Dead Moon: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (5 page)

8

Saturday Afternoon / Present Day

A jingling wakes me from my drunken slumber. Reliving yesterday’s and this morning’s events wasn’t what I had in mind when I chugged the Jack and passed out. I was hoping to either think of nothing or at the very least dream of Jill on our wedding night.
Grrr.
The clinking of keys is a sound that seems so out of place right now, reminding me of my Uncle Ron’s extra-large keyring. He worked with my dad when I was a kid and his keys reminded me of a janitor’s set. They jingled and jangled with every step he took.

It takes me a second to fully remember where I am, but I do it without moving the slightest. Jerking awake is a good way for someone, or in this case, something, to hear you. Unfortunately, the leather recliner isn’t going to help in that regard. It squeaks and creaks with every movement as I stand.

Plus,
I think, working out the confusion in my head,
the Unseen don’t use keys…

The front door to my hideout opens, making the hinges whine in protest. Someone has entered uninvited—the owner perhaps. The thought of the owner returning to his/her home with me inside never occurred to me.

Why in the hell would someone come back?

I casually lift my gun and point it towards the doorway and wait. Sooner or later, owner or not, someone will come around the corner and reveal themselves.

“Hello,” I say, greeting…her.

“Ahhh!”

The woman screams like her hair is on fire and trips on the partition dividing the living room’s carpet and the hall’s tile. She goes down like a ton of bricks right in front of me, her head landing face up between my feet.

“Hi there,” I say with a grin, trying my damndest to hold back a laugh. I don’t care if she is the owner, seeing her flounder on the ground like that is just too funny. If I go to hell for laughing at someone falling, then the tens-of-millions of people who have laughed at the same thing on YouTube over the years can party in the pit with me.

Her eyes go wide at my smiling face. She then glances to my hand and sees my gun. It’s unconsciously pointed at her face, but she doesn’t notice my finger
off
the trigger. She’s in no real danger.

In danger or not, she whimpers like a beaten puppy and backs into the adjacent wall with a bang. A large picture frame comes crashing down next to her, shattering into tiny pieces. The woman covers her head at the noise, still staring at my gun.

Shock
, I think.
The poor lady is shell shocked—jumpy.

“Breathe,” I say, trying to use a calm and easy tone.

It doesn’t work. She starts crying at the word, wailing into her hands.

Frustrated, and I’ll admit still a little out of it, I inadvertently yell at her. “Damnit, woman. I said breathe!”

That doesn’t work either.

Good one asshole
, I think, shaking my head at myself.
Why don’t you tell her you ran over her cat too?

My ill-timed outburst not only startles her, it flat out frightens her actually. She attempts to scramble back on all fours, but only ends up hitting the wall again, dislodging another heavy framed photo. It crashes to the floor alongside its former wall mate. The lady tries to stand, but doesn’t. Her legs wobble and she falls flat on her ass again, tucking her knees into her chest, sobbing.

Ugh.
I holster my weapon and reach into my jacket pocket, stepping towards my new friend. Kneeling, I flip open my ID, showing her my badge and driver’s license.

“Breathe,” I say again, this time much softer. I watch as her eyes read my credentials, seeing her expression and overall body language relax a bit. “My name is Frank Moon, and I’m with the NYPD. Do you understand?”

She quickly nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, look. I know you’re
dying
to say something, but I just want you to listen to me for a second.”

She nods again.

“I’m sorry if I startled you. You left your window open and I came through it thinking no one was home. I was getting chased by a pack of Goblins and—”

She gives me a questioned look.

“Oh, right,” I say, remembering I’m the only one who technically calls them that. “The men who have changed. I call them Goblins.”

She nods again.

“Do you have a name, or should I just call you,
Noddy
?”

“Betty,” she says with a little bit of a southern drawl, looking up to me for the first time. “Betty Grant.”

I stick out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Grant.”

She shakes my hand and I help the poor woman to her feet.

“Sorry again for startling you.”

I really do feel bad. Some people can’t handle this type of thing. Then again, I think I may actually be the only one kinda’ keeping his shit together. Ms. Grant isn’t one of those people, obviously.

