by Matt James
Another skitters its way around the mass of wrecked cars, taking a shell in the leg, spinning it to the ground. Another boom silences it forever. But unfortunately for us… It sends the rest of the mob into a frenzied state.
“Now, Frances!”
Just as the primary wave of creatures enter the maze of cars, I kneel and light the tied together the trail of rags, acting as my moonshine-soaked wick. The flame quickly shoots down the stairs until it hits the first of the puddles.
One-by-one the cars begin to explode into fireballs, their gas tanks erupting from the flames. As each of the vehicles detonate, another small group of the Unseen is incinerated and blown apart.
The negative of my plan? Shit flies everywhere as the explosions intensify and duplicate. There were at least twenty or so cars entangled in the street, every one of them having a taste of the moonshiner’s brew.
I raise my Glock and fire off two shots, taking down a goblin that was charging us…on fire. It reminded me of those monks that set themselves ablaze. This one wasn’t protesting though. This one wanted nothing better than to have himself a Frankfurter.
Vinny’s shotgun booms again as he lets loose with another volley of rounds, clipping two more creatures and killing a third.
The car closest to us explodes, sending a heatwave up and over us, signifying that it’s now time to run and retreat inside the museum. Keeping our weapons somewhat trained on the steps below us, Vinny and I shamble up to the front door, banging on it with all our might.
Another massive explosion catches my attention, and I turn, witnessing three of the goblins get thrown into a statue of Teddy Roosevelt. His horse takes one of them in the muzzle, a resounding gong echoing through the air. The Rough Rider himself receives the other two. One of the Unseen harmlessly falls to the ground, its ragged clothes on fire—as the other lands limp in the president’s lap, dead, missing its legs.
A piece of shrapnel pings off the museum’s siding, flying right past my head. Yikes. I turn again and start to bang on the doors with Vinny, feverously attempting to get someone’s attention.
“Something…” Vinny says in between bangs, “tells me we should have found a way in first.”
I’m tempted to agree with him, but inside I know what we did was the right thing. If we had stalled our attempt at setting our trap, we might not have even had a chance. The only reason we have any shot is that the horde is being held at bay…or dead.
Hopefully dead, I think, continuing my assault on the locked door.
A screeching sound fills the air around me, and I instinctively duck, seeing a clawed hand, swipe itself over my head. I move to block the attack, but only end up losing my gun as it clatters away from me down the stairs. I spin away and unfurl my baton, imitating the wild, uncontrolled attack.
The difference? I connected… It didn’t.
I bludgeon the thing in the side of the head, hearing the telltale crack of bone as I connect. The Unseen falls at my feet as another one leaps towards Vinny’s turned back.
Not having my gun, and too far away to use my baton, I leap, tackling the creature to the steps. We land hard, making me let go of my baton too, but it was worth it. I drive the beast into the unforgiving stairs, hearing it grunt in protest as I do my best to flatten it. I roll off of it and get to my feet three steps lower, readying my only other weapon available…my fists. So far the strategy of waiting has worked out fine. Wait for them to make their first move and then react. If I play defense first and watch the way it moves, I can deduce its ability and speed.
Be the more aggressive attacker when you have to be, son. Don’t go all out right away. Be half-Ali and half-Balboa. Be patient and wait for the opportunity. Then, attack! The voice of my dad rings true in my ears. He was the fighter, worshipping the greatest fighter ever, Muhammad Ali. I was a kid at the time, worshipping the greatest fictional fighter ever, Rocky Balboa. It was a way of getting through to me as a young punk.
So, I wait…and get slammed into from behind, cracking my skull against the stone stairs of the Museum of Natural History. My mind fades as I hear the goblin hiss in my ear, gripping my jacket from behind. I try to push up and stand, but I’m down for the count. My arms give out. My body is cold and my thoughts fuzzy.
Another random memory flashes through my weak mind. It’s a hard one to think about, but a strong one. Believe it or not, Jill and I at one point tried to have a family. It was about five years ago, right before things really turned for the worse.
