heartbeat thundered as she forced herself to stay still, swallowing hard so she didn’t scream. The brindle walked to his side, its head facing ahead with unsettling calmness, in unspoken obedience to its master. They remained that way, locked in silence, Jeb's figure unmoving. The seconds dragged, each one stretching until she feared she might break beneath the pressure.

Then, at last, he turned and headed toward the barn, the dog following with dutiful silence as they vanished into the interior.

Only then did Joan realize she’d been holding her breath again. She exhaled, the cold air rushing into her lungs, and she took another quick scan of the house. Nothing stirred. The porch lay still .

“I need to look in those windows,” she whispered to Max, her voice steadying with the decision. She felt the cold grip of fear seize her again, a wave of panic rising in her chest, but she forced it down. She could not leave an innocent child in the hands of a rabid monster.

Carrie and her mother had to be alive, or this was all for nothing. Even though she knew the odds weren’t in the young child’s favor, Joan would not lose hope. A shaky plan began forming in her mind. It wasn’t much of a plan, truth be told, it barely counted as one, but it was all she had.

“Stay,” she whispered firmly, placing her palm in front of Max’s nose. He watched her with alert eyes, knowing exactly what she meant. He would hold his ground unless she needed him, their unspoken bond stronger than any words could be.

With one last glance at the barn, she took a breath, bracing herself, and crept toward the house. Her leg was now throbbing steadily. She used the shotgun for support.

Joan crouched low; her breath shallow as she edged closer. Each step seemed magnified in the stillness. The dry vegetation crackled underfoot, each crunch ringing in her ears like the snap of brittle bones, impossibly loud against the quiet night. She winced, pausing to lift the binoculars, scanning the property with renewed caution. Satisfied that the area around the barn remained empty, she veered carefully away from it, jerking her head from barn to house, watching for any sign of Jeb or his dog.

The closer she crept, the worse the state of the property became. Broken furniture, rusted-out appliances, and piles of refuse littered the yard, scattered as if someone had emptied their entire life’s junk across the land. Someone had. It was like wading through a minefield of filth. Her nose crinkled as she caught the stench; strong, sour, with a heavy undercurrent of stale urine that clung to the air. She breathed shallowly, wishing she had a scarf or anything to shield her nose. How did they live this way?

Keeping to the darkest shadows, she moved from one rusty, broken-down car to the next, pressing her back against them, ready to bolt if she saw so much as a shadow move. Her mind wandered briefly to the brindle, who posed almost the same danger as Jeb. She kept expecting the dog to materialize out of the dark at any moment.

Joan took another careful step forward when her foot struck something solid, sending her to one knee, causing pain to shoot up her bitten leg. She reached out instinctively, her fingers pressing against something unfamiliar beneath her. Confusion washed over her as her mind struggled to understand what she’d stumbled upon. Her hand brushed against the rough fabric of a pant leg, and dread pooled in her stomach as she felt the unyielding shape of a body beneath her touch .

Her fingers moved almost mechanically up the figure’s leg, across the torso, and finally to the neck, where she pressed two trembling fingers against the skin. There was no pulse. Her breath hitched. It had to be one of Jeb’s sons.

Still warm.

A mixture of horror and sorrow twisted through her, the reality of it settling into her soul. She swallowed hard, resisting the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake her, then forced herself to focus, to stay sharp.

A faint whisper startled Joan, cutting through the night. She gasped, spinning to locate the source of the plea. It came again, softer now, barely audible over the quiet squeak of an old pile of metal about fifty feet away. A few seconds later, she tracked the sound to the porch.

Rising quickly, she dashed from the cover of the junked truck to the steps, her gaze fixing on the figure sprawled at the porch’s edge. It was the son Jeb shot, lying on his side, slumped against the rough wood. Darkness seeped from beneath him, the blood mingling with the dirt covering the boards.

His breathing was shallow and strained, each rasp catching in his throat. The sight filled her with horrible urgency. She knelt by his side, her voice low but desperate. “What happened?”