The only other ones besides myself, as far as I can tell, not
completely
snapping are the roving gangs that formed almost immediately after, like the idiots I saw near the library. Some of New York’s
finest
have gathered together to form a death squad of sorts.

I believe they are almost as dangerous as the monsters if you ask me. Seeing the way they enjoyed the fight was a real turn off. Most would think having a group like that would be a good thing, but the differences in opinions mixed with that kind of overkill is downright frightening. Then, you stir in paranoia and you get a powder keg of epic proportions. I for one don’t want to be around when they eventually turn on each other. Something will set them off. It’s inevitable.

Come to think of it, it’s the only time I’ve seen anyone even attempt to fight back. Then again, I’ve only seen between my house and here. Who knows what’s going on around the island right now? There could be another person just like me trying to get to their loved ones, fighting off the monsters that have now claimed Manhattan as their own.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Not really. I—I’ve seen some things.”

Now it’s my turn to nod. “Me too Betty… Me too…”

From the look on my face, Betty must understand. She doesn’t push the subject. She walks to the sofa and sits, straightening her posture, composing herself, if only a little. It’s an impressive try, but I can see right through it. I’m a detective remember?

“Don’t take this the wrong way… But why the hell were you out-and-about last night and not here?” I motion to the apartment. “You aren’t even armed.”

She stands and retrieves her purse from the floor, removing a black rectangular device. She pushes a button and a blue arc of electricity erupts from its tip. A Taser—and from the comfortable way that Ms. Grant holds it, I’m led to believe she has used it recently.

“I have a friend who lives a floor above me,” Betty explains. “She retired from the army a few years back and moved in here. My father served, so it was easy for us to talk when she first moved in. I respect those that served. It takes a lot to do what you do.”

“I’m not military,” I say.

She smiles. “You defend us against those that want to take our lives. You are just as much a hero as those serving overseas.”

Wow.

And before I can ask my next question. Betty answers it for me.

“She wasn’t there. I have a key, and she has one here. I went to check on her and stayed the night just in case she showed.”

“Alrighty then…”

She smiles. “My favorite Jim Carrey character.”

This gets a smile out of me. “Same here.”

She puts the Taser back in her bag, setting it on her counter top. She then walks over to me and takes my spot in the recliner.

“I was going to ask you the same, Mr. Moon.”

My eyebrows raise.

“Why are you in my home?”

I’m confused. “I told you. I saw your window open and—”

“That’s how you got inside, but what I want to know is why.”

I sit on the couch, relaxing a little.

“My wife, Jill. When all this happened,” I motion to the air, “she called me hysterically crying, saying people were dying. I promised her I’d come for her. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m doing my best to keep that promise.”

“Where is she?” Betty asks.

“The Museum of Natural History.”

Betty’s eyes go wide. “Ground Zero.”

My head tilts to the side slightly and she understands my confusion at the title. I know what it implies, but the way she said it, makes me think she’s heard it said before.

“I caught it on the radio before it stopped broadcasting. They said the meteor landed in the middle of Central Park and that the phenomena—the monsters—got worse and worse the closer you got to the epicenter of the crash. Ground Zero was just the nickname given to the landing sight.”

The Museum of Natural History sits across the street from Central Park, on its western side. Its front doors literally look out over the park.

“So you’re saying there are worse things out there than the Goblins and Sirens?”

Now it’s her turn to be confused.

“Oh, right, sorry. The men and women changed—the Goblins and Sirens.” I shrug. “I name things sometimes, especially since calling them people doesn’t seem to fit the bill anymore. Now I just call the whole lot of them the Unseen.”

“Yes,” she says solemnly. “My answer is, yes.”

“Yes?” I ask.

She nods. “From what I heard… Things do, in fact, get much worse the closer you get to Central Park—to your wife’s museum.”

Damnit.

I look up to Betty, the seriousness in my gaze, straightening her relaxed demeanor. “Your army friend… She wouldn’t happen to have any weapons, would she?”

