There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (75 page)

             
There was a guy who wouldn’t let him down! He’d listen! After all, he’d already come to Albert’s aid once before, when he was lost in the woods.

             
Yes, that was the thing to do!

             
Despite the dire circumstances, Albert was thrilled to be taking this step. Getting noticed by the very people he admired most in the world. Even if it was to tell them the world might be ending.
What’s the worse that could happen? For them to tell me to get lost?
Easy enough. I surely know the way by now.

             
He stepped out of the forest and into the clearing by Lizard Lake. The early evening shadows had fallen and all was preternaturally still. A shiver ran up his back as he walked beside the lake. He couldn’t get over the feeling he was being watched. Which was rather remarkable, seeing as how Albert’s sixth sense hadn’t worked since he was ten-years-old. He stopped at the old tumbledown and took a breather. Looking around at the tall trees surrounding him, their reflection in the clear waters of the lake. The dark interior of Oak Swamp, across the way. Nothing stirred. Not even the sleepy hum of insects disturbed the coming dusk. He looked about in wonder, straining to hear even the slightest sound. A bird chirping. The ceaseless surf out by Crater Cove. A jet plane overhead. Anything! He couldn’t recall ever being outside amidst such an ocean of silence.

             
                            It was unnatural, is what it was.

           He remembered an old Roald Dahl story about a little girl trapped in the one-dimensional world of a painting. Trapped in a frozen moment of time…

         Albert shook his entire body just to make sure he wasn’t in that particular Twilight Zone. The fact that he could still move did little to satisfy his sense of dread. The air around him practically thrummed with ominous tones. If he’d possessed even the slightest sense of imagination, he would have run for his very life. As it was, it was already too late.
Albert Feeny was no longer a ghost.

             
He’d been down into th
e
Cree
p
’s
lair only once before, without their knowledge of course, but the memory was etched into his neurons. It was like Batman’s secret cave down there. Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. It was the coolest thing he’d ever seen, cooler even than the Dark Side of the Moon Wax Museum.

             
“HELLLOOO DOWN THERE!”
he called out, hoping no one would answer him. No one did.

             
He dropped down into the darkness and switched on the flashlight he’d brought with him. It was his plan to stay here until Bud came along. Bud always showed up at the bunker on Mondays, usually early evening—even if he was by himself to look things over.

             
At least he hoped it was just Bud! Albert didn’t think he could speak coherently with Josie O’Hara looking at him. He was heading into the shelter, to take a seat on their couch until Bud showed up, when he heard someone coming down the ladder well.

             
That was quick
, he thought uneasily.
Maybe Bud saw me come down here!

             
Albert took a deep breath and waited anxiously by the entrance. Already he was regretting this rash course of action. How could he have been so delusional?

             
He called out meekly: “
Bud
?”

             
There was no reply. Albert smelled something sour. He backed up further into the alcove, clutching the book around his neck, seeking comfort in the laminate cover, the neat and tidy words within. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, as the thing—
not Bud.
Oh, no, this wasn’t Bud Brown
—stepped naked into Albert’s meager shaft of light.

             
The Thing
(The Red Eyed Man?)
held its filthy hand up in front of its shining eyes. Slowly it advanced on Albert, leaving a trail of saliva behind it like a giant garden slug.

             
As his bladder voided, Albert Feeny felt his imagination finally kick in.  The mind, it can be so cruel…

             
                           
*******

             
             
8:32 a.m. Tuesday:

Walter Wilky sat in his home office, contemplating the blue steel revolver on top of his desk. Tears fell from his gaunt cheeks and spattered the desktop, beading on the lacquered wood. The tattered wounds on his throat, the bite marks already running yellow with pus, didn’t register in his unbalanced mind. His emotional anguish surpassed any physical pain he was currently experiencing.

              Shiny bullets lay scattered across the desk. Each one an antidote to what ailed him. With trembling fingers, he picked them up and loaded the gun.

             
A loud sob escaped him as he pushed the cylinder shut. He’d always believed suicide was a mortal sin, but in this instance it seemed the only right thing left to do. Anyway, he’d already committed a far greater sin. At least in his eyes. He checked the note he’d written earlier, making sure he placed no blame on anyone other than himself. Maybe this one last act of contrition, of admitting his crime and accepting responsibility, would save him from some torment in the Afterlife.

He added one more line to the note, saying it out loud. He had no idea he’d just plagiarized the last five words uttered by the tormented Edgar Allan Poe.

“God help my poor soul…”

He stared into the blue-black barrel and wondered if he would feel the bullet entering his head. It would be a relief not to feel this anguish anymore…and yet he was scared of the pain to follow. Even if it was fleeting. He prolonged the inevitable by going over the events of the day before, as if the outcome might be different this time. He’d woken up Monday morning and gone into the kitchen to make his coffee. Tansy stumbled in, wearing dark shades and not a damn thing more. He’d stood there for a moment at the counter, too dumbfounded to say a word. Then he exploded.
Enough was enough!
He’d yelled at Tansy, told her to put on some fucking clothes! Yet all the while, his eyes had been drinking her in. He hated himself for that…but there it was. For some time, Tansy had gotten in the habit of walking around half-dressed. As if her nudity was inconsequential. Walter knew she was doing it on purpose. To torment him. To emasculate him. Now she had done away with all pretense. Shedding the last of her clothes, and fuck him if he didn’t like it! In fact, she’d gotten right in his face and told him t
o
Go to hel
l
! Called him
a
Cocksucke
r
, even! She was so outraged that her spittle, which strangely enough had coated her mouth and chin, flew right into his eyes.

