There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (18 page)

Bud looked down at Tubby and studied him intently before coming to some decision in his mind. “Maybe the
four
of us now…we just
belong
together. It’s as simple as that. We complete an integral part of the puzzle.”

“Puzzle? What puzzle?” Josie frowned.

The preceding discourse was so out of character for Bud that both she and Rusty were looking up at him askew, wondering if he was suffering another breakdown. Tubby stood off to the side, waiting for the punch line.
The
four
of us? Did Bud Brown just include me in that sentence?

             
Bud took a deep breath and sighed. He looked embarrassed by what he was about to share. “It has to do with my dreams, okay?”

Josie and Rusty smiled sympathetically. They had lived with Bud’s dreams ever since they’d first known him. Whether it was the Red-Eyed Man standing over his bed in the darkest part of the night, or the mysterious Cave that would save them all, when the quote, “Shit hit the Fan
.”
They had listened patiently, waiting for Bud to make some sense of it all. They looked at each other, wondering if finally some answers were about to be forthcoming.

Tubby, meanwhile, picked at the seat of his too-tight britches, pulling his skivvies out the crack of his ass.

Bud scowled, reluctant to go into any greater detail. Mostly because he didn’t understand it himself. And yet he’d known that Tubby was th
e
Las
t
Cree
p
the moment he saw him crying on the steps of the school. Of course, he’d seen the fat boy several times before that, but it wasn’t until he saw Josie sticking up for Ralph Tolson that it
clicked
in his head. Now that th
e
Las
t
Cree
p
had been found Bud wondered how long it would be before the rest came to pass.
Days? Weeks? Maybe months? No. Not months.

Not that long.

The dreams had been intensifying lately, and more than ever Bud felt it was all leading up to something cataclysmic. Sooner, rather than later. He only wished the visions would be more specific or helpful. Most of the time all he got were fragments. Parts that didn’t fit with what he already had. Faces never fully formed. Fuzzy. Out of focus. It was like buying a puzzle, only to discover they didn’t pack all the required pieces. After all these years, all those nightmares, visions,
whatever
, he still didn’t have the necessary information! One thing he did know was that none of it would take place until after the
last
member had joined their group. A puzzle piece that until today had been conspicuously absent.  Th
e
Las
t
Cree
p
: Tubby Tolson
.

It wasn’t as if th
e
Las
t
Cree
p
was a Tolkienian character, rising above his lowly caste to put right the world. In Bud’s dreams, Tubby didn’t save the day or anything heroic like that. He was just one of the gang, along for the bumpy ride, his destiny as much in doubt as the rest of them. His Fate in mortal peril.

Bud looked down at his friends and saw the concern in their eyes. The anxiousness in Tubby’s.

Time to lighten the mood,
‘ol Buddy Boy
. Maybe clue Tubby in to what had made the three of them such good friends. “Big Red, why don’t you tell Tubs what brought us together in the first place?”

             
Josie’s eyes drifted over to Tubby, crinkling merrily as she smiled. “The three of us, Ralphie, are family. We look after each other. You know what I mean? Hell, I spend more time with these bozos than me own brother…

             
She looked up at Bud, not sure if she should continue. “We also share the same obsession.”

             
Bud gave the dark cleft in the Bunker a long look before facing Tubby again. “Listen, man. We don’t know you, and you really don’t know us, either. Before we continue, we need to know—
my
friends need to know—if we can trust you.”

             
Josie picked it up from there. She gave Tubby a warm, yet distant smile that said it all:
We like you…but that’s not enough, boyo. You’re not one of us. Not yet, you’re not.
“What Bud’s trying to say, Ralphie, is that you might not even want to hang out with us once you know what we’re into. We wouldn’t blame you, either! Our tastes run counter to the Mainstream, as it were. That doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends, though.”

             
“The point is,” Rusty said, getting to it at last. “Before we take you into the bunker, we need to know if you’re one of us. I mean,
really
one of us! Not some poser who’s into the Genre just because he’s lonely and all. I know how Buddy boy feels, but I’m going to need a little bit more than his gut feeling.” He looked up at his large friend. “No offense, Gigantor.”

             
“Your vote’s as important as mine, Skeletor.”

“Well, just what is
a
Cree
p
?” Tubby asked them. “Beyond the normal definition, that is.” He wondered if they could hear his stomach gurgling, telling him it was coming on lunchtime. Like most fat kids, Tubby didn’t like eating in front of other people who didn’t share his affliction or waist size.

             
Bud took a seat on a slab of graffiti strewn cement. “It all began with my old man. Like I said, he runs the museum of wax horrors on Main Street. He used to be a cop, but…well…anyway, he was always into horror, see? Sci-fi. Monsters. Robots. Jack the Ripper. All the sub-genres that fit into that freaky little field. So he decided to make his hobby into a career. Have you seen that replica of Robby the Robot in the window at Moon Man’s?”

“Yeah! I’ve been wondering about that too,” Tubby said, a little downcast. He was disappointed the robot wasn’t in fact the real McCoy. It sure looked like it.

“My dad was the one who built and sold it to that character, Tim Garfield. That squirrelly little dude who owns Moon Man’s. We’ve got another one just like it in our museum. We call him the Tin Man. The robot, not my dad.” Bud laughed. “My old man
loves
robots. His bedroom is filled with the old tin type toys so popular back in the fifties. Anything sci-fi related, but mostly rocket ships and robots. He tinkers with ‘em the way some geezers tinker with model trains. As a kid he got me interested in that kind of shit, too. While other guys collected baseball cards, or played video games until their thumbs bled, my pop was getting me all worked up about old horror movies. You know:
Dracula,
Frankenstein, King Kong, The Wolfman…
I began collecting anything to do with the Genre, acquiring a lot of my stuff from the old man’s personal collection. Then a few years ago I saw that Rusty and Big Red here were hanging around the museum a lot, asking my dad all sorts of intelligent questions…and so, I struck up a conversation with them, too.”

