Dead Moon: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (6 page)

10

“Who is she?” I ask, setting my glass of scotch down. I swallow slowly, tasting every little nuance the malt has to offer. It’s a brand I’ve never heard, but hey, I’m a beer man. I only drink this kind of stuff on special occasions, or when I’m trying to forget something horrible from my job like that high-school kid that shot himself a few weeks ago.

This definitely qualifies as one of those times.

The only other time I pounded something like this was in Betty’s place, but that was for physical and mental pain. I would never condone that in a normal setting. My mind and body were just so beat and broken that the long suckle of whiskey called to me, beckoning me to indulge.

Betty saw me eyeing Joan’s liquor cabinet and offered me a taste. She said that Joan wouldn’t mind. Originally, I had asked if her friend had any beer handy, but she said no. “Joan only likes the hard stuff.”

“Tough woman,” I say, trying to coax some information out of my new friend, but the five-foot-nothing blonde says exactly that…nothing. I can tell she’s worried. Her eyes show her age, maybe fifty. She’s about ten years my senior give-or-take, and fifteen Jill’s. The only answer I do get out of Betty is a nod, agreeing that her friend was, indeed, tough.

I look around the place and see a plethora of pictures. Betty isn’t in a single one. The investigator in me tells me that Betty and Joan were newish friends. I even recall her telling me that the other woman had only moved in within the last year or two.

Joan hasn’t updated her pictures in a while.

“Can I get another?” I ask, standing. I don’t wait for Betty to answer, I just waltz into the kitchen, an exact duplicate of Betty’s—the entire apartment is—and pour myself another round. I glance at the fridge and pause. It’s not a long enough look for Betty to notice, but in the small amount of time I had, I saw all I needed.

One picture is on the black Maytag.

It’s one of Betty and another woman, presumably Joan, embraced in something more than a friendly hug. They’re at the top of the Empire State Building with a picturesque sunset in the background.

More than just friends…

I shake off the revelation, but now fully understand why Betty is still here. She’s waiting for her
friend
to come back. Another gift I have of detecting is that I’m really good at reading people. Betty knows Joan isn’t coming back. In fact, I bet you anything she already knows that Joan is dead. She may have even seen her body.

No reason to go down that road, Frank. She’s been through enough,
but then I see the other woman’s haircut. It’s a black pixie-styled hairdo, exactly the same as the untoweled body we saw on the stairs.

Damn.

Joan must have been in the shower when everything went down and rushed out of her place, coming to check on Betty. She only made it halfway though.

I blink the realization away. “You, uh… You said something about a weapon?”

She nods and stands, heading to the room directly off the living room. If I’m right and this place is set up like Betty’s, then she’s headed to Joan’s bedroom. I go to follow, but stop, turn, and grab my half-empty glass. I enter a moment after Betty and find her in the walk-in closet, removing a pile of laundry from… A gun safe.

“Here,” she says, lifting it.

I grab the tough looking case and set it on the bed. It’s a four dial combo lock, pretty old-school considering most gun safe’s use a fingerprint scanning system.

“What’s the combination?”

Betty shrugs. “No idea.”

Ugh… Okay, think…
I look up and see Betty watching me.

“What’s Joan’s birthday?”

“August, 8th,” she replies, quickly. Really quickly. Then, she blushes and turns away.

“Okay, so 0-8-0-8.”

I flip the rotary dials into place, but nothing. The lock doesn’t budge. I’m still locked out.

I look back up to Betty.
Hmmm, I wonder…

“And yours?” I ask.

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

She answers me with a quizzical look, “March, 30th, but I’m not sure why you need—”

Click.

I open the lid and smile, looking up to Betty. Her mouth is hanging open and a single set of tears fall from each eye. Her lip quivers slightly, but she doesn’t full-on weep. She wipes it away and composes herself, leaving me alone with my new toy.

It’s not actually a
new
toy, but a duplicate of the one I already have, a Glock. I shake my head, remembering how I literally just damned the very beast itself…
Luck.
I badmouthed it and everything shitty it’s brought me—brought us. I mean the world, not just Jill and me. Everyone has suffered through a major case of the
shitties
recently.

I retrieve the gun, check it, and tuck it away, slipping it inbetween the small of my back and my pants. Underneath the gun are three more clips and I happily, almost eagerly, take them too. One joins its mostly empty brother in my shoulder holster and the other two go into the inside pocket of my jacket—the one that doesn’t have my badge in it.

