by Matt James
Looking down, I see that my right elbow is covered in drywall dust, and with the humidity in the quaint bathroom, it’s stuck to my skin good.
“Um… Would you believe that I started a coke lab in your guest bathroom?”
Hope perks up. “I like coke!”
Mom rubs her face with both hands and leaves the room, finished with me. Unsure of what’s going on, Hope shrugs and follows her into the kitchen, calling after her.
“Seriously, Mrs. Moon, I really do like coke!”
Dad waits for Mom and Hope to get out of earshot before grinning. He steps up to me, shotgun on his shoulder. “Tell me, son, what really happened in there.”
I decide to give him the truth…well, the part that he needs to know.
“Do you know how to fix drywall?”
I expect his eyes to narrow, and for him to blow his top, but neither happen. Instead, he just laughs it off.
“Eh, I’ve wanted to redo that bathroom for years.”
I spot my dry shirt draped over the back of the recliner and slip it on. Next, is my holster and gun. Then, my clean socks and my somewhat disinfected sneakers.
I finally feel human again—but I know it won’t last long. We aren’t nearly out of the woods yet. Speaking of woods…
“So, Chateau de Angelo, huh?”
Dad shrugs. “Best idea we have.” He steps closer and lowers his normally boisterous voice. “Plus, Jill needs some closure if it’s what I expect.”
I was thinking the same. There’s no way her parents made it to their cabin alive. While my parents can take care of themselves, Jill’s folks are as hopeless as it gets when it comes to things out of the ordinary. They don’t do well with change.
“Expect what?”
I turn and find a fully clothed Jill standing there, casually toweling off her hair. She isn’t reacting to the first part of what Dad said, so I don’t give her any new information.
“That the trek will be long and hard.” I face my father, who thanks me without verbally communicating it. He would’ve been in line for a shitstorm of Italian rage if Jill had heard him. “Let’s go, huh?”
Together, my limping father and I slide the heavy dresser out of the way and open the mostly still intact door. There’s now a large hole in the middle, but it still kind of does its job.
For the most part, anyway.
The siren that Dad shot earlier is missing most of her face. She must’ve been leaning in close when he dispatched her. That’s one for me and one for him when it comes to blindly killing a siren through a closed door. It’s as odd as a “like father, like son” moment can get, if you ask me.
Dad and I climb into the front seat, with me driving, obviously. I was going to say something about him having to leave his new Mustang behind but decide it’s a topic for another day. As he closes his door, we notice that Mom isn’t following us. She’s just standing still, facing the house.
Mom’s always been the sentimental type.
Dad grumbles his displeasure at having to wait and pops his door.
“I’ll go,” Jill says, helping Hope inside.
She shuts the rear door and walks over to my mother. I don’t like that Jill isn’t armed, but mom is, and with her being forced to leave her home, I know she’s itching to put an arrow in something nasty. While a gentle, soft-spoken woman at heart, Mom also has a quiet intensity that she reveals every once in a blue moon.
They talk for a few moments and then turn and join us inside the Jeep. All the women sit together with Hope fitting snuggly between Jill and Mom.
“Interesting choice of vehicle, Frank,” Mom says, inspecting the interior. “Whose is it?”
I look over my shoulder and wink at Jill who’s sitting directly behind me. “Hell if I know.”
“We borrowed it from a man,” Hope says, smiling.
“What man?” Mom asks.
Hope shrugs. “A dead one.”
Dad coughs hard, doing everything he can to hide his amusement. While not usually something to laugh about, hearing a seven-year-old say it is downright hilarious.
The Moons… Demented as hell.
The only one that doesn’t find it funny is my mother. She just gives us all horrified looks, Hope included, and huffs an annoyance-filled breath. Her eyes dart to her window and stay there until we reach the front of the neighborhood.
“It’s terrible,” she mutters, more to herself than us. Regardless, she finally breaks her silence.
I pass by Bert’s final resting place without mentioning him. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” she replies.
“No, Mom, you don’t. Wellington isn’t Wellington any more.” I shrug not sure what else to say. “It’s closer to HELLington now.”
I watch her face fall a little in my mirror, and instantly feel bad for making her feel worse. She’s been through plenty. Unfortunately, Jill and I have been through a lot more, and it seems like the norm to us. I know Jill would agree if I voiced the comment aloud.
My parents have seen a lot so far, but they haven’t seen anything. I regrettably prove it when we pull out onto Forest Hill and head north. More vultures have begun to circle the dead, these scavengers have arrived later than I thought they would. Maybe they can sense that something is off with the dead around here? Perhaps they don’t want any part of something killed by one of the Unseen.
Or the corpse of an Unseen either, I think, doing my best not to run anyone over. I’m used to it by now, Jill and Hope too, but my folks aren’t. Even my dad, the “strong one” of the family, looks uncomfortable.
“Sorry guys,” I say, pummeling what used to be a man under the front right tire.
Mom sounds like she’s about to puke. Dad looks the part too, but miraculously neither of them lose it. That would be a terrible car ride for sure.
“We need to stop and get some gear before getting back on the highway,” I say, knowing exactly where I want to go.
I wait for Mom to react—and she does. “Oh, I know a place!”
I knew she would. It’s where she bought her bow after all.
23
Arthur’s Outdoor Supply is on the northern edge of town. It’s not far from Nottingham…and it’s taking us forever to get there. We aren’t the only ones out and about right now either. I was stunned to see other people, alive and well, and not running for their lives. They weren’t just standing around, mind you. The few survivors that I saw were all armed, number one, but they were all moving swiftly and with purpose.
