by Matt James
Two more bangs resonate on the roof, causing Vinny and me to shrink lower in our seats. A hand appears on the windshield, scratching at the glass. The nails screech across its surface, sounding like those grinding across a chalkboard.
We glance at each other and swallow in unison.
“Go left!” I yell, pointing to the nearest ballfield.
Vinny does so and bashes through an already weakened chain-link fence, making us bounce hard as we first climb up-and-over the curb.
The big open expanse of grass that makes up the softball fields is right in front of us.
I look up, visualizing what’s directly above us. I should have brought my bat.
23
I have to give Vinny some additional brownie points on this one. His skill at dodging the bodies covering the ballfields is awe-inspiring. But what really earns him that extra credit, is that he’s doing it while trying to shake seven of the Unseen from our ride.
The truck bucks as we hit the pitcher’s mound at a funky angle, the rear right tire jostling off the pitching rubber. The sudden bone-jarring movement does what I hoped though. One of the goblins is thrown from the moving vehicle, flailing like a ragdoll.
“Hang on!”
I do as Vinny yanks hard on the wheel, intentionally fishtailing us. The rear-end slides right, threatening to pull the rest of the vehicle with it, unable to find decent traction in the crimson-stained grass. We basically hydroplane on blood, sending up twin rooster tails of the stuff.
Gonna need a solid detailing after this for sure.
We leave the first of several fields, weaving through the dead the best we can. Unfortunately, Vinny can’t avoid them all. He winces as he crushes something under the front wheels, his nose turning up in disgust.
“It’s fine,” I say, bouncing, holding onto the ‘Oh Shit handle’ with a vice-like grip, “there’s nothing you can do.”
He again yanks on the steering wheel, tilting us hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a group of bodies, but clipping a few others as our backend sails by them. Vinny again grimaces at the sound of the truck flattening the departed, but he doesn’t stop there. He straightens us out and heads for the northern entrance to the fields. If he gets us there in one piece, we should be able to hop back on 65 and continue over solid ground.
Then, I think, we should be able to put on some more speed—maybe shake a few more of them loose. I look back into the rear seat, seeing the closed back window full of clawing creatures. We gotta’ fight back.
“Get us back on the road, and I’ll do my best to rid us of our friends.”
I’m not sure Vinny heard me, but his head bounces up and down nodding. Well, it’s either a nod or his chin is just following the violent upheavals the truck is currently experiencing. I draw my Glock and point it behind me and wait. We are quickly approaching the north parking lot. The last thing I need to do is get thrown while pulling the trigger.
Don’t want to waste the ammo.
The front tires find the hard surface of the parking lot, immediately sending me into motion. I quickly squeeze off three shots into the centermost goblin, obliterating the sliding portion of the rear window in the process. Glass flies as the bullets penetrate and quickly blow through the tinted glass, hitting their intended target.
The creature falls, tumbling into two of the others. They fall in a heap of tangled limbs, screeching into the air. I keep my gun trained on the cab’s new entry point and am immediately greeted by a snarling face. Never wavering, I pull the trigger and shoot the bastard point-blank in the head.
Another tries to follow its now dead mate, taking a bullet dead center in its windpipe. I watch as it reels back, flailing, unable to breathe, clawing at any and everything. The fight quickly drains from it, and it collapses and gets bounced over the rear tailgate.
Three down. I take in the scene, counting the rest of them. Two more in the bed and two more on the roof.
“Shit!”
I grip my seat as Vinny slams on the brakes, tossing the two from above. They go flying, landing hard and rolling…into the feet of half a dozen sirens. But it’s not just the female Unseen that has Vinny spooked, it’s the throng of goblins coming up behind them.
It’s about half the size of the group back at the Central Drive overpass, but still, between the six sirens and the fifty or sixty goblins, this is going to be all but impossible to get through.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Vinny floors it, causing the rear tires to squeal again. We rocket forward, straight into the throng of carnivorous fiends.
