by Matt James
The siren repeats the swipe, trying to disembowel me, but I parry her other hand with my baton, batting it aside. The strike staggers the she-devil, her balance already compromised. I move in and whip the steel shaft across her throat.
The fight is taken out of her immediately. Even the Unseen have to breathe, but her crushed windpipe isn’t going to let that happen anytime soon.
I look down to my holstered gun, happy I didn’t have to use it again. Then, I turn, listening to the dying creature wheeze at my heels.
Why didn’t I just shoot the ravenous woman?
Well, that’s a pretty easy answer.
Ammo isn’t easy to come by right now. Unless you want to travel in the wide-open streets—which I don’t. So, I’m trying to conserve my bullets as best I can and only draw the weapon when I have to. The results, as you’ve now witnessed, are pretty awful. The quieter I can kill an Unseen, the better. I think it’s pretty obvious what happens when I fire my gun.
BOOM.
The door to the apartment shakes, as it gets hit from the other side. I need to leave. Now. I carefully step over a soiled t-shirt and jeans, not wanting to find out if they belonged to the guy in the bed. Mr. 90% Off is one of a hundred other things since last night that I’ll never forget. The ghastly sights are piling up worse than the credit card bills.
I rush forward and clip the frame of the shattered window on my way out, banging my shoulder against it. Wincing in pain, I grab the open wound, and I see blood as it seeps through the slashed jacket.
Feeling something prick my hand, I reach into the sliced material, grab the slick, hard piece of something and pull. A geyser of blood shoots into the air as I uncork the metaphorical bottle. The glass I just yanked free is a decent size, maybe the size of a half-dollar coin, and I’m bleeding pretty good now.
Should’ve left it in, I think, holding my hand over the wound. I know it’s a stupid thing to think and write it off as a hazard of the situation. At least the glass is somewhat sterile. If the siren had caught me, I’d be in a lot worse trouble. Like I said before, I don’t think whatever happened is contagious. As far as I can tell, if you get bit…it’ll just really, really hurt. Like getting bit by the world’s angriest dog.
BOOM.
From outside the broken window, I hear the apartment door rattle again, sending me into full-fledged escape mode. Still gripping my bleeding shoulder, my feet pound up the fire escape’s rusty metal stairs. It’s getting darker, and with little-to-no exterior lights to help guide me through the city, I’ll need to find a place to hide until sunrise.
Plus, the Unseen come out in droves at night. They don’t like daylight as much, sticking to the shadows whenever possible, or hiding in abandoned buildings, like the siren I just met.
Thinking ahead, I plan on scaling a few more floors. Then, I’ll move to another part of the building before I settle in for the night. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and I’ve learned to trust my instincts both in life and on the job. This is no different a time to use them. The perfect time really.
Four floors up from the siren’s apartment, I enter the first open window I see. The place is empty, and the front door is shut and presumably locked.
“Perfect…” I mumble to myself, feeling a little woozy. I decide to forego the whole ‘move to another part of the building’ portion of my plan and draw my gun.
I climb inside, having no intention of actually using the weapon. Before I make my way further into the dapperly appointed living area, I turn and close the window. Next are the lock and the curtains. I want anything and everything to think this place is undisturbed and vacant.
Once I’m done covering my tracks, I turn to the home and listen. Not a peep. Quiet as a church on Tuesday.
Not trusting the silence, I quickly check the place and confirm I’m alone. The kitchen is the last place I go, after double-checking that the front door is, indeed, deadbolted.
Feeling a little better about my situation, but not my body, I dive into a closet off the main hall and grab the first towel I see. I rip off my jacket and jam the thing down as hard as I can, doing my best to stymie the blood flow. Stitches aren’t something I’m going to be getting any time soon, so I’ll need to take care of this any way I can.
Between the stress of everything going on and the lack of sleep—not to mention the blood loss, my head starts to swim again and I go to the kitchen, opening whatever cabinet I can. Finally, I find a bottle of ibuprofen and pop three pills into my mouth and dry swallow them. The pills are nasty and get stuck in my throat, making me gag. I reach for the fridge door and pull, not noticing that I did that with my bad arm.