I found Jill sitting on the toilet crying, pregnancy test in hand. Then as she leaned back against the tank, I saw two more. All negative. It was the third time we tried. Jill even went as far as studying her ovulation periods, trying to time it correctly. She was even on a bevy of fertility drugs. Still no dice. Even a specialist said it was going to be tough.
I entered and kneeled in front of her, laying my head in her lap. We both cried together for what seemed like hours. Some people find strength in such adversity… I think Jill and I found resentment that night. We subconsciously blamed one another for what happened. I’m not saying it’s right or anything, but I promise if I can survive this, I’ll make it right somehow.
“Frank!”
My inner movie reel is interrupted by a high-pitch voice as it echoes in my ear. As my eyes begin to close, I look up at the front doors of the museum. All I see is a blobby red thing step out. The person… Is it a person? Either way, it also has red feet which is a strange sight. Red feet? Why does a waving blob even have feet? My concussed mind can’t make heads-or-tails of what I’m seeing, let alone question the existence of a red blob flapping in the breeze like...
Like Jill’s red dress!
But before I’m fully cognizant of what I just saw, my shattered mind and battered body give way to pain and exhaustion, and I close my eyes.
So close, baby…
The breathing of the creature is heavier—closer.
So close…
The last thing I feel is something pull on the collar of my jacket and begin to drag me away.
28
Hands grip me, pulling and shaking. They tear at my clothes, trying to rip them off. I know what they want. They want my flesh, the fresh meat of my body. My blood. My life.
Red… The color of blood. The color of the blob.
Wait, what? I don’t understand.
They try to grab me again, but I don’t let them—I won’t. I need to keep fighting. I need to find my wife... What’s her name? I can’t remember. I swing and connect, knocking one of them back. The movement increases the deep penetrating pressure I feel driving its way through my skull.
My attacker shouts in pain and then anger as I land the blow, shaking me harder—faster, attempting to rip me apart. But I won’t let them. I need to keep fighting. I need to find my wife...
The repeated words resonate in my mind, helping me focus slightly.
Red feet stepping outside. They match the blob. Why does the blob have red feet?
I swing again, but my outburst is thwarted, stopped by my assailant. A large hand grabs my balled fist and pulls it down, pinning it to my side. Then its owner starts screaming at me, gurgling its incomprehensible words at me.
Doesn’t it know I can’t speak Goblinese?
If it’s not going to let me use my hands, then I’ll use my feet. I’m not at all opposed to fighting dirty—extremely dirty in some cases. Dad taught me as much. If I’m to get in a scrap outside the ring, there are no rules to the conflict. You fight to win. There are no style points in the real world.
I kick out and land a hard blow with what I hope is the thing’s undercarriage, feeling my foot connect with some sort of soft tissue. The grunt and cursing I hear tells me I was successful and I jump to my feet, blinking my eyes.
It yells again at me, shouting in its foreign language. I don’t understand a lick of it, but I’ve heard it before. This particular language sounds familiar. So, does the tone of the voice.
I�
�ve heard goblin before?
Glancing down at my abuser, what I see gives me strength. My adversary is down and in pain, but it’s when I look at that tangle of oily black hair, I understand what just happened.
“Dammit, Frances!” my attacker yells. “I think you crushed my left nut!”
Uh, oh… Definitely not a goblin.
“Shit,” I say, helping him up. “Sorry, Vinny.”
He growls as he takes my hand. I lift the bigger man up with a groan of my own, feeling everything in my body revolt. My pulsating head protests the action too.
“Were you yelling at me in Italian?” I ask, steadying the injured man. Vinny is about to wind up and slug me, but he can’t. He’s too busy holding his junk, breathing like a woman in labor.
“Yes…” he says in between breaths. “And for the sake of my mother—again—I will not tell you what I said.”