Forgetting all about the remaining Unseen in the bed, I flop back down into my seat and hold on. We hit two of the women head-on, bouncing them off the truck’s highly effective push bar. Unfortunately for us, the other four sirens leap away, avoiding the instantaneous death of their sisters.
Two jump straight up, one landing on the hood and the other on the roof, crunching it down a fraction when she lands. The other two leap to the sides, quickly getting to their feet in pursuit. I look back and see them running up behind us, barely breaking a sweat.
“We need to get rid…of the women!” I yell, my voice shaking with Vinny’s driving.
“Trying!” Vinny shouts back, swerving back-and-forth as we enter the mob. Bodies are everywhere, clawing and leaping. The truck crushes anything it touches, but not all of them die. Some actually climb on board, joining the others in the bed.
The bed!
I turn, seeing two mutilated faces sticking through. Holstering the less powerful Glock, I raise my Mossberg.
“Sorry!” I yell to Vinny, pulling the trigger. The concussion in the cab is loud, but the result is, nonetheless, effective. Both creatures disappear. First their heads, then their bodies as they’re thrown back. As their forms clear my immediate view, I see the ten or so in the bed and the arms flailing outside the driver and passenger side windows.
Oh, God…
“Give me a gun!” Vinny shouts, right hand open, left hand on the wheel. “I’ll do what I can without losing control, but you’ll have to do most of it!”
Without questioning him, I hand him my other sidearm, the one from Joan’s gun safe. Its clip is fully loaded, having been tucked away in the back of my jeans.
The window next to my head shatters as a fist bursts through the serrated opening. It passes right in front of my face, barely missing me by centimeters. I’m showered in glass, but fine. Nothing feels like it’s embedded in my skin, but it could have if that fist connected.
Recognizing the talon-like claws and rippling arm muscles, I quickly register that it’s one of the sirens. The force of that impact may have even killed me if it hit home.
Another point for luck.
Her face appears next but is quickly erased by a bullet from Vinny’s gun and then knocked aside by the butt of my shotgun. Her body falls from the roof and is sucked up and under the back tires, making the rear end go airborne. I look over and see the grin on Vinny’s face as he shoves the Glock under his left thigh. He has absolutely no ill feelings about running over one of them.
“Where are we?” I ask, sending another two shells into the rear bed. I then elbow the first thing I see outside my window, the face of a goblin. I smash it square in its face, making it lose its grip and fall.
“Still heading west on 65, coming up on the West Drive overpass!” Vinny shouts, gripping the wheel with both hands now. “Hopefully—” His own window shatters. Vinny quickly shields his face with his shoulder, turning away from the explosion of glass. The truck lurches for a moment, but he expertly course corrects, winds up, and punches one of the other sirens in the face, dazing it. Then, quicker than a gunslinger in the Wild West, he draws the handgun from under his thigh, thrusts it into the Siren’s open mouth and pulls the trigger.
He shakes the glass from his hair and continues. “Hopefully, it is clear unlike the last one.”
I turn and fire another shell into the mob trying to make its way inside the m
issing rear window.
It had better be.
24
Vinny hits the West Drive overpass at 40mph. And when I say he hits the overpass, I mean he actually runs into it. Three of the goblins are peeled away from the driver’s side and smashed to the brick innards of the tunnel path. Vinny holds the truck there, metal screeching in protest, peeling the side mirror away in the process.
Then, he immediately veers around an abandoned SUV and slams my side of the truck into the tunnel’s right wall in a similar effort to shake off the unwanted passengers. Two more creatures are crushed, but not before one of them lunges inside my window where it’s essentially cut in half by the high-speed, grinding vehicle.
The top half of the still very-much-alive goblin lands in my lap as Vinny exits the overpass. I scream in fright and disgust and reach for the door handle. In one fluid motion, I pop the latch and swing open my door, pushing the thing out with one big shove. I quickly shut the door and shudder at having the top half of a goblin flopping atop me like a fish out of water.