I cringe, using the last of my energy, and fall to the floor. I don’t remember landing.
* * *
I awake a few hours later, lying in a heap on the kitchen floor. Groaning, I stand, pushing off the counter with my good hand.
I stumble and lean against something that clinks—a wine rack. Atop the serving area is a variety of whiskeys and rums. I don’t hesitate, feeling the aching in my shoulder worsen as I awaken further. I unscrew a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and take a long and greedy chug.
My throat is on fire when I stop, but the pain in my shoulder has subsided enough to function. Then…the alcohol takes over. I stumble again but catch myself on the countertop. I shake my head like a dog, trying to force the room to stop spinning. It works—slightly.
Gotta’ get some water in my system, or I’ll dehydrate.
Between what happened yesterday and the shit I just went through now, I’m done. I need to find a proper place to rest for a while and would really much enjoy it not being the unforgiving tiled kitchen floor again.
I limp over to the modest-sized living room and plop down into the comfiest recliner I’ve ever felt. It probably isn’t as comfortable as my brain is telling me, but whatever, I’m not complaining. I need rest, and it beats where I slept last night.
Glock in hand, I picture my wife in the same see-through number I just saw downstairs. Only it’s without the blood and gore, and I’m the one in the bed, waiting for her to pounce. She fills out the nighty much better too.
Damn, I miss her.
I refuse to think the next part though. My brain is trying to make me think something about hoping she’s still alive. She’s the only reason I haven’t decided to leave the island yet. Manhattan holds nothing sacred to me, except my wife.
But as my mind settles in for the night, my subconscious reverts back to its current state. I dream of chaos and death. I dream of bloodstained bedrooms and nurseries. The latter of which hasn’t happened yet, but it would move to number one on my nightmare list if it did.
I’m sure it’ll get replaced with another as the hours pass. If I can’t find Jill…that will top any list anyone could have. Her death will be the end of me for sure.
I mumble, “I’m coming...” and then pass out for good.
3
Last Night
So, why am I running for my life through someone else’s apartment building? Let me explain. It’s something straight out of a seriously screwed up science fiction movie.
First off, let me properly introduce myself. My name is Frank Moon, and I used to be a detective with the NYPD. I say, used to, because ever since Abaddon arrived, nothing’s been the same.
That asshole really ruined my day.
Okay, so let me clarify something... It wasn’t actually the fallen angel himself that came to visit on Friday night. It was a meteor. It landed in Central Park with a boom and a rumble—big bastard from what the experts said, but not big enough to obliterate the island.
The astrophysicist—or is it a meteorologist? Whatever… Doesn’t matter. Either way, the guy in the news named it after the biblical demon because of its red hue and the fact it was falling from the heavens above. It literally looked like an evil force was plummeting to Earth. Plus, I think the guy was a real nut job, to begin with. Looked like a loon from the get-go, str
aight out of a psyche ward. He had crazy hair like Doc Brown and glasses like John Lennon.
I was laying in my bed the evening it happened, impatiently waiting for a Treehouse Masters marathon to start. It’s my favorite show, and I’ve never missed an episode. So of course, when there’s a marathon on, I binge watch until I pass out. Something about the show just transfixes me on the TV. It’s honestly the only thing I consistently watch.
As I waited, an urgent news report popped up on the screen warning of the impending impact. It was simply called the “Arrival.” Abaddon was said to be landing in a couple of hours, and its final destination was forecast to be somewhere inside Central Park. I didn’t even know you could predict a thing like that. The massive park had already been evacuated a few hours ago for precautionary reasons. I don’t think the mayor would want someone to get in the way and go splat. Plus, you always had the SyFy Channel theory of alien life being found and blah, blah, blah…
“Frank, you ready?”
Shit.
