There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (74 page)

             
After killing his father and rutting with Shayna O’Hara on the floor of the trailer, Lester had taken sanctuary inside the Pines. The dark woods had become his home and there weren’t much of them he didn’t know by now. There were sinkholes to shelter in, and enough natural prey within to satiate his unnatural thirst—though, as the days went by, this was becoming less and less the case. As the virus continued its downward spiral, healthy animals began to take to the sea. Frantic to escape this pitiless peril in their midst.

             
Along with the strange thirst was the unconscious need to pass on the virus. It compelled the carriers to bite and scratch; to partake of their preys’ lifeblood, which was the only way they could sustain their thirst, while at the same time leaving their victims intact enough to survive the onslaught. This included the animals, some of which were killed for nourishment, while most were just bitten and left to survive, to further the spread of the virus. It must be noted that some carriers felt no such compunction as to their victims’ survival. Their rage knew no bounds. These were the exception to the rule, however. Greater even than its lust for violence was the carriers’ need to fornicate, to pass on the corrupted seed to healthy cells. Only then could the host truly rest for a time.

             
Lester’s desires had eventually driven him to seek out the uninfected humans living on the periphery of the piney woods; striking out at the unfortunate few who lingered too close to the edge of the forest. The same dark forest he now shared with others like himself.

             
Tansy Wilky, of course. She had been especially productive, spreading it in turn to Tad Swartzman, Hank Norby, and Ronny Broome, in one 24-hour span. Not to mention her own stepfather. A record by even Tansy’s slutty standards.

             
Hank and Tad, both sophomores at the Academy, had joined Tansy and Lester in the Pines, spreading the virus outward. Like ripples in a stagnant pond. Infecting members of their own families before escaping into the woods, where the remaining wildlife, sparse now though it may be, was soon rife with the disease.

             
Oddly enough, these first human vectors of the virus barely took notice of one another. The desires that drove them to bite, maim, and rut didn’t compel them to seek out the already infected. It was as if the virus had a mind and will of its own, knowing that to attack other infected cells would be counterproductive to its cruel cause.

             
Or maybe something else was at work here...

             
Lester sniffed the air hungrily. Someone had recently passed this way
!
Someone uninfected
!
It was a scent trail he’d picked up before, but had been unable to track down. The untainted blood caused him to salivate even more. The scent seemed to lead back to the lake. The lake and swamp he’d thus far taken great pains to avoid.

            
 
This time it won’t get away…

             
                          
 
*******

Albert Feeny was a ghost. And the Pines was a fine place for ghosts. He thought it odd that Way Out Here, amongst the soaring trees and silent trails, he should feel
less lonely
than in any other place on Moon. And yet at school, surrounded by other kids and teachers, he was the loneliest boy on earth. A ghost, really. That’s how he thought of himself. Lonely boys at least amounted to something
real
. As in:
Look at that lonely boy over there, sitting all by himself. I feel sorry for him!

             
Ghosts were next to nothing, though. A cipher, a zero, a nonentity. You don’t feel sorry for a ghost.

Nondescript Albert Feeny walked the halls of the Moon River Academy unnoticed by all. Lester and his merry band of thugs seemed to look right through him, never once beating him up, or even taking his lunch money. Even his teachers frowned in consternation whenever he approached them. He could see them searching through the student files in their minds, wondering: ‘
Who in the heck is this pale looking mutt?’

             
It wasn’t much better at home. He recalled the day when he first realized his existence in this world didn’t matter one little bit. That if he fell off the face of the planet, no one would take notice or care. No tears would fall with him. He might just as well have never been born.

That was the day Albert Feeny knew he was little more than a lonely ghost. Simply passing time on this plane until someone cared enough to make him real.

He’d gone exploring in the Pines that day and gotten lost. Wandering around in circles for hours, crying and calling out for help. When seemingly out of nowhere, Bud Brown appeared in front of him! Stoic and still, Bud stood there, like some All Powerful Genie called forth from the Lamp. Immediately, Albert stopped his weeping, knowing he was safe now. Bud was just one year his senior, and yet to Albert it felt like a hundred years separated them! Bud Brown was kind to Albert that day. Gentle. Not at all the psycho head-case everyone was making him out to be. Quiet, sure. Bud barely said a dozen words to him on their way back to the Old Oyster Trail. And from there Albert had run all the way home, certain his parents were worried sick by now! Darkness had long since fallen and he was three hours past his curfew. By now, his folks had probably called the cops!

As it turned out, that was hardly the case.

When Albert entered the living room, where his mother and father were watching Alex Trebeck remind a hapless contestant to frame her answer in the form of a question, they barely looked up from the boob tube. His mother told him his dinner was in the oven, while his father flipped disinterestedly through the TV Guide. Instead of feeling relieved, Albert felt abandoned and adrift. For the first time in his life he saw in their eyes the indifference in which they held him. Nothing more than an obligation to feed and clothe. He couldn’t help but wonder if like the parents of Hansel and Gretel, maybe his folks weren’t disappointed he’d found his way out of the woods…

And with that gesture of apathy, a part of Albert died that day. A part of his childhood that could never be reclaimed. The Magic that was once his imagination and only friend, gone in a twinkling.

After all, what does a ghost need with Magic? 

Since that day in the Pines, Albert began shadowing Bud Brown and his morbid-minded friends. It was easy for a ghost to stay undetected, to spy unnoticed. They never knew he was there, peeking from behind a locker, sitting at the same cafeteria table, trailing them in the woods. He knew everything about them and dreamed of someday joining their club
.
The Creeps!