Worst case scenario, I can dual-wield them both, something I’m not exactly good at. No cop is for that matter. At least the ones I’ve worked with.

Damn movies.
They make us real cops look like pussies.

Placing my hand on my knee, I go to push off my leg and stand, but stop, seeing something else inside the safe. It’s wrapped in a cloth of some kind and is about ten-inches-long. Whatever it is, it barely fits, having been shoved inside diagonally.

I reach and pull, the piece resisting for just a moment. It gives and I carefully unwrap it, revealing the contents. It’s a beast of a knife.
M9 Bayonet
, I think, looking over the all black weapon. Thanks to some of those movies and video games I mentioned earlier, I’ve learned that this particular knife is a staple in the US Army. It’s also fairly common in Australia too, being used by many of their elite SAS units.

There’s a sheath with a belt loop attachment and I don both quickly. I see my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door and gasp.

Man, I look like crap.

The Frank Moon I see in the mirror is not the one I remember seeing last night when I decided to go on this little excursion. I’m beginning to realize that I’m still a day or two away from Jill with as slow as I’m traveling, but it’s the only way I can of think to stay relatively safe. Out in the open on the streets of Manhattan would only mean my demise.

My hair is matted down and grimy, along with my clothes. My jacket is torn at the shoulder where the window gashed me and my jeans are beyond ruined.

Speaking of which…

I shed my close friend and hang it on a nearby coat hook. My shirt underneath is likewise demolished, but I pay it no mind, gently taking it off.

My light chest hair is matted down, with sweat and blood, making me sneer at the sight. Thankfully, the blood is mine, so it’s not
as
disgusting as it could be. I’m still in good shape for not doing much exercising as of late. My five-foot-ten frame carries my 190-pounds well. I’ve only gained about ten since Jill and I got married, so that’s something to be proud of. I know a few people who have let themselves go after getting hitched, but not me. Plus, I have good genes. Mom and Dad are still in great shape for their ages.

Thank God they’re in Florida and not here.

Then again… I still have no idea how far Abaddon’s effects went. I’m not finding out anytime soon either. We are completely cut off. The only way to find out is to leave the island.

Not without Jill.

I wince as I try to rotate my cut and bruised shoulder, doing my best to check the wound, but stop when I see Betty staring at me from outside the bedroom door. She stands and enters, looking at my beat body.

“Let me see,” she says, motioning for me to turn a little.

I comply and she leans in, looking at the torn skin.

“It’s not dreadfully bad, but it definitely needs to be cleaned,” she points to the bathroom. “There’s antiseptic under the sink and a think there’s a pack of baby wipes too.”

“Baby wipes?” I ask.

She nods, smiling sheepishly. “You stink.”

*  *  *  *  *

“Gross.” My nostrils flare in disgust. “Just awful.” I look down into the sink and see the pile of soiled baby wipes. The colors of dirt and blood smeared together gives me the willies as I finish.

Not sure where to throw them away, I just leave them be for the moment and reenter the bedroom. Betty wiped down my shirt and jacket the best she could and I’m thankful for that. She’s been through a lot and has without hesitation helped me since she found me in her place.

I’m about to slip back into my nasty shirt, but Betty steps into view holding a needle and thread. She quickly hits the tip of the needle with a lighter, instantly disinfecting it.

“What’s that for?” I ask, hoping my assumptions are wrong.

“For that,” she answers, motioning to my shoulder. “It’s not a terrible wound, but it still needs to be closed. Lord knows what kind of infectious germs are out there.”

My face must show what I’m thinking.

“Don’t worry Frank. I was a nurse a few years back. Simple stitching like this is a breeze.”

Knowing she’s right and feeling a pinch better about her having experience, I relent and follow her back to the bar/kitchen counter hybrid, and sit.

“Frank calm down,” she says, looking down at my twitching leg.

I didn’t even know I was doing that.

“Okay, but could you go easy on me I—”

She douses me in what feels like a hundred gallons of rubbing alcohol, soaking the fresh wound. The cold feeling liquid runs down my arm and my ribs making me recoil.

Damn you ribs for being ticklish!

I quickly empty my vault of bad words, not caring that there’s a woman present. She sticks me with the needle, sending me into another volley of curses. Betty smiles the entire time, finding my reaction funny.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be tough?” she asks.

“Excuse me for saying this,” I reply, gritting my teeth, “but please stick that question up your ass and just sew me the fuck up.”

She laughs and tweaks my wound a little getting an audible whimper out of me. “Oh, sorry—sorry!” She says, calming herself. Thankfully, she quickly finishes in silence, stopping a few minutes later.

