There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (111 page)

He was reminded of what John Cutter had said about the virus, how it drove some of its victims to cannibalism. Shayna O’Hara had proven that grim theory correct. Now a cannibalistic Rabid was between Bud and his cache of firearms.
Maybe more than one
,
Buddy boy.

Disturbed from their feeding, the buzzing flies rose up in mass and soon engulfed Bud, searching out his nose, mouth, and eyes. Bud swatted at the clotted air, swiping at the engorged parasites on his head, frantic to be free of the filthy things. His hands and face were soon covered in their bristly viscera, a digestive soup from their last meal.

If Bud could have screamed without the fucking things flying into his open mouth he would’ve done so.

He ignored the flies as best he could—there were simply too many of them to disburse—and focused again on locating the Zippo. If he could find it, then make his way past the rotting carcass and into the bomb shelter, there was a propane lantern sitting on the coffee table, not sixteen feet from where he was standing.

As soon as he stopped agitating the buzzing horde, the flies began to return to their festering feast on the floor, leaving Bud Brown for the most part in peace. 

Now if only I can find that damn—

His hand fumbled over the warm surface of the lighter and tightened in vicious relief around it, the three etched words so familiar against his palm:
Never Say Die!

             
              *******

Two miles into their journey and Josie heard it.

Something stalking them.

It ran noisily within the deepest shadows, several feet out, not bothering at all with a stealthy approach.

Despite their adversary’s pursuit, Josie wasn’t overly worried about an attack. Thus far, the day had been especially bright and hot. Unseasonably so, even for Moon Island. Her exposed skin was already smarting from sunburn.
If I’m uncomfortable, it must be a thousand times worse for the Rabid!
As long as she kept her group within the sun’s ultra violet rays, they would probably be all right.

             
“D-D-Did’ja hear t-t-that?” Rusty asked her, his voice doing that scared thing again. Sounded like Don Knotts in
The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.

             
“Keep moving and stay out of the deeper shadows,” Josie said, her grip tightening on the shotgun. She rattled the remaining shells in the pocket of her shorts. Including the two in the barrels, she was down to five rounds.

             
“Easier said than done,” Tubby panted. He climbed over a small deadfall, careful not to snag his army coat on any branches. He was lagging behind Rusty and Josie, and Bill was even further behind him. “Wait a second, guys,” he called out to them. “Let Mr. Brown catch up with us.”

Bill squinted, the sun’s rays piercing into his throbbing brain.
The sun, why is it so fucking bright today? God, it must be a hundred degrees, out! These clothes, so heavy and hot and itchy.
“Don’t wait for me,” he said, waving them on. “I’ll be all right. Just keep moving!”

             
Josie took the time to look around; to get her bearings straight, and give all concerned a breather. Unfortunately all of the familiar landmarks were either gone or altered. A disquieting thought occurred to her:
Are we lost?
Surely not!
The Pines, while dense and wild, inhabited only a portion of Moon Island’s forty-two square miles—albeit, the largest portion.

Years ago, she and her friends had lost their bearings in these woods, and before they knew it they’d found themselves traveling over the same ground, over and over again. A fruitless circle, just like in the books.

Once Bud realized what was happening, he’d calmly taken matters in hand. He’d led them through the Pines by blazing a trail and walking away from the sun’s westward descent, until they came out along the East End dirt road. Easy peasy, teasy squeezey.

             
Of course, back then we didn’t have the to navigate all these feckin’ blow downs!

It was impossible to see in a straight line, much less maintain one. They could go back the way they came—she didn’t think it would be too difficult to find their way out—but what would Buddy boy think when he got back to the Bunker, later in the afternoon, only to find they weren’t there yet? Would he attempt a search with dark coming on?

She knew the answer to that one:
Of course, he would! The big doofus.
He’d pile on the firearms; slip a buck knife between his teeth, and Rambo his way through an army of Rabids in search of his loved ones.
Outta my way, you red-eyed motherfuckers! I’m here to save the day!

Cue the Calvary horn.

Josie sighed and chose the most obvious direction in which to travel.
Time to start blazing a trail, Miss Tits.

Something obvious and eye level
.
She tore a strip from her right sleeve and tied the bright red cloth to a tree branch. Satisfied with the result, she nodded her head. Fluttering in the breeze like that, it would be hard to miss.

Noting the precaution, Rusty’s eyebrows flexed upwards. “Hey, Tits, are we los—”

              “Ralphie! You seen anything suspicious?” Josie said, shooting Rusty a look.

             
Tubby waited until Bill joined them. “No…but…”

             
“But
what
?” Bill snapped. He looked at Tubby the way every bully in his life had ever had. With disgust and cruel contemplation.
The eyes…they never lie.

             
Tubby moved away from Mr. Brown. Suddenly he wasn’t too keen on Bud’s super cool pops. He turned instead to Rusty and Josie. “Do y’all smell smoke?”

             
                         *******

Bud’s Zippo barely made a dent in the darkness. The Rabid kept its distance to the outer limit of the light, in just enough of the tepid glow to identify it. Bud’s distorted image stared back at him from the reflection in Rupert Henderson’s mirrored sunglasses. The sheriff’s shades were why Bud hadn’t seen the red eyes staring back at him.

Bud wondered if that was a deliberate subterfuge, keeping his burning eyes in check like that.

Despite Henderson’s grievous injuries, suffered outside his office before the storm, when Pig attacked him, the sheriff, for the first time in his life, was a man to be reckoned with. A
dangerous
man. The severed arm in his right hand was testament to that fact.

Torn flaps of skin hung loosely from Rupert’s face and skull. White bone gleamed back from the glow of Bud’s Zippo. Maggots feasted in a deep well where his nose used to be. The mass of them rose and fell, rose and fell, as if one breathing entity, reminding Bud of that childhood mummy nightmare.