This gets a laugh out me, which in turn, gets a grunt out of me. I grab my head and stumble away, reaching out for anything. My hand finds a cold, flat surface and I use it to steady my feet.
Through squinted eyes, I see that I’m standing inside one of the front doors of the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda—the museum’s main entrance off Central Park West.
The massive door booms from the other side, making me flinch and fall on my butt. I crabwalk away from the banging, my hand slipping out from under me. I stumble and land in an ungraceful heap on the floor, breathing even deeper than Vinny had been. I relent and just stare at the room’s high ceiling, staying put on my back.
“What…the hell…was that?”
“It’s them,” Vinny answers, stepping over to me. I see his shaggy head appear above me, a serious look on his face.
“What happened to me?” I ask, squinting my eyes again, still trying to fight off the pain and nausea in my head.
He holds out his hand, and I take it, carefully standing up again. We both face the closed and presumably locked doors, hearing a faint bang every few seconds. The weaker strikes are followed by a louder thump and a boom. My guess is it’s a siren joining the fray.
“They can’t get in?”
He shakes his head. “So far, no. And as for what happened to you…” He pulls his hair back and lassoes it into another ponytail, revealing a massive set of cuts along his jaw and neck. It looks like a large cat caught him in the—
“A goblin?” I ask, realizing what it was.
He nods. “Two actually, but they’re dead now.”
Before I can ask how, he pulls a pair of brass knuckles out of his pocket. It’s only until he puts them on that I see that they, along with his hands, are covered in dried blood. It still stains his hands.
“You used that?” I ask, shocked.
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to risk shooting you. You were too close. I just reacted and beat them to death.”
My stunned expression must be pretty obvious, because all he can do is lift his hands up, questioning me. “What? I hope you’d have done the same if the roles were reversed.”
He’s right of course. Me and my baton would have swiped and smashed the creatures until either they or me died.
“Remember another thing, my friend…” Vinny adds. “I wasn’t always the choirboy you see now. I’ve had my share of run-ins in my youth.” He exaggerates the last part by squeezing of his fist around the weapon, gripping the finger holes tight.
Boom.
The door rocks and startles me, making me jump away. Again, feeling nauseous from the sudden movement, I grab my head, groaning. I wince for the twentieth time today and watch as my hand comes away with blood.
“Sheeit,” I curse, falling to one knee about to puke. Vinny grabs my other arm and keeps me from going all the way to the ground.
“Easy, Frances. I think you may have a nasty concussion there. You need to rest.”
I hear half of what he says, but the other part is filled with the memory of the attack.
I see the goblin in front of me about to strike—then I’m hit, forced to the ground. My head strikes the stone steps outside, and my vision blurs.
I look up and see the red blob, floating in the breeze.
I snap my head around, pushing past the physical discomfort and queasiness, and yell, “Jill!” I then stagger, shoving away from Vinny and shout louder, “Jill! Jill!”
As I turn and look deeper into the room, away from the doors, my eyes adjusting, I find the front desk of the main hall. Looking through the legs of the fifty-foot-tall Barosaurus display, and standing in front of the counter is Carla and a security guard. But it’s not the two of them I lock on to, it’s the third person involved in the conversation. It’s a beat-to-hell, yet stunning, Jillian Moon.
She sees me and stops speaking, stepping away and staring at me.
I mouth, “Baby,” and charge forward, limping heavily, grimacing with every step.
Instead of doing the proper thing and going around the longneck’s display, I climb onto it, ducking under its legs, landing hard on the other side. As I hit, I stumble and fall, my legs giving out. Before I land, I’m caught—caught by the woman I’ve spent what feels like an eternity looking for.
We embrace, holding each other tightly, crying.
“Oh, baby,” I say. “I’m sorry. I should have been here with you.”
She sobs, gripping my jacket tighter and tighter with every sad moan. She remains silent until she mutters the last thing I was expecting.
“I’m sorry too.” Her eyes meet mine, and I see the same softness in them I did when we first met. She’d hardened over the years, a by-product of her job.