9

I peek out of Betty’s front door and look both ways down the hall. Seeing that it’s clear, I step out, gun up, ready to fire. This mag is relatively full, minus whatever I used getting here. I honestly wasn’t keeping track like I normally try to do. My mind was kinda’ elsewhere for a while. The clip in my shoulder holster is the one I changed out in the library bathroom and it only has three rounds left. Ammunition is in short supply for sure. I hope she has something there for me—anything really. At this point I’d take a Taser like Betty has.

I press a finger to my lips, pleading for Betty to stay quiet. She nods and points left, showing me the way. I glance to the right one more time and turn, heading down the hall. We move deeper into the building as quickly and quietly as possible. Every step I take is like a dagger in my temple. The booze definitely did what it was supposed to do and then some. Betty’s less athletic form follows behind me, her winter boots clunking in the still air. I grit my teeth, knowing that she will be heard easily if there’s anything within earshot.

I had asked as much before opening the door, but she quickly squelched it saying that the building was, “dead quiet.” The look on her face was instantly one of regret. She didn’t mean what she said—the poor attempt at humor. She’s nervous and scared and people tend to say some wonky stuff when they are both of those things. She did, however, confirm that she hadn’t seen anything besides a lot of blood and pieces of... She didn’t need to finish. It’s pretty easy to tell where those pieces came from.

The building seems to be deserted, besides of course, Betty.

If the army friend took off, then why would Betty Freakin’ Crocker stay behind?
A question for another time.

I turn right thirty feet later and move for the rear stairs. The front set are the ones I used the night before running for my life. These, however, aren’t in any better shape, having seen their share of tragedy.

Blood is pooled on almost every surface, and we have to be careful not to step in it. Bootprints already mar the crimson stain, most likely from runners—people getting the hell out of Dodge.
Or people like Betty,
I think, still wondering why she’s still here. I stop and study a pair of footprints that head to the next set of stairs to my right. This staircase takes you down to the level below us, corkscrewing around and around from lobby to roof.

Then, they’re gone, through the goop, sliding down the slick steps. The blood makes the ultimate horror movie inspired slip-and-slide. I lean right, around the post, and see the body they obviously belonged to. It’s half eaten and showing early signs of rot.

Must have fallen, letting the Unseen catch up.

I shake my head and mount the first steps going up, doing my best to avoid my own slip-and-fall accident.
That would suck.

We swiftly climb the first set and round the landing to the next, coming across another, mostly eaten body—a woman. She’s lying atop a ruined open bath towel, barefoot.
Must have been fleeing from whoever she lived with.
It’s the only thing that makes sense. Then I think of Betty’s friend, but shake it off. Betty sounded pretty damn sure her friend was still alive. This woman’s body, from the neck to her hips, has been emptied, giving merit to the look of abject terror on her face.

She was eaten alive.

I shiver at the thought and continue up the next set of stairs. I look back as I ascend and see the dead woman’s short black pixie cut. It reminds me of a picture I saw of Jill back when she was in high-school. She went to some specialty shop and they screwed up pretty bad and had to chop it all off. She hated it, wearing a hat for weeks until it grew out enough to do something with it.

“You looked really hot,” I said when she showed it to me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It’s still a topic of conversation to this day and I’ve asked her once or twice to have it done again. She laughed it off and said it wouldn’t be presentable in the courtroom. I doubted that reason, but didn’t push it any further.

After a few more seconds of climbing, Betty and I arrive at the seventh floor landing. Again putting a finger to my lips, I quietly lean out and make sure the coast is clear. It is, and I hear Betty whisper, “Go right.”

I follow her instructions and turn right, heading east. As expected, the floor plan on every level is the same. The building is, in essence, a long rectangle with a stairwell at either end—the north and south ends. There’s a hallway on both sides of each floor with rooms on each side of that particular hall. If you live on the outer half of the corridor, you have a view. If you live on the inner half the only view you have is whatever your computer’s screensaver is.

We come to one of those cookie cut hallways and I once more peek out, checking in both directions. A shadow moves further down the hall, but just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, vanishing back where the other set of stairs is located. It’s not that lengthy of a corridor, but it’s long enough that the end isn’t really visible in the low light. That, and my eyes are still a little fuzzy from the liquor and exhaustion. Rubbing them and trying to refocus doesn’t do anything either. So instead, I just return my attention to finding Betty’s friend’s front door.

