Dead Moon: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (9 page)

16

Continuing my twisting commute is trickier than I originally thought. While my newly found transportation is making it much easier to move forward, it’s also making it tougher from an agility standpoint.

Like now, instead of leapfrogging the mass of bodies littering the streets, I have to run over them. A grade school bunny hop is my only other option, unless I want to slow down, which let’s face it, isn’t really an option.

What I wouldn’t give for a BMX bike right now.

Whenever I
hop
to avoid one mass of gore, I land in another. It’s a never-ending battle of give-or-take when it comes to the choice. Do I just run it over and potentially slip and fall, or do I leap and land in it, and then maybe slide and take a header? Most of the time I just react on instinct and leave logic out of it. Impulse has helped keep me alive so far, why not now?

As I leap over a larger body, barely clearing the person’s girthy waistline with my back tire, I land and see a straight-away. I hold back another grin of satisfaction, shelving any and all excitement until I reach some sort of safety, and put on a little more speed. Not having to dodge anything for a few seconds, I stand to check my surrounds, and quickly go from grin…to groan. Another massive group of Goblins are coming straight towards me from the west, ready to intercept their next meal. Me.

I’m about to shout a curse at them for making me change direction again, but stop when I read the sign for the cross street,
Madison Avenue.
This brings a genuine smile to my face as I happily veer left and hurry around the next corner. Vinny, my cousin who owns the gun shop, is just a little further down this way. Hopefully he’s still around, or that at the very least his store’s front door is open.

Gotta’ get there first. Then I can—

Suddenly, one of the creatures leaps out from a darkened doorway and attempts to yank me from my bike. Instead of
fighting
back, I just simply lean into the blow and hip check the prick away, sending him into and through the storefront’s large window obliterating it with a resounding crash of glass. The only problem with my bold attack, is that I’m thrown off course.

My rear tire finds a slick of grossness and loses traction on the asphalt, sliding out from underneath me. I bail from my ride and decide the impending impact with an overturned SUV would be better without getting tangled up with the large mountain bike too. I half-fall to the ground and slide like I was on a frozen pond. Between the partially ice-covered street and the massive amounts of blood, it certainly feels like it. I go flying feet first into the rear hatch of the upside-down four door. Luckily—if you want to call it that—its back window was already punched out, inviting me in for a cup of tea and a crumpet.

Bouncing as I enter, I slam into the backs of the front seats, doing my best impersonation of a floppy ragdoll merged with an accordion. My knees buckle and my spine screams in agony, but I don’t verbally say a word—minus the incoherent growl that slips from my clenched teeth. My mind does all the cursing for me, and boy would my mother be horrified.

Feeling like an overturned turtle, I tilt my head back, seeing the upside-down world behind me. I count eight of the Unseen coming my way, sniffing the air.

Decided on my next course of action, but not at all happy about it, I quietly draw my gun, easing it out of my shoulder holster. Then, as smoothly as I can, I lift it over my head, trying to aim down the flipped sights. Next, I point it out the shattered back window frame and wait for the right opportunity. I’m not sure I can take enough of them out, but I’m sure as hell going to try. Either way, I really don’t have a choice in the matter. If I try to climb out I’d make too much noise. The crunching of glass would be easy to detect, not to mention the obscenities I’d most likely mumble while cutting myself on the glass. Even if I do get out in time, the effort will slow me down before I could get my legs moving fast enough to escape.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper to myself. “Here we go.”

I’m about to pull the trigger, but a squealing sound stops me. It’s so out of place in the quiet of the cold, dead city that it takes a second for me to recognize what it is. It’s not until my shelter is struck violently that I put two-and-two together.

“Son-of-a…” The SUV spins—me with it—slammed into by the behemoth. We slide forward too, straight into the mob of Unseen, smearing a few of them into paste as the car rolls atop them. Then, thankfully, it—me—
we
stop, landing upright on the still intact wheels.

It’s gotta be what it feels like to be in a clothes dryer
, I think through wobbling eyes.

I see that five of the Goblins survived and are crouched on all fours. If they had working eyes, they’d be able to see me sprawled across the backseat, looking right at them. I snap my gun up and erase the first one’s face with a well-placed bullet. I caught it right in the throat, but was actually aiming for its head. I shake my own head, still dazed from the impact, and open up on the rest of them. One more goes down before the last three attack, but they don’t get far.