             
“Which nearly caused me to shit my shorts,” Rusty drawled. Tubby could tell he wasn’t kidding.

             
“Buddy boy wasn’t exactly known back then for his sparkling wit and conversation,” Josie replied.

             
“As opposed to now?” Rusty asked incredulously.

             
“Wise guys, ayyy,” Bud said, mimicking Curly from the Three Stooges. He picked up a pinecone and bonked Rusty on top of the head. “So it turned out we share the same interests. Ain’t that right, porcupine?”

“Soitenly,” said Rusty, rubbing his noggin. “We’re all into the
Genre
, as we call our
thang
. And each of us has a specialty, so to speak. We all plan on making a living out of it someday. That way if only one of us makes it
big
, he or she can open the door for the rest of us.”

             
“I’m into literature,” Josie said, jumping up and down. Her enthusiasm for the subject made her oblivious to her bouncing breasts. “I’m gonna be a writer, hopefully. I’ve read everything from Bram Stoker to Stephen King, and a whole lot of horror writers that most people have never even heard of, much less read.”

             
“You mean guys like Matheson and Lovecraft?” Tubby couldn’t believe his ears. It seemed too good to be true. Kids into the same kinda stuff he was! A trio of likeminded peers, their passion literally worn on their coats, those tough green army jackets, with that familiar monster font in thick black thread. Oh, how he longed to wear one of those coats! His name emblazoned over the right front pocket.
To finally
belong
! He didn’t understand all that circle jazz Bud had been talking about, but he recognized their supernatural obsession all too well.

             
Josie ceased her jumping and gave Tubby a dubious look. “You’ve read Richard Matheson, have ye?”

             
“The Incredible Shrinking Man. Nightmare at 20,000 feet. I am Legend
. Jeepers, Josie. He’s one of my favorites. But Stephen King…now
that’s
my hero. I’ve read all of his books and short stories a dozen times over.”

             
“Oh, yeah?” Rusty said, thinking to trip the fat boy up. “What’s your favorite Stephen King short story then?
The Lottery
, I bet.”

             
Tubby rolled his eyes. “Nice try, Rusty. That’s Shirley Jackson. Doi! My favorite short story—King or otherwise—is
Word Processor of the Gods.”

             
“Aye, that’s a grand one,” Josie agreed. “Tell me the truth, though. Were you like me the first time you read that story? Did you get so worked up you just had to take a peek at the end to see if it would work out okay?”

             
“Guilty,” Tubby sighed.

             
Josie laughed and mussed Tubby’s hair again. Rusty stood off to the side; a little jealous of all the attention Tubby was getting from his friends.

Bud stood above it all, on top of the tumbledown, looking pleased with himself.

My instincts were right! Yes, this is the one. Th
e
las
t
Cree
p
!
He pointed down at Rusty, hoping to lift his friend’s spirits with some flattery.

“Rust Bucket, there, is into collecting movies and burning old ones onto DVDS. The little genius is our film historian and idea man. Mark my words, Tubby, he’s gonna be the next Tarantino. Me, I’m into memorabilia and the tie ins. Background stuff, you know? Like models, toys, this great old magazine called
Famous Monsters of Filmland,
and movie props that my dad has given me over the years. I want to follow in my old man’s footsteps someday; only I’m going to do it off this miserable rock. Take the Brown Family Concept to the masses, so to speak—Oh, I almost forgot, I have a collection of cool old movie posters, too.”

“You mean 1-sheets?” Tubby said.

              “Huh. Is that what they call movie posters in the theater biz?”

“That’s right. My dad used to remodel old movie houses, see? You wouldn’t believe the 1-sheets we’ve found in those dumps over the years! My dad’s collection is worth thousands of dollars. Heck, I’ve even got an original
Carrie
hanging over my bed! I’d love to show them to you. Maybe you guys could come to the Drive-In one night. See a movie as my guests?”

             
“So you’re really into the Genre, huh?” Bud asked. He ignored the offered bribe, though. He recognized the loneliness in Tubby Tolson’s eyes, and while he sympathized, it wasn’t reason enough to make the kid
a
Cree
p
. That decision would be up to his friends—even if he’d already made up his mind.  

             
“You bet I am! I covered my bedroom walls with pictures from that same magazine you were just talking about—only I had to buy most of mine on e-Bay.”

             
“Whoa, you collect
Famous Monsters,
too?” Bud shook his head and laughed. “Okay then, who was the editor of that auspicious magazine?”

Tubby didn’t skip a beat. “Forrest J. Ackerman. Also known as Uncle Forry to his legion of fans.”

Bud snapped his fingers, as if to say:
That tears it!
“So what do you think? Are we creeps…or are w
e
Creep
s
.”

Tubby knew exactly what Bud meant. He smiled and nodded. “You guys ar
e
Creep
s
…and I’d love to be one too. That is,” he gulped, “if you’ll have me.”

Bud screwed a cigarette between his lips and lit up. He snapped his Zippo shut and peered down at Tubby through the haze of blue smoke leaking from his nose. “Fair enough,” he sniffed. “Tell you what, Hoss. Let the three of us hash it out amongst ourselves. We’ll get back with you in a day or two.”