The young man’s gaze remained unfocused, clouded by pain and shock. “Da?” he croaked, the single word laced with a raw, pleading confusion.

She leaned closer, her voice gentle. “It’s Joan, your neighbor. Where are Carrie and your mother?”

For a brief second, his eyes flickered toward her, and she thought she saw a spark of recognition. His fingers moved, finding her sleeve, and clutched it with a strength that surprised her, his hand shaking. “Ma?” he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips.

“Where is your ma?” she pressed, urgency sharpening her tone.

He swallowed, his gaze unfocused once again, but then his head moved, and his chin lifted just slightly. When he met her eyes, a hollow, resigned look settled over his face. “Dead,” he exhaled, his last word escaping in a long sigh as his head drooped. A tremor ran through his body, his hand slackening on her sleeve before it slipped, and he went utterly still.

She found his wrist, pressing into his pulse point with a futile hope. Nothing.

The word— dead —echoed in her mind, an impossible reality she couldn’t yet let sink in. Susan, gone? Her heart seized with grief and disbelief, her mind veering immediately to Carrie. If her mother was dead, then where had Carrie gone? Her gaze flickered across the dark yard, scanning the silent, hollow structure of the barn in the distance. She caught the sound of a low whine, almost imperceptible, followed by a faint growl. The dogs. Some had to be inside the barn with Jeb.

Pushing aside the tight grip of fear gnawing at her resolve, Joan clenched her jaw. Standing, she took one last glance at the porch and the lifeless form of Jeb’s son. She moved toward the front door. She couldn’t waste another second looking through the windows, which was her original plan. Carrie could be inside.

The door creaked open, and a foul stench hit her instantly, more concentrated than the yard, thick and suffocating, tinged with the acrid odor of decay. She forced herself to breathe shallowly, resisting the urge to cover her nose. She took a tentative step forward, her eyes straining to adjust. There was no one in the front part of the house. She had to go down the hallway. Fingers shaking, she opened the first door on the left. She could see nothing and took a chance by turning on the flashlight.

Mice scurried away. There were two inches of droppings along the floorboard. A galvanized metal bucket had a toilet lid on top of it. The smell was worse than the night Max got sprayed by a skunk. She quickly turned off her flashlight and closed the door. Poor Carrie had been forced to live in this disgusting filth.

She took a few steps and opened the next door. A bunk bed was against the wall, and a full-sized mattress lay on the floor. Other than beds and clothing, garbage littered the empty room. There was a single closet. She looked inside and saw several dresses belonging to Carrie.

Joan pushed open the final door at the end of the hallway, feeling a strange, prickling unease settle over her. Unlike the other rooms, which reeked of abuse that happened within, this one held an unnerving stillness, an unnatural quiet that sent a chill down her spine. Shadows thickened in the corners, leaving only a narrow path of dim light to the bed. She took a few cautious steps forward, her gaze drawn to the figure lying upon it.

Susan.

Joan’s heart thundered in the suffocating silence. Susan’s eyes were open, wide and glassy, fixed on something Joan couldn’t see, as if she’d glimpsed into another realm in her final moments. Her hands were crossed on her chest. Blood covered her face and matted her hair.

The heaviness in Joan’s chest grew, a sharp ache that settled like a weight on her ribs, compressing her breath. Time seemed to warp, stretching out, as she stood rooted to the spot.

Susan’s skin was a pallid, waxen gray, her limbs unnaturally still, her body arranged almost like a forgotten doll left to gather dust. Oddly, it was her feet, though. Bare and filthy, smudged with dirt and grime that seemed to strike Joan’s sense of injustice the most. Something about the sight made her rage spike. Susan had gone to her house barefoot to get away. This small indignity stood out amid all this horror. Did she return for Carrie?

Joan absorbed every detail, each one twisting her tighter, until finally her mind screamed at her to move, to remember that she was still in danger.

A wave of nausea suddenly swept over her. She closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself against it, forcing down the bile that threatened to rise. She couldn’t afford to fall apart now, not with Carrie’s whereabouts still unknown, not with the looming threat that Jeb could return at any moment.