The booming of a larger weapon erupts from over my head as I cup my hands over my ears, giving myself a much needed respite from the concussive force. Just for good measure I flip over the now right-side-up rear-seat and fall headfirst into the cramped trunk of the Range Rover, landing in a heap atop the tire jack.

Five shots later, the unknown assailant, or in my case, savior, ends their assault. The shooter’s heavy feet clunk on the roof of my impromptu hideout, raising the hairs on my arms. The sound of bodies hitting the pavement could just be made out inbetween shots.

I counted three thuds.

Regardless if this person actually intended on helping me or not, I raise my Glock, finger ready on the trigger. Whoever it is, may not be overly friendly to others nowadays.
And I’d completely understand.
It wouldn’t surprise me to see another gun toting lunatic roaming the streets of Manhattan, killing everything he or she sees.
Like the gang back near the library.
People have gone crazy for lesser things before, but the mass extermination that this island has seen would be the cherry on top for most. Seeing so much death could cause any normal human being to go mad.

The hefty aggressor drops down from the roof above me landing with his back to me, facing the creatures we dispatched.

“Don’t move!” I shout, my ears ringing a little. “NYPD!”

The unknown man doesn’t drop the weapon, but instead lowers the barrel towards the ground in as nonthreatening as a way possible. As he slowly turns around, he whips his long untamed black hair away to the side, revealing a filthy, but very familiar face. His eyes give him away the most. They’re the same as Jill’s, so dark brown that they almost look black.

“Damnit, Vinny,” I say, sitting back into the tight space, leaning my head against the seat. “You nearly made me shit myself.”

He grins and tries to pop the hatch, but it’s jammed and won’t open. Instead, he offers me his hand, pulling me out of the oversized sardine can. The bigger man actually half-drags me out of the vehicle and props me up, steadying me with one of his meaty hands.

Vincente D’Angelo—the last name is also Jill’s maiden name—is a large individual. He’s not what you would call a beast or a mountain, mind you. He could fit the profile of a Vegas pit boss, or maybe something closer to a member of the mob. At six-feet in height, he’s only slightly taller than me, but he easily outweighs me by sixty or seventy pounds. He isn’t really fat either. Vinny would definitely classify as big boned—like how a construction worker is portrayed in most movies. Thick and strong.

He hands me his shotgun and quickly pulls his shoulder length curls into a tight ponytail, exposing a nasty scar from when he got into a scrum as a teen. The other guy actually broke a bottle on a bar top and slashed Vinny with it, leaving a wickedly jagged wound. The story—which was embellished some when I heard it—sounded like it was straight out of an episode of
The Sopranos
.

The real story, however, was that Vinny—who could pass for thirty when he was eighteen—was sloshed, and got caught hitting on some guy’s girlfriend. The funniest part is that the girl was actually interested in him. She tried to call off the watchdog boyfriend and when he, also drunk, reacted, so did Vinny.

The kid from Brooklyn took the bottle like a champ and slammed the same meaty fist that just helped me out of the car into the brute’s face. I heard the guy went down with the single punch. What really puts this story above the rest is that Carla, the girl, left that night with Vinny, and the two of them married a few years later and are still together now.

Love at first smite.

I teeter for a second and take in the scene. Vinny’s truck is massive and white, but smeared head-to-toe in blood. It has a huge push bar up front so when it needs to shove things out of the way, like me, it can without destroying itself.

My hiding spot is a ruin, its front end, crumpled like a tin can. Vinny must have hit us going pretty fast. However it happened, it worked, and I have zero complaints about it. The end result could have been a lot worse than a headache if Vinny hadn’t shown up when he did.

I kneel and see three bodies tangled underneath the vehicle.
Bowling for Bad guys,
I think.

Something groans and reaches for me as I launch myself back, quickly rolling to my feet. One of the things is still alive and almost caught me with a wild swipe of its claws.

“
Ma' va te ne a fanculo!
” Vinny yells, cursing in Italian. Then he stomps on the creatures head, putting every pound he has to offer into it. After the third blow, the Goblin’s gnarled hand falls limp.

He readjusts his jacket and cracks his neck with a quick tilt of his head, looking very mob
ish
at the moment.

“What did you say?” I ask, brushing grime away from my jeans.

“I’d rather not say,” he replies with a smile.

“Why not?”

“Because, I do not wish for my mother—God rest her soul—to hear me say that twice.”

“In two different languages nonetheless.”