That’s Jill, my wife, and she’s about to lose it. I can’t remember why she’s about to get mad, only that she is. The tone in her voice is enough to tell me she’s already not in a good mood. Plus, our relationship has been… Well, let’s just say it’s been better.
The bedroom door creaks open, followed by a grunt of disapproval.
Here we go.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I glance over and see her in all her stunning glory.
Jillian Moon is a looker for sure. She has perfect shoulder length black hair, and it frames her chiseled face in a way that makes it draw in her other flawless feature... Her eyes. They’re a deep brown and intense—intimidating even. They’re so intense that they’d make a lesser man beg and an even lesser man cry. They’re perfect for what she does for a living. Jill’s a bigtime lawyer, and she’s damn good at it.
“Huh?” I ask, not really paying attention. My eyes are darting back-and-forth between Her Highness and the TV. It’s only until she steps in front of me, blocking the idiot box, that I notice her attire.
She’s outfitted in what’s guaranteed to be a horribly overpriced, knee-length, sleeveless, red dress. It shows off another of her mind-blowing assets. Her legs are radiant, long and tan, as is her toned ass if she were to turn around. What butt wouldn’t look great crammed into the skintight ensemble she’s currently sporting?
“Nice getup,” I say, still not remembering why she’s so glammed out, especially on a Friday night. Her week ended a few hours ago, unlike mine. I’m working in the morning and want to veg out for the rest of the night. Her matching red heels complete her attire. She’s dressed to perfection as always, but typically it’s in a variety of daunting power suits, or a pair of unrevealing workout sweats.
The woman hasn’t consumed a carb since high school, and her hourglass figure and six-pack abs are proof enough. She’s a workout junky, and she’s honestly really annoying about it sometimes. All I want is pizza and beer. Twenty-four-seven three-sixty-five. All she wants is dry lettuce that looks like it was picked from the bushes outside and ceen… keenwa… quinoa. Is that it? It’s some sort of boring, expensive rice substitute.
“Nice. Get. Up?” she asks, annunciating each word sharply. Her brow furrows deeper and deeper with every word spoken, lighting the fires of hell themselves within. “That’s it? You have nothing else to say?”
The look on my face must match the one my brain is feeling because I’m utterly perplexed by her outward showing of anger with me. Usually, I know exactly what I did even if it’s something I don’t consider harmful or wrong. I know this woman like the back of my hand, and I know what pisses her off and what doesn’t. I tend to do the first one a lot. Especially of late.
“What?” I ask. I honestly and truthfully have no idea why she’s about to pop.
“The gala?”
“The gala?” I ask, still not… Oh... Shit.
It hits me like a shotgun blast to the face. Jill’s firm is hosting a charity event at the Museum of Natural History tonight. She organized the whole thing, and I’m supposed to go as her monkey—I mean—her date. I’m supposed to be there to support the cause.
Fat chance.
“I thought I told you I wasn’t going?”
I watch in slow motion as Mt. Saint Helens erupts from her slumber, destroying everything sacred my mind has left. She slings every known curse at me, even calling me a lazy-piece-of-shit-fuckwad.
Ouch.
She even curses my parents for having me.
Geez… Rude.
“Um, sorry?” It’s all I could come back with. “I thought I was pretty clear when I said I wasn’t going. Besides, your friends hate me.”
Doing air quotes around the word “friends” probably wasn’t a good idea, but it’s exactly how I feel about them. They are all pieces of garbage, only befriending Jill because of her status at the lawyerhood. If her winning streak ended tomorrow, I guarantee more than half of them would bail on her, latching onto the next poor sap.
Frickin’ leeches.
As you can see, I’m not exactly a fan of lawyers. And yet, I married one. Well, to give myself a little bit of a break, I should clarify that Jill was a paralegal when we met. She didn’t become an attorney until after we got hitched.