She checks over her good deed. “Eh… It’s not my best work, but it’ll do until you get proper medical care. Just try not to over exert yourself too much if you can.”

Right.

“And by the way…” I say, getting back to the snarky comment about not being tough. “I may be a cop, but I’m still human and not used to having a woman I just met stitch me back together with a sewing needle.” I look at it in the bedroom mirror. “Not bad though.” I then slip my ruined shirt back on and grab my jacket. “Thanks for doing this.”

I stretch a little, testing the heavily wrapped bandages encompassing my shoulder. If it was any thicker, I’d look like I just pitched eight innings and now had my shoulder iced and wrapped.

I pause and sling my jacket over my chair of the makeshift bar, wanting everything to breathe a little longer. The cold of the apartment sends a chill up my back, making the hair on my arms stand up on end.

Betty is sitting in the chair next to me and she has the bottle of scotch in front of her with two more glasses poured. The liquor is helping with my overall mood and pain, numbing a little of both at the same time. There’s no way I would have been able to sit through what I just did without a little something extra coursing through my blood.

I can’t feel my cheeks. Is that weird?

Blinking hard, I sit and face her.

“So,” I say, taking another sip, “what now?”

She looks up at me, her eyes puffy from crying. “I’m leaving in the morning. Not with you, though.” She laughs a little. “There’s no way in hell I’m going
towards
the park. Plus,” she sniffs, “I won’t be able to keep up with your pace.”

I was about to say the same thing. The enemy—the Unseen—are supposedly getting more numerous the closer I get to the landing site. The closer I get to my goal, the worse it’s going to get, and the faster I’m going to have to move.

I nod, and stand, but something she said finally registers.

“Morning?” I ask, unaware of the time. I look down at my watch and see that it’s getting late.

“Damnit!” I yell, wanting to take it off and chuck it out the window.

“What is it?” Betty asks.

“I didn’t realize how late it was getting. I… I won’t be able to leave either. Not until sun-up anyways.”

Betty just smiles and looks over at the bottle of scotch.

I look too and laugh.

Looks like I’ve been invited to a sleep over.

11

Sunday Morning

We stayed up late, telling stories of our youth and drinking. It was a relieving experience for us both. Just two people with nothing in common enjoying each other’s company. I personally think it’s just the fact that we are alive and able to actually laugh a little at some of the stupid things we’ve each done. Brings some normalcy to the situation surrounding us.

Betty begged me to take the bed as beat up as I am. I laughed it off and said this would probably be the healthiest I’ll be. I’m expecting to get pretty much beat to death in the next day or however long it takes to get off the island.

I think she was secretly relieved when I told her to take Joan’s bed. Betty needs to be comfortable and at peace with leaving this place behind. The best way is to be at ease while you sleep. Especially with the past she and Joan have. If she never sees the other woman again, at least Betty will be able to have one more night around her things. She can say a proper goodbye.

I awake with a groan, feeling all the bumps from yesterday. The numbing effects of the alcohol are gone—except the headache.

Damn… Is that the third time I’ve woken up with a hangover in less than a day? Impressive…

She does the same. I can actually hear Betty wake with the same pain filled moan I did.

“You okay?” I ask, rubbing my head.

“Fine,” she replies, “but this is why I stick to beer.”

I laugh and wince at the sharp twinge of pain that shoots through my head. “Me too.”

She steps out of the bedroom, looking disheveled. Rings and bags encompass her eyes.
Crying.

“Where are you going to go?” I ask, standing, concerned for my new friend.

She shrugs. “The water. Maybe I can find a boat or something and drift. Anywhere but here is preferable.”

I laugh. “No shit.”

She laughs and drains the remnants of a water bottle. “I’m going back to my place first and getting a few things.”

“Like a change of clothes?” I motion to my own wrecked attire. “Wish I’d thought of packing a bag before I bolted from my place.”

Wish I grabbed my shotgun, too.

She stands and heads for the front door. “You had a good reason to leave quickly.”

“True enough.”

She walks down the short hallway and grabs for the knob. I follow close behind, but stop when I see a familiar shape just inside the hall closet. I slide the door open all the way and reach in, procuring another new toy.

It’s a forty-two-inch pry bar—says so on the label—and comes complete with the two-pronged hook thing on the end. I look over the yellow painted steel and hold it up for Betty to see. It’s used, but still in good condition.