Our jovial reunion is cut short by a series of growls and grunts and we quickly make for the truck. We don’t need to chance our good fortune again in such a short period of time.

17

Bodies cover the ground around his shop, looking like the street itself is wearing a mask of death. There are so many that we literally have to tiptoe through them. From the looks of it, Vinny has been a very busy man these last two days.

“Not the kind of crowd I’m accustomed to,” he said, when he saw my mouth hanging open as we pulled up and parked.

His truck is truly a monster of a machine. It sits just outside the front door, locked tight, but ready. It’s blacked out windows and crimson stained exterior add to its menacing look.

Not that there’s anyone to intimidate.

“What the hell are you doing here, Frances? I was hoping that you and Jillian would be long gone by now.” The bigger man unlocks the barred door to his shop, letting me in.

“First off, stop calling me Frances—it’s Frank—now is not the time to bust my balls…and we didn’t make it out of town in time.”

He’s called me by my birth name since the day we met and I’ve corrected him ever since. My parents named me after the revered Catholic friar. Francis would become the patron saint of animals. When I was a kid we had a statue of the saint in our front yard. After my childhood dog, Maggie, died, I asked my parents if we could bury her ashes under Francis for protection and love in the afterlife. Mom and Dad were animal lovers too, so naming me Frances fit. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.

“I’ve spent the better part of that last few days trying to reach the museum. Jill called me from there right before we lost power. She said people were dying. I promised her I’d get there ASAP. Needless to say, that it’s turned out to be a lot rougher than I anticipated.”

At the mentioning of the deaths at the museum, I see Vinny’s face fall flat. An uncustomary look of worry sweeps over his normally hard, impassive facade.

“What?” I ask.

“It is Carla,” he says, dipping his head. His already robust Italian accent comes out even thicker with the added emotion. “She too is at the museum with Jillian. I had hoped the two of them had fled together.”

This is news to me. I had no idea Carla was going with her to the gala. Carla isn’t exactly a fan of the arts let alone lawyers. From what I’ve been told, she and Jill didn’t get along when they first met, like two overly dominant female wolves. Plus, I remember the stories of the boyfriend Carla had before Vinny. He was a piece-of-shit and a monster to her… He was also an attorney. She held it against Jill for just being associated with the lot.

“How?” I ask. “How did she meet up with Jill in the first place?”

Vinny shrugged.

“Carla was out-and-about shopping, when she got a call from Jillian. She was crying telling her how you didn’t want to come and support her project—the children’s hospital charity event.”

Damnit…
I forgot it was a charity event for sick kids.
Okay, I’m an asshole.

Vinny’s eyes meet mine and I see disappointment in them.

“Don’t you fucking dare give me that look, Vinny! I know what I did was wrong, believe me. It’s why I’m still here fighting these Godforsaken things. I want my wife back. I want to get the hell off this island.”

His eyes soften with the sincerity of my voice.

“Okay then,” he says. “We take my truck and go together.”

My eyebrows raise at the offer. We could do some serious damage in that thing. Speaking of which…

“Since when do you have a truck?”

He smiles sheepishly. “It isn’t mine. I found it idling on the side of the road. Thought it was a good idea to have something bigger than my Camaro.”

The cop in me isn’t happy, but the survivor in me is ecstatic. He may have just saved our lives.
I know for damn sure he saved mine
. Plus, it’s not like the whole police thing is really working out right now. I may even be the last cop left around here.

Last alive one, anyways.

“Hang on,” I say, confused by something. “Why are you still here then? You could have made it out of here with that tank.” I thumb over my shoulder motioning to the front door of the shop where the truck is parked.

Another sheepish look.

“What?”

“I have tried, but I wasn’t able to get out of the truck without getting swarmed by the creatures—”

“The Unseen,” I say, interrupting him.

“Unseen?” He then scratches his chin, contemplating the name. “I see. It is a good name for them.”

“Anyways,” he continues, “I went south, around the park yesterday and it was all but impassable even in the truck. I was going to try going through the park next time, but I know the roads are narrow. Not sure if it’ll be possible.”

He walks towards the back of his fully stocked store. His bloodstained designer boots, clunking over the expensive wood floors. Usually, Vinny would have them immaculately cared for, but under the circumstances he has let them go a little. He’s even changed into more casual clothes instead of one of his expensive suits. I’ve never asked how much they cost and I’m glad I haven’t. I
was
just complaining about the $400 in clothes I just…borrowed.