A bevy of curses floods my mind, but the only thing that escapes is a squeak of revulsion and a dry heave gag. I’ve literally had it up to here with these damn things.
Vinny sideswipes a crotch rocket motorcycle as he banks right heading for the fork that makes up the 65th Street exit and entrance ramps. If we go left, we will continue down the westbound 65. Needing to go north, up Central Park West, he opts for the more direct route, banking right, passing the Tavern on the Green restaurant in a blur.
I’d have done the same, I think as the ‘Ghostbuster’s Building’ comes into view. We zoom past a row of wrecked cars, all of them having rear-ended each other one-by-one. What’s worse is that all five cars involved had their driver’s side doors peeled open like a fruit cup. Blood streaks can be seen, advertising what happened next. The drivers were pulled from their cars and killed in the streets.
Or the drivers turned and ripped their cars apart themselves. Detective Moon wants to know exactly what happened, but the human in me is telling my subconscious to fuck off. I don’t need to diagnose more death than I need to.
Not forgetting my earlier promise, I mentally wave to the corner penthouse. I can’t physically do it since I’m still gripping onto the overhead safety handle for what must be the hundredth time so far today. Vinny slows enough to make the right-hand turn without flipping us, but fast enough to once again pucker my sphincter a little. The guy is freakin’ determined to get to the museum as quickly as possible.
And I’m keeping my mouth shut.
Central Park West is a major four-lane road bordering the west side of the park, having traffic traveling in both directions. It’s quite rare in the city to have a non-one-way street. It was so much easier to get around South Florida than here. Well, for me anyways. Like I said, I’m not a huge fan of big cities. One-way streets are just another thing on the long list of why I’m not an urban aficionado.
Like the population factor...
If this happened down in Wellington, Florida—population thirty-thousand—it may not have been such a problem to get around. I shake my head, Manhattan alone houses millions.
Vinny weaves in and out of the mired traffic, finding lanes wherever he can. Calming some, I take in our state and survey the truck, looking for any stragglers. Thankfully, the backseat is clear, as is the bed. The roof is the only place I can’t see, but I’m not about to poke my head out of my window just to lose it.
“Stay sharp,” I say, still holding on for dear life, “I can’t see anything above us, but the back is clear.”
Vinny just grunts a reply, concentrating on his duty.
I do the same and check our ammo. I load my shotgun but leave my Glock. It still has plenty of rounds left. So does Vinny’s.
67th Street passes as we barrel through, not slowing one iota. Vinny has no intention of letting those bastards behind us catch up. Then, like a sign from above, traffic thins out, giving us a straight shot for what looks like a couple of blocks. Vinny sees it just as I do and picks up on the speed.
“Dammit,” Vinny says, pounding his fist on the steering wheel.
“What?” I ask.
“I almost forgot—check behind my seat.”
I reach behind him and feel something I recognize, but ultimately don’t understand. Something soft, like a rag or towel, and something large and hard. A few of them, actually. I lift out one of the jugs of clear liquid. There are no labels on it, but I’ve seen enough movies to figure it out.
“Moonshine?” I laugh, carefully opening the glass container.
Vinny laughs too. “I know, right? Whoever’s truck this was, they were a damned moonshiner!”
I give it a sniff test and reel back. Definitely ‘shine,’ and it’s an absurdly strong blend to boot. As I cough the flavor away, my mind registers the other things holding the shine in place. Rags. Rags can be used for something else if the person is crazy enough to try.
I reach around Vinny’s seat again and procure one of the shop rags. He glances over to me and smiles wide.
“Of course, you would think of doing that,” Vinny says.
“What does that mean?” I ask, mock-offended. “Besides,” I say, continuing, “you never know when you’ll need to light shit up.”
He shakes his head as we exit, passing through the intersection at 68th. Unfortunately for us, the museum sits on the northwest corner of 79th. It’s still another eleven ahead of us and traffic is already starting to thicken a pinch.
