There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (107 page)

Seeing it was just the three of them, Bill spun around, looking for the others, nearly falling over from the effort. “Where is everybody? Josie and Rusty? Garfield and Mr. Pete? Where are they, Bud?”

Bud wasn’t ready to tell his dad the truth just yet. “Down there,” he said, pointing down at the beach. “They’re on the cove.” He looked at Tubby. “Go ahead. Take him—”

“Ralph’s not taking me anywhere,” Bill shot back. “Now before you boys shag your asses down to the cove, what is it you were looking to collect from the cabin?”

Bud gave him a list and watched his old man limp towards the cabin. “I don’t care what he says, Tubs. Let’s stand watch until he comes out of there.”

“Gee whiz, Bud. Won’t he be mad?”

“What’s he gonna do, ground me?”

             
              *******

Rusty kept looking up towards the bluff, where the O’Hara cottage stood crouched underneath the lighthouse’s looming shadow. He’d convinced himself that the thing in the O’Hara kitchen was coming after him. Like something out of his EC comic books. He imagined Shayna crawling down the Crater Cove trail, half her head gone, the butcher blade still shoved up her bloody cooze. The light and the nearby surf couldn't frighten away something that far gone.

Something that evil wouldn’t have any fears at all!

Except maybe of God.

Where are they?
He wondered of his friends.
It shouldn’t take this long to get a few odds and ends.

He looked down at Josie, assuming by her silence that she’d fallen asleep. Her eyes were open, though. Staring at a light, far off shore. Feeling foolish and fraternal at the same time, he clumsily stroked her hair, humming the same Irish lullaby she’d cooed in his ear earlier that evening. Josie’s voice startled him.

“Do you suppose that’s the Coast Guard out there, still keeping tabs on us?”

“I guess they’re the same ships. Is it true what y’all said earlier—that they won’t let anybody off the island?”

Josie lifted herself off Rusty’s lap and scootched beside him on the sand. “Afraid so. They’ve quarantined Moon, it seems…whether we’re infected or not.”

“I wonder if they’ll ever let us leave.”

“Of course they will,” she said. “Once the crisis has passed, they’ll have no choice but to let us go.”

“If they do, there’s gonna be a helluva shitstorm. Once it becomes public knowledge of what went on here, and the government’s complicity, they’ll have a lot to answer for. Heads will roll like never before. I wonder if the powers that be will allow such a thing to happen.”

“Right now, love, I just couldn’t care less.”

Rusty nodded. It was hard to worry about something like that, so far off in the future. Right now, their only concern was in getting through this interminable night. And more importantly, the safe return of their friends.

“What do you suppose is taking them so long?” Josie said, drying her face on his sleeve.

“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking the same—”

“Shhh! Someone’s coming!”

“Why aren’t they using the Maglite?”
Rusty whispered, ready to turn on the more powerful flashlight Bud had left behind. Josie stilled his hand.

“Josie? Rusty?”
a husky voice called out softly in the darkness.
“Where the hell are you guys?”

The sweeping beam from the lighthouse washed over Bud and Tubby, illuminating Bilbo Brown, who was held up between them, the trio slowly making their way down the beach. Tubby and Bud had their free hands full of things they’d collected from Rusty’s house. Josie got up and went over to help with the load.

“Why didn’t you use the Maglite?” Rusty asked.

Bud gestured over at Tubby, who was grinning sheepishly. “Cause the hammer of Thor, over here, smashed it on top of some dillhole’s head.”

Bill laughed weakly as they helped him down to the sand. “You should’ve seen it, Short Round. One of those Rabids came at us from behind a sand dune, and Ralphie made like Babe Ruth and hit for the fences. Right on the ‘ol sweet spot, eh, Ralphie boy?”

“And the crowd goes,
ROARRRR!!”
Ralph said, playing along.

“Go on with your bad self, Opie,” Rusty laughed.

Embarrassed by the attention, Tubby blushed and put a blanket around Bill’s shoulders.

Bud set a coffeepot full of water and grounds beside the Duraflame logs Tubby had dropped on the sand.

“That was a good idea getting these starter logs, Pop. A campfire should help keep us safe tonight. Maybe we can even manage some sleep. We’ll need some more wood, though. Ya’ll get a fire pit started, while I collect some tender. Rusty, hand me that big flashlight of yours.”

“Stay clear of the dunes, son,” yawned his father. He tossed a pack of matches to Tubby and made himself cozy on the sand. Now that he’d done his part, exhaustion took hold of Bill Brown. Bud had told him everything that had transpired in the cellar and in the O’Hara kitchen, and the terrible news had stolen what meager strength he’d managed to regain, dozing in the trunk of the car.

He was so tired. So very, very tired.

“I’ll stay clear,” Bud promised him. Expecting another argument from Josie, he was surprised when she didn’t insist on going with him. Josie just gave him a look that told him he better not get hurt—otherwise there’d be hell to pay. He smiled, letting her know he got the message.

Josie watched the beam from Bud’s flashlight flicker up and down the beach, searching for suitable tender. She held on to the shotgun, ready to run after him at the first hint of trouble. True to his word, though, Bud avoided the dangerous dunes and kept close to the waterline, where most of the driftwood was anyway.

Soon he was heading back towards their little camp with his arms full, dumping the driftwood beside Tubby’s fire pit. Two successive trips ensured enough tender for the rest of the night. The enamel coffeepot now sat percolating on a flat rock close to the fire.