“Joan helped her brother with odds and ends. Construction and car repair, mostly. She’s got tools everywhere.”

“May I?” I ask, wanting permission to take it.

“Knock yourself out.”

“I hope not.”

She smiles and pulls open the door, stepping into the hall. She looks left and is tackled to the ground by a short, stocky, grey skinned man, disappearing from sight around the right-hand corner of the door’s opening.

A Goblin!

I rush out as Betty screams, but it’s cut short by a gurgle. I round the corner and find it on top of her, biting into her neck.

“No!” I yell and swing, bringing the clawed end of the pry bar around, slamming it home into the creature’s temple. It slumps to the side, its skull crushed from the blow.

I kneel to help Betty, but there’s no helping her. Blood pours from the open wound and her skin is already paling. I fall to my knees, tears rolling down my cheeks. The woman who showed me such hospitality when everything else has tried to kill me, is dying.

I take her blood-soaked hand in mine, comforting her as best I can. Her grip is already weak. She’s fading fast.

“I’ll find Joan,” I say, trying to give her hope, knowing the truth already. “I’ll make sure she’s—”

“She’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

Her eyes flicker down the hall. “The body you saw…on the stairs. The one in…the towel.”

And there’s my confirmation.

“She was coming…to check…on me…when we lost…power.” Her next few words are gargled. “In…shower…when—”

Her eyes go glassy and her hand falls limp. Betty is gone, hopefully joining Joan in peace. Feeling terrible for what I’m about to do, I reach into her purse and take her Taser, pocketing it.

A growl makes me jump to my feet and I spin, raising my pry bar. I cock it back like a baseball bat, ready to beat the shit out of anything I can get my hands on.

“Damn…” I say, my shoulders slumping.

There are five more of the Goblins down the hall, not twenty feet from me. I have no shot at winning this fight, not without drawing one of the handguns and firing like a madman. I’d easily have to empty one of my prized magazines into the group.

They charge.

I draw my original Glock, but instead of pointing it at the incoming horde, I level it at the door across the hall and fire twice. I pivot and kick out, driving my foot into the door, hoping I successfully blew out the lock.

The door swings open, slamming into the inside wall. I leap into motion and sprint through the identical apartment. The only difference? The fire escape. The biggest problem with my plan? I just blew out the lock. There will be no stopping the things behind me.

So, I make up my mind and run full-bore at the rear of the living room. Halfway there, I raise my gun and fire off another round. The rear window shatters, as I leap through it. I cringe as I try to avoid the glass still attached to the frame.
Don’t need a repeat of last time.
My jacket takes most of the abuse and gets sliced a couple times. My forearm also takes a few minor cuts as I block my face, but nothing feels too severe.

Another window, same arm.

In one fluid move, and obviously not thinking this through, I stand and quickly climb up onto the railing. Then, I shove, jumping from the seventh floor of a freaking building. I lash out with Joan’s pry bar, hoping to hook a railing on the next door building’s sixth floor—across the alley.

Just as I think it’s about to work, it doesn’t. The pry bar clangs off the iron railing, bouncing away. Thankfully, my grip is solid and I hold onto it with one hand. I try again as I fall another level and hook the claw onto the edge of the fifth floor’s platform.

Son-of-a-bi—

Growling erupts behind me as the five Unseen pricks try to follow me. Three leap, falling short, just missing my dangling form. I try to watch as they plummet to the ground below. But then the metal creaks a little, getting my attention back to where it should be. My escape.

Another tries to make the jump and successfully makes it onto the sixth floor’s fire escape, just a level above my head.

“Aw, shit,” I grumble as I try my best to haul myself up.

No dice. My hands slip down the shaft, almost letting go completely. I chance a look down and see my foot is only a few inches away from the fourth floor’s railing. Then I see the bodies of the three dead Goblins, lying in a heap right next to—

“Fuck it.” I let go and fall, tossing the pry bar away.

Reaching out with my bare hands, I catch the next floor’s railing, clutching onto it for dear life. But just as my full weight pulls on it, it creaks and buckles. The entire hand rail gives under the added weight and stress of my landing.

As I fall I reach out again, but miss the third floor, and continue my plummet. That level quickly whips by as I keep falling, saying a prayer and an apology.

“Sorry, Babe.”

My face is about to pass by that floor’s railing, but strangely I don’t continue the fall. My plunge is arrested by a strong set of hands… Grey hands. Groaning my displeasure at being saved, I look up into the hollowed out eyes of the Goblin that made it safely across.

“Some bitch…”