The frustrated look on Vinny’s face tells me he sees it too. He strangles the wheel in annoyance, but keeps his foot steady, slowing when necessary. Driving angry in any situation is a dangerous one, but Vinny driving pissed off in this situation would be a horrible, horrible thing.
Unless another horde of monsters gets in our way…
Suddenly, a strobe of red ignites the dimming skyline off to the northeast, towards the poetically titled lake. Seriously, it’s a lake named, “The Lake.” Apparently, whoever was in charge of christening that one must have taken an early lunch or something that day. Directly north of that is a much larger body of water named after Jackie O., but from the direction of the light, I’d say it missed south and landed near, or in, the smaller drink.
“The hell?” Vinny says, shielding his eyes. His hand twitches, causing the truck to veer a little, but he quickly gets us back under control. Looking to me, he says, “Didn’t the news say the meteor was supposed to land in the park somewhere?”
I nod my head. Abaddon has definitely landed in Central Park, and it’s seemingly still…active. No, active isn’t the right word… Alive? No, I doubt a space rock is actually alive. So, what the hell is going on?
“Never mind it,” I say, pointing ahead. “Just get us to the girls in one piece. Then, we’ll get the hell out of here and contact the military and have them blow the shit out of it.”
At least I’m sounding more confident about surviving than I did a day ago.
Well, I did... Until the sound of grinding and scratching starts up over our heads.
I put my finger to my lips and point up whispering, “We have a friend.”
25
Vinny continues forward, dodging the inert vehicles staggered all over the road. We just sit in silence and listen to our stowaway shift back-and-forth with every turn and speed change. The balance the Unseen is exhibiting is incredible. As far as either of us can figure, the siren—at least, we think it’s a siren—must be riding us like a surfboard, taking the direction changes in stride like a surfer would a wave.
Probably has her toenails dug into the roof. They are just as sharp and deadly as the weaponized fingernails. I’ve unfortunately seen them in action.
“What do we do?” Vinny asks, leaning over to me, speaking in a hushed tone. “We need to lose the hitchhiker before we get to the museum.”
“I know,” I say, not liking the idea I’m formulating. “Okay, look… I’ll take a peek out the back an
d see what I can come up with. Best case scenario, I’ll just shoot it and we’ll be done with it before we get knee deep in another fight.”
“And the worst case?” he asks.
“Worst case…” I pause and draw my Glock, leaving the clumsier, but more powerful shotgun behind. “Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d really hate to die.”
I smoothly climb back through the middle of our seats, only grunting in discomfort twice, and sit, leaning over to the still intact right rear passenger window. How it survived the last few minutes, I have no idea. Seeing nothing and not wanting to alert our friend by lowering said window, I slide over to the driver’s side. This window is gone, but the angle still isn’t good enough, letting me see exactly bupkis.
Dammit, I think. This is going to suck.
I take a look back up front and see myself in Vinny’s mirror, looking like a climbing cockroach. It’s an awkward move since I’m face up, only wanting to reveal the smallest of portions of myself. I literally just want to peek up onto the roof and then slide back into the truck. I’ll formulate a plan with Vinny before going back out.
I reach out with my empty hand and grip the only portion of the roof with no jagged edges. I then reposition my feet a little and pull myself through another couple of inches. My head clears where the back window should be, the wind whipping my hair to-and-fro. Struggling to stay in my unbelievably uncomfortable position, I squeeze my left hand tighter. I’m about to pop out and check, but the sound of broken glass crunches under my shoulders as they, along with my back, scrape against the bottom of the punched-out partition. I grit my teeth and curse under my breath. The Unseen have impeccable hearing.
Especially, the sirens.
The problem is that I can’t hear anything except the wind buffeting my body, shifting back-and-forth with Vinny’s zigzagging movements.
Distracted and too slow to react, a hand reaches down and snags my wrist and yanks. I’m instantly sucked out like the world’s largest vacuum cleaner is right over my head. I’m flipped head-over-heels and violently slammed to the roof of the truck, losing my gun. I hear it clatter, landing in the bed.
