There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (20 page)

The furniture had been there when Bud discovered the Bunker, covered in dingy white sheets. The years had taken their toil, but that ugly shit wasn’t going anywhere. Not without taking it apart piecemeal. Besides, the clunky furnishings seemed right at home in this forgotten fortress.

In an attempt to make some sort of peace with the dreary room, th
e
Creep
s
had papered the gray walls with old movie posters. In Rusty’s opinion it was like putting lipstick on a lizard. Just focused your attention on how damned ugly it was. They’d once made frozen margaritas down here with a battery-operated blender, hoping a little alcohol would accomplish what the posters had not.

In retrospect, tequila might not have been the wisest choice for their first foray into underage drinking. Ever since that hazy, hungover day Rusty and Josie had referred to the downstairs dump as Margaritaville. It made light of what was to them a despairing dungeon.

Bud saw it differently, of course.

To him it was The Bunker.

Capital
T
. Capital
B
.

It was, he insisted, their salvation.

As Bud lit more wicks, Rusty took another deep breath. He always felt as if the air was running out down here. He dropped into the chair that looked back into the room. The many candles illuminated a kitchenette— complete with stove, fridge, sink, and kitchen table just past the living area. It was a fairly useless room, however, as the generator once used to power the Bunker was long gone. A heavy black curtain separated the sleeping quarters from the living space. Behind the curtain were two rows of bunk beds, four beds in total, with another air vent overhead. Bud had replaced the musty mattresses with new bedding, and for some strange reason changed the linen every other month or so, even though Rusty and Josie never slept down here. A small bathroom followed the bunks—the plumbing, unlike the electricity, still functional after all these years; connected, Bud assumed, to the Army Base’s water works. Past the john was a long storage room. Metal shelves lined both walls all the way back to the concrete wall in the rear. When Bud first discovered the Bunker, the storage room had been completely empty. Over time, he’d filled nearly three quarters of the available space with dry goods and survival gear.  Using money he’d earned working at the wax museum, Bud had bought three cases of Eveready batteries. They serviced the six Maglite flashlights, lined up like tin soldiers beside them, as well as the Weather Band radio they listened to during their meetings. Surprisingly enough, it got decent reception in the Bunker. It was tuned to an AM station out of Savannah that played a lot of old-time radio shows, like
The Green Hornet
and
The Shadow.

Other items on the shelves included: a propane stove, as well as a propane lantern, complete with four cases of refill canisters, a kerosene heater, plus a few liters to supply her, two hurricane lamps and two gallons of oil to keep them fueled. Untold numbers of candles and matches, five cases of Dinty Moore beef stew, the same of Chicken and Dumplings, multiple jars of peanut butter, canned vegetables, soup, spaghetti, tuna fish, chili, bottled water, powdered milk, crackers, cereal, and various other items; such as: utensils, pots and pans, blankets, salt and pepper, toilet paper and the like. A fully stocked, professional grade, Emergency Field First Aid Kit took up one whole shelf, along with generic antibiotics, multi-vitamins and over the counter medicines.

Aside from the fact that Bud’s preparations seemed to border on survivalist hysteria, the staples and supplies in the back room were all fairly innocuous.

That is until Bud showed you his arsenal. Locked in a large, metal footlocker at the end of the storeroom, was Bud’s impressive weapons cache. Bud had shown them the locker’s contents shortly after his return from a “Solo Fishing Trip,” back in mid-August. A Yale lock secured the five-foot-long locker. Bud had opened it with a key he kept hidden in a dummy can of Dinty Moore.

Inside the locker, held fast in cutout foam packing, were four shotguns, the kind with a pump action—Rusty hadn’t known what gauge, at the time he’d been blissfully ignorant of such things. Even so, he could tell they were all brand new. There were also five handguns in their original boxes. Three Colt .45 semi-automatics, and two Smith & Wesson .38 revolvers. Included in the locker were several sheathed knives, the kind of pig-sticker Rambo used with such weary ferocity in
First Blood.