Then again… So did I… A result of my job.
We were both so caught up in our separate lives that we never once sat down and tried to understand each’s part in it. I regularly saw death and other horrible things done to innocent people. She had seemingly unobtainable stress-filled expectations and was forcibly turned into something she didn’t want to be. We both wanted to help people, plain and simple, but instead, we only hurt one another.
We’re on our knees cradling each other like we’re both newborns. “What do you mean?” I ask, not sure how any of this was her fault. I cradle her beautiful face in my hands, kissing her. I release her lips from mine and lean back. “You didn’t—”
“It’s not just the gala, Frank. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that I dragged you to New York. I’m sorry that I didn’t think your opinion mattered anymore.” She sobs again, tears streaming out of her puffy, irritated eyes. “You’re not my monkey or my pet. You never were. I should have treated you better and listened. I love you for you. I love you for the way you look at me when I feel bad about myself and for your stupid one-liners. I love you for your obscure movie references, of which, most I don’t get by the way. I love you for—”
My lips cut her off and we kiss long and hard. If it wasn’t for the people starting to surround us, we probably would have made love right there. Locked in pure ecstasy under the gaze of the dinosaurs looking down on us.
But we part, and she meets my eyes again. It’s the first time I truly get a look at her too. She has a welt on her forehead and bruise on her cheek. It looks like she was in the ring, fighting to the death. Even her lip is split and swollen. The dried mascara around her eyes, confirms she’s been crying a lot too.
“Regardless,” I say, squeezing her. “We’re together again.”
She helps me to my feet but doesn’t leave my side. “Now what?” Her question, while reasonable for someone in her position, throws me off. I thought she’d just want to hug it out and talk for a while. The look on my face conveys the same confusion apparently.
“I don’t want to be here a second longer, Frank,” she says. “The quicker we can get out of here the better—off the island… Forever.”
While I’m ecstatic that she wants to leave so soon, her question definitely has some merit.
Now what? It rings through my head again.
Now what…
&nb
sp; I have no idea.
29
Hand-in-hand, Jill leads me over to the same security guard she was talking to just before we tackled each other.
“How many dead?” I ask my wife.
“We aren’t sure, honestly,” she replies, her eyes sad. “John and I have been searching the museum, looking for survivors, but…”
“But what?” I ask.
“But we mostly find bodies.”
Ugh.
“Who’s John?” I ask, stopping in front of the night guard.
“Sergeant Jonathan Sneeden, retired,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective Moon.”
I smile at the recognition and take the offered hand, feeling his vice-like grip tighten around mine. “Retired? Police?”
“Marines, actually,” he replies, standing straighter. The posture is a dead giveaway and something I hadn’t noticed. Even with everything going on, he’s still as attentive as ever.
“Good to meet you Sergeant Sneeden,” I say, gripping back. “And it’s Frank.”
He chuckles, showing the strong creases across his forehead and around his eyes. He might be in his late fifties, but he carries himself like he’s closer to my age. “Very good then, and please, call me John.”
I grin. I like this guy. His accent is Carolinian, I think. I have friends in Raleigh, and they have a hint of it too. I personally have a mix of everything being from Florida. We are a mutt mix of cultures from Midwest to New England to Southern.
“So why here?” I wave my hand around the room, seeing the space’s blood splatters for the first time. They have definitely seen some awful things. I remember when Jill called me about people coming in and killing the others.
An aberration on the floor draws my attention next as I see something I recognize. Footprints. They cover the surface and are represented in all shapes and sizes. Bare feet and not. I trace the pattern back to the doors Vinny, and I just entered, seeing that they did, indeed, come from there.
Mercifully, he answers, drawing my attention back to the conversation and away from the carnage. “Was always a fan of history and the like. Even studied it some in the service. I inquired about a job, and they asked if I’d be interested in being the night guard. I couldn’t pass it up. I like to roam the halls and think about things. Even thinking of writing a book soon. It’s peaceful here…”