He’d said nothing, just meekly wiped his face and returned to his bedroom to get showered and dressed, hoping that this would all blow over by the time her hangover was gone. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was scared to death of his stepdaughter.

He’d been in the shower, washing what was left of his thinning hair, when he heard the shower curtain pulling back on the rod. Realizing that Tansy had joined him in the stall, he frantically wiped the Prell from his face.

Through his stinging eyes, he could see her looking at him in an altogether
new way…

The very same way she looked at him in his deepest, darkest moments alone. And as her hand wrapped around his flaccid penis, tugging at it, Walter began to shriek, terrified that she was granting him
this
, his most evil wish. 

“No, Tansy! No! No! No! No!”

But she’d been so strong! So determined! Even now, with all the shame he was feeling, Walter’s body reacted wantonly to the memory. She’d literally dragged him from the shower by the thickening shaft of his penis. Dragged him out of the bathroom and into his room, where she’d tossed him effortlessly onto his bed. He fought like a wild man, but it was no use. She straddled him like a bully, one hand guiding him in, the other gripping his throat. Walter slapped her, knocking the sunglasses aside.

Exposing the red-eyed demon within… 

Walter came at the same time he began screaming.

Tansy bit him on his neck, drawing blood, sucking at the wound, even as Walter’s penis began withering inside her. Tansy threw back her head and laughed, his blood streaming from either side of her gaping mouth…

After Tansy was finished with him,
and had fled the house, Walter Wilky had laid there on the bed, weeping and gnashing his teeth. The sheets beneath him soaking up more and more of his blood, until they were no longer white but red.

He’d waited for her ever since, hoping to release the child from the grip of the demon. She was gone, though, and not likely to return. Anyway, at least now he understood the reason for her shameless behavior. What was his excuse? Even if she had practically raped him, he’d thought about it often enough, hadn’t he?

That alone made him culpable. Surely, there could be no forgiveness for such a betrayal.  

He put the barrel of the gun in his mouth, tasting the metallic oil on his tongue. And as he pulled the trigger, ironically saving himself from his stepdaughter’s madness, Walter’s last thought was that he’d wasted his time loading all six chambers:
How silly of me! I only needed the one—

             
             
*******

             
              2:38 p.m. Tuesday:

As he’d been doing since 9:30 that morning, Clint Bidwell sat on the floor with his back to his desk, staring at the file cabinets in the corner of his office. The one on the right, which he always kept unlocked, contained all of his patient files. The one on the left, which he
always
kept secured, contained the weekly, monthly, and yearly reports from his research on the
Rabies Project
. The lock on the left cabinet had been jimmied open, and even though nothing was missing, Bidwell could read the writing on the wall. He had seriously underestimated the level of intelligence and wherewithal of Bud Brown and his green-coated counterparts. He understood now the reason for that little passion play Josie O’Hara had put on for his benefit. While he was risking everything for a piece of underage snatch, one of her lackies was making copies or notes of his files. Rusty, probably. Of course, they only had a small part of the story. They didn’t have enough time to seek out the files in the bottom four cabinets, where over the years he’d gathered the most incriminating information. Another small blessing was that the files in question hadn’t contained his notes on the time he’d had Bud Brown in his care—sixteen days, which had been devoted not only to his quarantine and observation, but also to the erasing of the boy’s memory for that particular time period. Bidwell had tried repeatedly to erase any pertinent memories of the night Bud’s mother was murdered but the kid had held on to those images with a startling ferocity.

             
As if they held the key to his sanity.

             
The mere idea of those notes falling into the hands of Bill Brown made him shake in his wingtips. He thought about calling in the sheriff, but dismissed that idea out of hand. Rupert was too stupid and lazy to be of any real help. Qualities that made the corrupt sheriff such an ideal pawn were of no use in times of a crisis.

             
Yes sir, he was on his own.

             
Especially now that he was no longer funded by the U.S. Army! After nearly nine years of chasing down the elusive virus, which he had first stumbled onto back in 1996, he’d finally replicated it. Only to have those wimps tell him they were no longer interested! Something about international feelings of mistrust for the U.S. at all time highs. The current Bush administration was running scared and shutting down any operations that could further darken their already shady legacy. It hadn’t been a complete loss, however. The Army, not wanting Bidwell’s discovery to find its way into the wrong hands, had paid him and his researchers for their time and findings—not nearly as much if there had been a demand for the production of the strain and its eventual cure, mind you, but enough to define themselves as filthy rich. The Center had already handed over all of the surviving test subjects, as well as all of the samples and research on RS13 to the goons at USAMRIID. And according to his assistant, Brian O’Reilly, they were actually performing cavity searches on the remaining scientists there! To make sure no one was holding out on the U.S. Government, he supposed.

Now it was Bidwell’s turn to bend over and spread his cheeks. He had intended on keeping copies of his files
(despite the terse directive telling him otherwise),
in the event his bankroll wasn’t enough to sustain him in the future. His common sense, however, had for once prevailed. This was not the time for testing the U.S. government’s patience!

No, he would comply with USAMRIID’s directive, and then cut out before this whole dirty business came to light. Besides, they couldn’t take what he had in his head.