“You and Ezekiel.” The old man shook his head. “Both of you refuse to see the world as it is. But that is not my problem. If you’ll excuse me, I must get to praying for this man’s soul. Perhaps it can yet be saved.”
He turned from me and bowed his head, speaking quietly. Inside the cage, Joe did the same. I retreated back to the woodshed, grabbing the wheelbarrow and filling it with wood, making sure to fling the logs so they clattered around in the noisiest way possible.
I knew, in a sick, twisted way, that Jeb was right. Any human bitten by a rabid, whether it was a dog or skunk or a rabid person, was in danger of Turning. It was different from becoming a vampire, where you had to drink your sire’s blood to become one. In my case, Kanin’s Master vampire blood had made me strong enough to overcome the disease, and he’d gotten to me immediately after I’d been attacked. Even then, I had been very lucky; most vampires still created rabids when they tried to make new offspring.
Rabidism, however, was much more potent and certain. Every case was different, Kanin had told me—usually it depended on the severity of the wound and the victim’s fortitude and will to fight off the infection. The virus spread quickly, accompanied by raging fever and a great deal of pain, before it finally killed the host. If left undisturbed, the body would rise again completely changed; a rabid, carrying the same deadly virus that had Turned it.
I knew the precautions the Archers had taken were necessary; even with one of their own, they could not afford the risk of him going rabid. But it still made my skin crawl, the thought of being locked in a cage, alone, waiting to die. I wondered what Zeke would think of it. Would he be as shocked and disturbed as I was? Or would he side with Jeb, claiming it was the right thing to do?
Zeke. I pushed the thought of him from my mind, hurling a log into the wheelbarrow so forcefully it bounced out and hit the wall of the shed. That moment we’d shared up on the platform, that couldn’t happen again. No matter how much I wanted it. I couldn’t allow him to get that close ever again. For both our sakes.
Ruth and Zeke were still up on the platform, sitting side by side, when I returned with the wheelbarrow full of logs and branches. I didn’t go back to the tower but watched as Larry demonstrated how to feed the fires by dropping the wood down several chutes that led straight into the flames, all without leaving the safety of the compound. I was impressed. Rather than stupidly scurrying outside to toss logs onto the flames and tempt any number of rabid hordes watching from the forest, they’d worked out an ingenious way of dealing with the problem in the least dangerous way possible. You had to admire their creativity.
After feeding the bonfires, I wandered back to the barn, wanting to avoid Zeke and Ruth on the platform. Maybe he could show her how to hold and shoot my rifle—she’d love that—and I could take over guarding the livestock. Whatever it took to stay away from him.
The barn was musty and warm as I opened the door and slipped inside, the livestock dozing contentedly. Most of the group was outside or in the farmhouse, helping with the watch or doing various chores around the compound. But Teresa, Silas and the youngest of the kids remained in the barn with the animals. Old Silas dozed in a corner, covered in blankets, snores coming from his open mouth. Teresa sat nearby, mending a quilt and humming softly to herself. She smiled and nodded at me when I came in.
“Allison.” Caleb emerged from one of the stalls and walked up to me, shy little Bethany trailing behind him, clutching a bottle in a grubby fist. Caleb held a spotted baby goat in his arms, and it was almost too much for him to handle, bleating and struggling weakly. Quickly, I knelt and took the animal from him, holding it against my chest. It calmed somewhat but still cried out pitifully.
“It doesn’t have a mommy.” Caleb sounded close to tears, wiping his face and leaving a streak of mud across one cheek. “We have to feed it, but it won’t drink its bottle. It keeps crying, but it doesn’t want the milk, and I don’t know what it wants.”
“Here,” I said, holding out my hand, and Bethany gave me the bottle. Sitting against the wall, I settled the tiny creature in my lap, as the two human kids watched anxiously. For a moment, I felt a prick of irritation that Ruth should be here doing this, not me, but then I focused on the task at hand. I had only a vague idea of what to do, having never seen a goat before, much less held one, but I’d have to make it work.