“Shit,” I mumble, none too pleased.

“What?” She asks a little too loud.

“Shhh,” I say, reprimanding the woman.

She shies away from my outburst and I’m about to apologize, but don’t get the chance. As I turn around to face her, something leaps out of the shadows. A lone Goblin pounces at Betty as the woman shrieks in fright. I do the same—leaping, not screaming—and meet the fang-toothed bastard halfway. I basically catch the thing in mid-air and grunt, falling backwards on my ass. As I tumble I grab a part of the creature’s torn t-shirt, dragging it off balance with me. Even within the creature’s snarling face, I can see a look of surprise. It must have had an easier meal the last time it fed.

I ain’t no easy meal.

We land together, roll once, and continue down the stairs. Well…the Goblin does. I arrest my plunge and reach out, grabbing onto one of the balusters. The jarring movement stops me sharply, slamming me hard to the unforgiving stairs. As soon as I land, I’m shouting orders.

“Go!” I yell, sitting up on one of the steps, babying my ribs. I pull myself up to my feet, grunting in pain at having to use my wounded arm for balance. “Get the door open, now!”

The Goblin lands with a thud and a crack and I glance down to meet it, expecting
Round 2
of our fight to start. If it comes to it, I’ll shoot the fucker in the head and be done with it. Risking being heard is better than being torn to bits.

But it doesn’t get up…and it’s plain to see why.

It landed awkwardly on its neck, breaking it horribly. The last thing I see before taking off after Betty, is the creature staring back at me. It’s lying crumpled against the wall, its head turned backwards like an owl, staring at me. I even get the customary look of hatred I’m used to seeing on their faces, as it’s forever glued to the thing’s face.

I stop at the T junction and enter the east hall, turning left. It’s back towards the center of the building, but I quickly pause, not seeing Betty anywhere.

“The hell…” I say to myself. “Where—”

“Over here, Frank!”

I turn around and see Betty half-inside the corner most apartment—away from the side with the fire escapes. The first thing that goes through my head is,
Son of a bitch…
There will be no backdoors out of this place, no fire escape to climb. The second thing that goes through my head is worse, though.
I haven’t seen a Goblin travel alone before, which only means one thing…

I race down the hall, sprinting at full speed. I need to get inside before another of the monsters
sees
where we went. Our scent will undoubtedly bring them this way, but hopefully they will lose us once we’re inside, behind the locked door.

Let’s hope so,
I think as I pause and look back down the corridor. Nothing is there, but I don’t trust the luck of it. We are most definitely
not
alone. It’s only a matter of time, before we are sitting ducks, trapped in the worst possible spot on the seventh floor.

“No escape,” I whisper to myself, mentally going through a laundry list of things that could happen. None of them good.

Let’s just hope that luck thing actually comes true for once. So far since everything has happened, the only luck I’ve had is bad luck…and shit luck. Neither of which I’m overly fond of.

“You’re still alive,” I say, entering the home. “That’s gotta’ count for something.”

I’ve found myself talking to myself a lot lately. It’s probably because I’m alone most of the time and Betty is the first live person I’ve actually talked to in a while. I’ve always been prone to having conversations with myself, though. My mom and dad used to catch me talking to nobody on dozens of occasions. I’d be playing video games, or watching a movie, and I’d just be sitting there mumbling to myself. It wasn’t the imaginary friend phase either, it was just easier for me to think aloud, then put my thoughts together inside my head. My parents being the dedicated Christians they are, told me I was talking to God.

They did the same, but didn’t vocalize it like I did, and still do to this day. Am I talking to God? I have absolutely no idea, but just
talking
at all makes me feel just that little bit more normal, and considering the circumstances… That’s a win in my book.

If I wasn’t talking, I’d probably be dead.

“Well, God,” I murmur as I shut the front door, hoping this works, “please find Jill and protect her. Tell her I’ll be there soon.”