We actually both moved up in the world the same year. She officially passed the Bar Exam, and I became a detective. It’ll be ten years next month that we both earned our rise in our respective professions. From that day forward our marriage has slowly and violently crashed into the deepest trench the ocean has to offer. We never see each other, and when we do, we are exhausted and irritable. Things get said, and parents get cursed—hers included. We really do act like we hate one another at times.
Do we?
It’s a question I don’t get to ask. She storms out of the apartment, slamming the door. As soon as it makes contact with the frame, I hear something crash to the floor out in the living room, shattering to pieces.
Great, I think, and go to get up. I then look down at my watch and realize I have at least three, maybe four hours before she gets home.
Eh, screw it.
I plop back into a pile of our over-fluffed pillows and turn up the volume. Pete Nelson: Treehouse Master to the rescue.
* * *
I get through an hour-and-a-half of episodes and notice something weird outside my bedroom curtains. They’re glowing a foreboding shade of red. It’s like I’ve been transported to hell via the Nautilus. The color warbles like it’s underwater, never the same hue or brightness for more than a second.
Must be the Abaddon space rock thing?
The light intensifies through the closed curtains, and I have to turn away, shading it with my forearm. Someone could have installed a commercial grade red neon light directly outside my window reading, “Live Nudes!” and it wouldn’t have surprised me.
Holy sh—
Then, like a lightbulb bursting, it’s gone, winking out of existence. The only thing left from my perspective is a few spots in my vision.
Man… Glad I was inside for that.
Fascinated and I’ll admit, a little weirded out, I stand and move to the window, drawing back the curtains. The sun is just starting to kiss the horizon, giving the view outside its normal duskiness. But then I notice something as I look down from my fourth story window.
Well, not something…
Someone.
Man! I’m REALLY glad I was inside for that!
4
I can’t turn away. It’s just too damn gruesome to do so—like a horrific car wreck. You don’t want to look, but you do anyway. It’s like a morbid tick every human has. We just love carnage. It’s why bad news sells so well. And cats… For whatever reason, those little devils are popular too.
There are a few dozen people down on the streets right now, not to mention those zipping by in cars, but I’m only concerned with one of them. She’s the first I lock onto while the chaos ensues
.
I watch as she grabs her head and shrieks into the sky above. Even behind my closed bedroom window, I can hear that woman holler like she’s on fire and standing right next to me.
Like a siren uses her voice to call men to their deaths.
Don’t ask me why I just thought of that. I’m not sure where it came from either. My mind tends to wander sometimes. I’d like to think that most men’s minds have the same tendency.
This is the moment—the first time I witness one of them changing. It’s something I’ll never forget—and believe me… I want to forget it.
As she screams, she clutches her fists tighter and tighter. Then, all at once she reaches up and yanks, tearing a good portion of her hair out. Blood and skin fly everywhere as she continues to rid herself of the annoyance. Once bald and bloodied, the woman, turns her elongating fingernails on herself.
More specifically, her eyes.
This is what I can’t forget. She, along with everyone else on the street below for as far as I can see, dig at their eye sockets. It’s the car crash I was telling you about. I can’t look away. They ripped their own eyes out! Something in them snapped, clearly caused by the meteor.
What else could it be? Was it the glow? Or maybe some kind of contagion was spread over the city?
Doesn’t matter. What does matter, is that the human race is severely boned if this happened on a larger, broader scale. Manhattan is just one of five boroughs that make up the island. In all, there are—were—over eight million people living here. Say I’m lucky and only a quarter of the people of New York City changed. It’s still a number closing in on two million!
Please be a lot less.
Before I turn away, I watch as she leaps at a group of high-schoolers—who have also changed—and start tearing into them like the bear did Leo. Slash and bite. Slash and rip.
Grossed out, I shut the curtains and grab the remote for the TV, flicking to the closest news channel. What I see is the same thing I saw from forty feet up. The cameraman gets an up close and personal look at his once attractive reporter friend as she does the same gruesome thing to herself that the woman—the siren—here did. Shortly after the reporter begins her transformation, the camera falls to the ground, landing awkwardly on its side with a bang.