Ropes, a flare gun, and finally a bed of assorted ammunition (enough to supply Sgt. Fury and his Howling Commandos on a suicide mission) rounded out Bud’s armory. Bud had expected them to be excited about his newfound toys, but their reaction had been one of dread.

“What’s all this for?”
Josie had asked him, a combination of pity and terror in her eyes. 

“For when the shit hits the fan,”
was all Bud would say about it. He’d snapped the lid shut with a bang—sorry that he’d shown it to them at all.

Rusty had refused to let it go at that.
“Bud, you think it’s wise for someone with your…problems…to own this much weaponry? Or
any
weaponry, for that matter?”

Josie had glared at Rusty for that. For once in his life, though, he didn’t back down. He knew Bud wouldn’t intentionally harm another human being, but he’d seen him lose his temper before, and that guy…well,
that guy
would probably shoot first and ask questions later.

At first Bud looked hurt, and then with a grunt he shook his head.
“I suppose that’s a fair question, Gnat, what with the way I damn near killed Charlie Noonan. You still ought to know me better than that, though. I’d
never
shoot someone unless he was out to kill me or someone I loved. No matter how fucked up my head is! Like I told you guys before… it’s for when the shit hits the fan.”

“Your dreams?”
Josie had asked him. Bud shrugged and nodded. She lifted up one of the .45’s, surprised at how heavy it was. Like a brick. Josie imagined it probably kicked like an angry mule.
“Is there a particular reason for this make and model?”

Bud had reddened at that.
“Cause they’re just like the ones in my dreams. Same type of handguns, same shotgun. Same make, same model. I was just following the blueprint. Until recently, I didn’t know jack about guns.”

Truth was, he still wondered why he chose the older model 45’s, when the newer 9mm’s were so much easier to handle. The difference in the shells had made up Bud’s mind. The 9mm slug looked less lethal compared to the .45.

More stopping power,
Bud had concluded, choosing the sturdier Colt’s.

“Where’d you get the money for all this, Buddy boy?”
Rusty had prodded him gently
. “Your old man doesn’t pay you near this kind of scratch!”

“Yeah, love! This stuff must have cost a mint!”

“I didn’t buy them,”
Bud had growled at them in return. He turned his back on his friends and walked away.

As far as Bud Brown was concerned, the subject of “How and Why” was henceforth closed.

Josie and Rusty had felt otherwise.

That night Rusty perused his parents’ old newspapers, going as far back as Bud’s fishing trip.

It didn’t take too long for Rusty to find what he was looking for: The article wasn’t much bigger than an obituary. It stated that on the evening of August 15
th
, the
Semper Fi
Gunshop,
on West Bay Street, had been burglarized by person(s) unknown. Four Mossberg shotguns were stolen, along with three Colt .45’s and two Smith & Wesson revolvers. The perpetrator(s) also absconded with several hundred dollar’s worth of assorted ammunition. There were no suspects at that time.

Rusty had shown the paper to Josie at first light. The two of them had discussed the matter at length and made a pledge to keep quiet about it. They weren’t mad that Bud had lied to them. They knew he was going through some inner turmoil that they couldn’t begin to understand. That he had only been trying to protect them from his criminal misdeeds.
Well, three could play that game!
If Bud wouldn’t look after himself, then they’d do it for him! Even if it meant never letting him out of their sights again.

             
Hoping to convince Bud to get rid of the guns, they confronted him about the burglary. Bud never denied it, but neither would he fess up to the larceny.

             
They understood why. Admitting his crime would make them accomplices in the eyes of the law.

Bud’s continued silence on the matter eventually wore them down, and they stopped bringing it up altogether. Choosing instead to join him in his madness.

It was clearly important to Bud, so it became important to them. After all, they were family.