With their green army coats, the frayed collars turned up coolly against the slings and arrows of their callow peers
,
the
Creep
s
epitomized everything Albert wanted to be a part of: A group of like-minded individuals, apart from the everyday herd, yet conforming to each others finest ideals. Friends who all had something ardent in common:
A mutual love of All Things Horror
. Whether it be fiction, film, or fact. Being a fan of that genre himself, it was a love affair Albert could get behind. It was a lot more than that, though, and Albert knew it. Shoot, Lester Noonan liked horror movies—that didn’t mean Albert wanted to hang out with him! Albert could see the affectio
n
Th
e
Creep
s
truly felt for one another. Even their newest member, Tubby Tolson
(and did that sting? Lord, yes).

Even more than his desire to possess one of those tough green coats, he wanted to
be
one
of
them
. To feel their love. To have someone like Josie O’Hara smile at him, as he came down into that way cool clubhouse out by the lake. 
“It’s Albert!”
she’d sing out, in that lilting Irish brogue. Heck, it would be like when Norm walked down into Cheers! Hailed by all his friends at the bar!

             
Truth be known, like everyone else, th
e
Creep
s
barely knew Albert Feeny existed. To them, he was just that ghostly looking kid who always seemed to be on the periphery of things. Blending into the walls wherever he went. To fill in all the lonely hours, Albert had taken an avid interest in the local flora and fauna. Cataloging and checking off the different species in his well-thumbed pocket addition of
The
Naturalist Guide to the Lowcountry
, which he kept around his neck on a chain—in the same way a G.I. wears dog tags to identify them.  

             
At the top of each page he’d written his full name, address, and telephone number. Not for fear of losing it, but to affirm his own existence. That yes, Albert Feeny, aged 16, of 2856 Steppe Drive could be reached at this number! In the wide margins on each page were his private thoughts and wishes, written in a tiny, even script that never faltered or wavered. Handwriting as precise as his personality. Poems of delicate grace and wisdom. Bawdy limericks that would make the infamous man from Nantucket blush. Remarkable caricatures of his classmates and teachers. Then again, Albert Feeny was a remarkably talented kid! If only someone knew it.

             
Several times he’d considered leaving the cloaked journal in the school library or cafeteria, in hopes someone would find and read it. To learn his innermost thoughts. To discover his hidden talents. To rejoice in his individuality. Maybe then he could shed this ghostal disguise and finally join the human race. Even if it was only as a source of ridicule. He’d always chickened out, though. Too afraid it would get tossed away unread. Or worse, read by someone and then dismissed out of hand. Confirming his worst fear:
that he was indeed a ghost
. That fear seemed to vanish in the woods, though. The bugs, birds, and plants were his unfaltering friends here. The tall brooding pine trees his silent brethren. Even if their interaction was of an inert nature, these biological entities were aware of him like no one else ever was! Out here, he felt less a ghost than a real live boy. He loved the rambling forest, and he wasn’t a bit frightened of all those silly stories regarding it. His respect for Bud notwithstanding, Albert didn't believe in Red Eyed Men or Haunted Woods. His imagination, or what was left of it, just didn’t work that way. Besides, the Pines were tailor made for his naturalist hobby!

             
This pastime of his also kept him close to th
e
Creep
s
—even if it was from a discreet distance. It was on his most recent nature walks that he began to notice things were “
Off
” in the Pines. The indigenous species, the bugs and animals, were behaving peculiar lately.               And the birds! Except for a few malingering crows, the island birds had flown to parts unknown. The Pines so strangely silent now without them. He supposed their absence could have been because of the approaching hurricane—birds were always the first to flee before a Big Blow—but Albert didn’t think so. Besides, there were other things far less explanatory. For instance, th
e
Creep
s
little adventure
with that rabid dog last week! Their disposing of it afterwards in a much peculiar way. The Centers’ lab boys, too! Appearing not long after. Scouring the Pines for their missing test subjects—or so Albert assumed. Like everyone else, the Lab Rats never noticed Albert watching them. Sometimes even in plain sight! Too bad they didn’t stay out here longer…

             
Not long after they had returned to the Center, the squirrels started acting aggressive. Exhibiting the same odd behaviors as that big gray dog last Friday. Staggering as if drunk. Frothing at the mouth.  Could it be they had rabies? Albert had had a few close calls with them. So many, in fact, he’d stayed home for a few days.

             
Now they were just dying in droves.

             
Falling from the trees like furry pinecones.

             
Their bloated bodies littered the Pines, overpowering the evergreen scent out here with their sickly sweet stink. Flies were the most common life form these days on Moon. Maggots a close second. Albert wondered if squirrels and other rodents could spread rabies. According to his zoological books they rarely caught the disease—much less spread it. Still, with the way they were behaving, he had to wonder.
If such a thing were true…

             
Well, that would be some seriously bad mojo!

             
And not just for Moon…

             
The world was full of rats and mice and squirrels! Combined, easily two hundred or so for every human being on earth! Such a scenario would have global implications. A mass extinction of most mammalian species would be the probable result of such a catastrophic viral event. It was a piece of heady information he fel
t
The
Creep
s
would want to know. To prepare for.
Especially Bud
. That was the kinda guy who could make grown ups listen! To at least investigate further. Albert never once considered reporting his suspicions himself. What would be the point of that? Who listens to a ghost? Certainly not adults. But Bud…