His shoes are probably at least $200.

”Plus,” he says, rummaging through a drawer, “it’s not like I can call inside and tell someone I am there. I seriously doubt anyone is still standing watch by the windows.”

I agree. I sure as hell wouldn’t be. I wouldn’t necessarily be sitting around doing nothing, waiting to starve, either.

More like something inbetween both.

Turning, I look back-and-forth, seeing weapons lining every single wall. I remember when he gave me the behind the scenes tour when he first opened, so I know the place quite well. The glass gun cabinets are floor to ceiling and bulletproof—pretty thick too. He wanted to take no chances with security. They’re also locked with a fingerprint identification scanner and a key pad with both letters and numbers. No one other than he knows the codes. Not even Carla. Like I said… No chances. If someone wanted a weapon while he wasn’t there, the customer would have to wait for the next time he came in.

“Why wouldn’t you share the combinations with your wife?” I asked, shocked at the lack of trust. It’s only when he told me the reason that I really understood his paranoia.

“If she is here and I am not and some punk demands for her to open the gun cabinets she can’t. It’s my way of protecting her as well as making sure I know everyone who buys from me.”

Overall it really isn’t a big deal though. He and Carla live above the shop. So if she or one of his employees had an interested client they could just call upstairs and ask Vinny to come down.

But now, there are glaring changes to
Vincente’s
. Shotguns, Vinny’s specialty, were strategically positioned around the store, lying atop every counter. He also has ammo boxes next to each weapon ready to go. Vinny isn’t taking any chances on not being armed while downstairs.

He also has a plethora of back stock upstairs in his apartment, like me. My closet is generally pretty well-stocked, but Vinny’s is like another firearm warehouse.

“Looks like you’ve taken care of yourself so far,” I comment, looking around.

“Yes,” Vinny says. “Thankfully, they haven’t been able to overwhelm me…yet.”

“Yet?” I ask.

He nods. “They have tried multiple times to gain entry, but have failed. They can’t get through the iron bars on my windows and door, but I think they will eventually find a way.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask, curious.

“The females… They are what you would say…cunning…smart.”

“Sirens…” I say quietly, mentally reliving my multiple encounters.

“Another good name, and yes, they’ve almost gotten to me when I leave and go for the truck. Once, I caught one hiding, crouching in the bed.”

My eyes go wide. I knew the Sirens were smarter than the Goblins, but not
that
smart. Then, I remember the way the last one
ordered
the others around, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem so fanciful of a tale.

“What did you do?” I ask.

He turns and smiles, holding up his shotgun, a custom piece. “I blew her head off and then turned on the ones that came with her.”

Recalling the bodies strewn about, I don’t doubt my cousin. Not for one second. He took out three of them with easy efficiency. Then again, he’s sells weapons for a living. I’d imagine someone in his line of work would be a pretty good shot.

“So,” he says, rounding his store’s main counter, “what do you prefer?”

My head tilts to the side, not understanding the question.

Noticing my confusion, he smiles and laughs, holding his arms out wide. “Pick anything you like. My store is your store.”

Smiling, I walk to the first display case on my left, seeing my preferred heavy-hitting weapon. “You got any more autoloaders like yours? Pump action is going to be too slow for what we’re about to be going up against.”

“What kind?” he asks, checking over his own variant.

“How about a 930 SPX with a pistol grip?”

Vinny smiles. “Mossberg? Of course I do. This isn’t some second rate outfit here, Frances. It’s in the next case over.”

I follow his directions and look, seeing a bevy of them all lined up like baby chicks. He walks over and simply slides open the glass earning a surprised look from me.

“No power, remember?”

I nod, feeling dumb.

“The locks have a battery life of almost two days,” he explains. “They just went down before I left and eventually ran into you. It’s another reason I stayed behind. God forbid someone breaks in here and simply takes my inventory. If everyone’s motives were as just as yours, I honestly wouldn’t care. I’m pretty sure I’m out of business now anyways.” He says the last part with a half laugh, but the pain of losing the business he started from nothing is evident. With the arrival of Abaddon, Vinny lost more than just his place of work… He lost his livelihood.

Me too…

He reaches in and grabs the exact weapon I was looking for. It’s even my favorite coloration if it matters—matte black. I tightly grip my new
friend
and then look back up to my cousin.

We might just have a chance.