Since then they’d put themselves to the test every chance they got. Rusty had insisted that they fire the weapons
only
while out at sea. Whenever he could borrow his daddy’s Chris Craft, that is. When it came to target practice, the Pines were
Off Limits
! At least that way the local sheriff couldn’t catch Bud with the stolen firearms.

Although Bud wasn’t at first happy with this concession, it soon became apparent that hitting a floating object on a constantly moving surface took a great deal of skill and practice. It was a far superior test than shooting tin cans off a stump, and he soon became a deadeye with all three firearms. Rusty and Josie, while now thoroughly familiar with the weaponry Bud had provided, still needed a lot of target practice to get to his level of expertise. As long as Bud’s obsession didn’t escalate, though, they didn’t mind humoring him. And to their relief, the weapons cache didn’t grow any larger (even though the ammo seemed to stay at a constant, despite the hundreds of rounds they’d gone through since), and after awhile they relaxed their guard, assuming the worst of Bud’s obsession was over.

Josie took off her coat, tossed it on top of Bud’s, and picked up a deck of cards lying on the table. She settled into the chair, across from Rusty, and began shuffling the well-thumbed deck. Anything to keep her nervous hands busy. Like Gnat, she wasn’t especially fond of Margaritaville. No matter how many candles you lit, it was too damn dark down here. Bud refused to use either the hurricane lamps or the propane lamp, insisting on saving them for “An Emergency.”

As always, his friends just humored him.

Josie looked over at Bud and suppressed a sigh. He was lounging on the sofa reading a comic book; they had a big box of them by the couch. As she shuffled the cards, she studied the boy she adored, using her peripheral vision.

“C’mon, let’s get on with it,” Rusty said, tossing his coat on top of the others. It was their habit to leave their club coats in the Bunker over the weekends. At least when it was so hot out. They’d drop by again on Sunday to pick them up and hang out a little.

“All right,” Bud yawned. He flipped a tattered
Werewolf by Night
back into the cardboard box. “I’ve read this one at least twice. We need to bring some new comic books down here. So what do you think, Short Round?”

“
Shiiitt
, man. Why you asking me first?” 

“Cause it’s obvious how Big Red and I feel. I think he’d make a goo
d
Cree
p
. Just think of it, man: free movies!” Bud said it with a casual air that belied his true feelings.
One way or another, Tubby’s joining our group.

Rusty’s top lip curled up. “Is that why you want to make Opie
a
Cree
p
?” Despite his cynical tone, Rusty was intrigued. He hadn’t thought of that angle himself, the movies. Nobody loved movies as much as he did!
Hmmm. Maybe I could talk Tubby into showing me that projector…

“Hell no! I honestly like the guy. But we all contribute, Gnat. That’s just part of the deal. When’s the last time you paid to come into the museum?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just…

“What is it, love?” Josie gently prodded him.

She set the cards down and stared at Rusty with that intense green gaze of hers. Though differently colored, both of his friends had those Amy Irving kind of eyes. Iridescent irises that seemed to shimmer and shine. When they turned those psychedelic peepers on you, it could be very unsettling. Rusty averted his own eyes, knowing Josie could always tell what he was thinking.

He stared down at his shoes. “It’s always been just the three of us,” he said softly, trying to keep the whiney tone out of his voice. Truth was, Rusty was scared of losing his friends. And he wasn’t too keen on sharing them, either. “Why do we need to bring in anyone else at all?”

“Is that your vote then?” Bud sighed. “No?”

Rusty’s cheeks burned with shame. His friends looked at him a little sadly, as if he’d disappointed them.

Shiiitt! Manipulating me is what they’re doing!

Attempting indifference,
he shrugged and spat on the floor. The way Bud did, when he was pissed. Only Rusty could never pull it off. Spittle always ended up on his chin or coat. “No,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I was just thinking out loud, is all! A brother can still do that, can’t he? Hell, I like him too! Let’s make dopey Opie
a
Cree
p
.
”