Even though it was a warm night, Rusty added some of the larger pieces of wood to the blaze and settled down close to the flames, his back to the water. In fact, the only one in-between the fire and the sand dunes was Bill. The rest were playing it safe, sitting close to the surf.

With nothing left to do now till morning, Bud sat beside Josie and allowed her to wrap the blanket around the both of them. He felt her silently sobbing, her tears soaking into his shirtsleeve. “I’m so sorry, Joe.” He wanted to say more, but comforting words were never his strong suit.

She nodded her head on his shoulder, just content to be in his arms. “Are we going to run John Cutter’s boat over to the Center tomorrow morning?”

Bud doodled in the sand with a reed.

“No. I doubt the Coast Guard would allow that. Even if they did, I wouldn’t want them to see me go over there. I think it’s better if we can claim ignorance after all this is over. We’ll just have to hope Christine can get us through most of the woods tomorrow.”

“Even if you
wanted
to use his boat, you couldn’t,” Rusty said, beside them. He pointed down the shore. The Moon Island Harbor was an inferno. “In the morning there won’t be so much as a rowboat left floating over there.”

“Too true,” Josie said, staring at the bright red glow.

Rusty and Tubby sat huddled together, sharing the only coffee cup Bill had retrieved from the cabin. Both kept glancing nervously over at the sand dunes several yards beyond their campfire. Every now and then catching sight of red furtive eyes, darting back and forth within the swaying sea oats. So far, Bill was right. The nearby surf and the regular sweep of the lighthouse beacon were proving their worth as deterrents—not to mention their little bonfire. Bud held on to the 12 gauge, regardless. He looked down in surprise at the dozing girl in his arms. He had assumed sleep would be a long time coming for Josie. Across from the crackling flames, Bill lay fully extended, the RS13 virus raging unchallenged through his veins.

Bud could almost hear the ticking of that damn clock in the O’Hara kitchen, counting down the remaining seconds, minutes, and hours of his father’s life...

Tick…Tick…Tick…Tick…Tick…

He figured once the sun rose he’d have about eight hours to find the two strains of vaccine, and hopefully some sort of instructions on combining them. A long shot, to be sure. Once that Herculean task was accomplished, his job was only half-done. Then he had to get the medicine safely to his father, where it could still have a chance to fight off the virus. After that, it was up to God. A heavenly deity Bud hadn’t had much use for, for a very long time. Now he realized he’d been wrong to blame God for his mother’s death. Nor was their current quandary God’s doing, either. Like the vast majority of suffering on earth, the only ones responsible were God’s own ruthless children.

Buddy boy bowed his head and he began to pray.

Chapter Eightee
n
:

What Dreams May Come…

The dreams always start out the same…

October 13
th
, 1996. I’m nine years old, waiting in the darkness of my bedroom, mom’s late…

Plip. Plip. Plop…

Noxzema floods the senses…

A friend in need, sobbing on the front steps…

He’s one of us now. The Fourth. It begins anew…

Dark winds blowing ill tidings. Death on still waters…

Broken treetops, like missing teeth on a comb…

A black murder…

Fireflies dancing in the night…

Robbie takes an evening stroll…

Footfalls in a dark tunnel, feathers on a brick floor…

            Ted Bundy’s hiding something…

Leftovers in a sink. Death, She marks us all now…

Woods whipping by in the night…

A blood red moon, in the lake below…

A race with the Red Eyed Man…

As always, the dream has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning never varies, while the middle and end always seem to be in flux. What appears one night may not reappear for several more. Tonight is no different. The dreams stutter on his mind’s eye, one image bleeding into the next, until it nears the end.
The Bunker.

All at once, he’s in real time; seeing his future through his
own
eyes. The sights, sounds, and textures so real, it almost startles him into consciousness.

Bud is
there
.

A bright glow illuminates the alcove in the Bunker. Like the empty shotgun shells everywhere, bodies litter the floor, their faces obscured by a fog of indecision.

              “The future, like all of
Time
, Buddy boy, is a river. A swift and strong tributary, running eternally over a deep and wide bed that is our destiny. Old River Time is an unstoppable current that knows no bounds…and yet He always travels in the line of least resistance. Therefore, if the will is great and your heart stout, you might possibly redirect it at the crucial juncture. Remember that, Buddy boy! Only at the crucial juncture…

             
Although Bud hasn’t heard those gentle tones in eight years, the soft voice is at once recognizable.

“
Momma
?”
he whimpers in his sleep.
 

Beside him, Ralph Tolson is taking his turn at the watch. He wonders if he should wake his friend from what sounds like a terrible nightmare.

His hand hovers over Bud’s shoulder…

              Bud struggles to stay within the dream, already fragmenting into its customary puzzle pieces. Only this time they seem to fall into a construct that makes sense. Several pieces are more prominent than others, more insistent, like the
USA Today
newspaper with the front-page headline:

              
MUTANT RABIES VIRUS SPEADING OUT OF CONTROL!

The mysterious dimpled shotgun shell. The weapons he would need to survive that night, all lined up neatly on a display stand. A bloody tide, sweeping inexorably across the globe, the dark red fading first to a dull pink, and then winking out of sight altogether. And most inexplicable of all: Fresh wash on a clothesline, dingy socks and underwear flapping in the wind…