Before the Red-Eyed Man, that is…

Looking at the rabid lawman, Bud had to wonder if even then his dreams might not have been trying to prepare him for this day. After all, even the most traumatic events imaginable are easier to bear the second time around.

Truth was, Bud was more curious now than scared. He studied the Rabid the way Diane Fossey once studied the mountain gorillas. Cautious, to be sure, yet calm and cool. Instead of being horrified by Henderson’s freakishly long tongue—as it snaked out and snatched itself a mouthful of maggots—Bud simply remarked: “Now if that shit ain’t demonic, then neither is Rosemary’s baby.

             
“Sheriff, you okay?” Bud asked. Silly fucking question, since Henderson had just taken a bite out of the severed arm. “Maggots are just a side dish for you, huh?”

Bud glanced over at the corpse; sure enough, it was missing an arm. Henderson had pretty much stripped the tasty morsel of muscle and flesh. Except for the hand, it was mostly bone and maggots. The squirming larvae fell from the denuded extremity like grains of rice.

Bud began inching himself towards the bomb shelter. “Anybody else at this here buffet?”

            
 
“Buuuuuddd,
”
the sheriff gurgled cheerfully in response. It came out like a run-on belch. Deep and rumbling belch/speak. Remembering Bud’s name seemed to please the Rabid no end. It was, Rupert suddenly recalled, the very reason he’d come down this hole in the first place. To await Bud and his reject friends. The anonymous caller, back on Tuesday, having given excellent directions to their underground bunker.

In the meantime, he’d had a nice little snack. A “Buffet”, as Bud called it. He tried clapping but his left hand just ended up slapping the severed arm in his right fist. The moldy hand waved at Bud, creating surreal shadow puppets on the wall. A literal Creepshow.

              The Zippo was unbearably hot now. Bud shifted it between his blistering fingers, careful not to drop it again. It was imperative he keep the Rabid in
front
of him—especially if there was another one behind it somewhere.

There were
three
sets of footprints up above: the Sheriff had on his Cat’s Paw boots. Ked’s, size 9, was decomposing right behind him. Unaccounted for was Mr. Bare Feet—unbeknownst to Bud, Lester Noonan. And thanks to Josie and Christine, no longer a threat to anyone.

Bud held the hatchet aloft, inching his way towards Rupert, trying to get within striking distance. His eyes dropped down to the empty holster, hanging from the sheriff’s gunbelt; somewhere along the way Festus had lost his sidearm.
Good deal,
Bud thought
. That levels the playing field between us.

Saliva drooled from the Rabid’s clacking jaws, slimy long strands of the stuff. Besides the dreadful injuries to Henderson’s filleted face, Bud could make out several other open wounds. The worst of that lot was a puss-filled, human-sized bite on his forearm that looked and smelled gangrenous. So far gone, even the maggots wouldn’t touch it. The other injuries looked to be half-hearted attempts by something to feed on Henderson.

              Rupert belched from the deepest recesses of his gut
.
“Fuuucckk yoooouu, Buuuuuuuuuudddd!
”

Bud assumed the old fart was simply cursing at him, using that timeworn slang, which held all sorts of derogatory meaning. Watching Henderson stroke the crotch of his filthy pants, however, Bud realized it had a more literal definition.
He actually wants to fuck me!
Bud made a come-hither gesture. “Well, come and get it, old man!” 

Henderson gurgled as he circled his prey.
“Yesss! Come and get ittt! I come and get it right nooowww!”

             
Bud let the Sheriff get within one body-length of him, his muscles tensing for an opening. If he timed the move just right, he’d drop Henderson like a bad habit.

Realizing his prey wasn’t going to run, the Rabid frowned. The boy’s lack of fear was bewildering.

Bud reached out with the Zippo, holding it aloft, the flesh on his fingertips sizzling on the hot metal, the lighter within the Rabid’s reach now…

Henderson’s attention automatically focused on the flame; he took a swipe at it, trying to knock it out of Bud’s hand. He missed. Bud raised it again, taunting him with the fluttering flame, like the humpback Fritz in
Frankenstein
.

Henderson missed again…

Bud edged closer still…

Henderson saw his chance. He dove in, off-balance, swiping at the light—just as Bud had envisioned he would. The rusty hatchet made its calculated descent now, inches from Rupert’s startled face, forcing his head up and back, his throat unprotected and stretched taught…

Cocking his right leg back like Billy Jack, Bud watched his target fully present itself, pretty as a bull’s-eye. Fast as lightning, Bud’s foot lashed out at the center ring… 

             
              *******

Bill Brown hung back a little until the kids had advanced far enough ahead to lose sight of him. Then, without wondering why or examining his suddenly malevolent motives, he tore the red strip of cloth from the pine bough. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled the girl’s pleasing scent, smelling so much more than strawberries and sunshine. Drool oozed from his twisted grin, trailing all the way down to the ground. No longer tired or hurting, Bill Brown sniffed the air like a bloodhound. In fact, except for his hypersensitive eyes and constricting throat, he felt rather sturdy. Even the headache had abated. Or maybe he was just responding to pain differently now. The rest of his body and senses seemed to thrum with some supernatural power, aching to be unleashed on the innocent and naive.

Speaking of innocence, he watched the young people ahead of him climb over a fallen tree. The one called Josie had taken off her coat and wrapped it around her waist. His eyes roamed over her unencumbered breasts, stripping away the tight, red tee-shirt that covered them. The newborn Rabid tucked the trail marker into its pocket and grinned again, saliva running freely from either side of its mouth
.
“Ready or not, here I come…”