“They’re hungry,” I say, putting two and two together. Come to think of it, the majority of the people I saw were all near supermarkets.
“Me too,” Hope says, holding her stomach.
My parents didn’t have much in the way of meals. They had a decent amount of snacks, though. Mom proves me right by pulling a protein bar out of her backpack and handing it to Hope. In turn, Hope gleefully accepts the offering of peanut butter and chocolate and tears open the wrapper, horking it down in three monstrous bites.
“Geez, kiddo, chew,” I say, shaking my head. She looks up at me in my mirror and blushes. Her once clean face is slathered in chocolate, and like most kids, she uses her sleeve to wipe it off.
“Look!” Jill shouts, pointing between my and Dad’s heads.
I softly brake and take in the scene. A group of men are making their way down the middle of the street, each of them armed with some form of weapon—although no guns. Well, none that are visible. The five guys carry bats mostly, but one dude has a tire iron. It’s like a post-apocalyptic novel has come to life right in front of me.
Then again, I guess it has.
Fifty feet from our position, they spot us. One of them points and says something. Another nods and steps around his buddy. But the one at the rear of the group reacts to something else. He turns around and hefts his bat, ready to strike…
“Reaper,” I say, seeing him come up from behind them. Like the others of his kind, he clumsily drags
his oversized bladed arms behind him. The attack will seem slow and wild, but I’ve learned to never doubt any of the Unseen.
“There’s only one of them?” Jill asks.
I glance back at her. She knows, as do I, that the Unseen rarely travel alone. When there’s one creature, there’s always another dozen or so ready to go.
And, of course, I’m right.
Three more reapers show up, coming up from behind our Jeep. The inhuman sound of the engine running, and the smell of exhaust must mask our presence enough that they don’t even look our way. Instead, they shamble onward, looking for their next fresh meal.
The armed men.
“We need to help,” Mom says, leaning forward, watching as we do.
I growl in frustration and grip the steering wheel hard. I agree with her, but I also recall what happened the last time we ran down a reaper. The thing cut our fuel line and stranded us on top of a crowded overpass.
When the three reapers are halfway between the men and us, I floor the pedal and get everyone’s attention. Just as the centermost reaper turns to see what’s going on, I slam into him and brake hard. He goes flying into the other two, and I stop in time so as to not run him over and risk another severed lifeline to our wheels.
My assault doesn’t kill any of the creatures, but it stuns them long enough for the mini-mob to attack. One after the other, each of the reapers has their head bashed in. Without a word to any of them, I pull the Jeep around the dwindling conflict and carry on with our plan. Art’s place.
Arthur Stetter is an old friend of the family, one of Dad’s old poker buddies. He started the now large chain of outdoorsman stores right here in Wellington. The local store is one of a kind, one Art himself still works out of. After he made it big, he closed this location and fully renovated it. The construction took over six months, but man was it worth it. If there’s anyone left in town that can help us, it’s Art.
His shop sits on the northeast corner of Southern and Forest Hill. This is where Forest Hill finishes its northern trek before turning into another road altogether. And by “shop,” I mean a vast warehouse-like building—like a Dick’s or Cabela’s.
What can I say… It’s a really nice place.
We see more people around town now, and it makes me nervous. The Unseen act certain ways because they are wired to do so. Humans that are backed into a corner and fighting for their lives are some of the most unpredictable creatures on the planet. Just a few minutes ago, we had those men giving us unwarranted aggressive looks.
I push the Jeep a little faster until we near Southern. Then, I slow down again and stop just underneath the blinking traffic signal of the intersection. While the north and southbound roads are only two lanes on either side, Southern is four lanes wide here—eight lanes total. Add in the turn lanes, and you’re at around a dozen. And sitting there, in all its glass-walled glory, is Arthur’s Outdoor Supply: Store 1.
Only, now a few of the ceiling-to-floor glass windows are missing—shattered. It seems that Art’s place has seen its fair share of mayhem.
Let’s hope he’s still alive.
I take the left-hand turn through the intersection slowly, looking for anything alive and hungry. The only thing I spot is more vultures. They’re coming out in droves now. The buffet that is laid out before them is too tempting and worth the risk. Like I said before, I have no clue what’s been keeping them. I also haven’t seen many birds of any kind.
The meteor?
Animals, especially birds, react in odd ways to strange weather-related phenomena, and what we experienced definitely counts as one. It counts as the one in my book.
The left three lanes of Southern are blocked just past the intersection. The accidents force me into the right lane, and then into the grass. Thankfully, I’m driving a car that can handle this sort of terrain. No way Winnie would’ve made it back onto the road without getting stuck.
And no, I’m not going to lament the loss of the Winnebago again.
The turnoff into the parking lot is just beyond the front of Art’s building. That two-lane road continues north into a newish warehouse direct that was built six years ago. Our short commute west gives me a chance to take in the scene.
From Southern, I notice that Art’s front door is missing, which isn’t good. Either something broke in, or possibly, someone broke out. The business’ sign is gone too. The only thing left of it is the frame, the ballast, and the fluorescent bulb. The latter blinks chaotically, dangling along with the ballast as it sways in the breeze.
Here we go…
I hang a right and pull off of Southern, then I make another quick right and enter Art’s parking lot. There are dozens of spots on the right and left and almost completely wrap themselves around the square structure. The only place that there aren’t any parking spots is at the rear of the building, where the loading dock and dumpsters are.
I count ten cars in total and stop the Jeep near the front door, but I don’t park it. I decide to leave it in the middle of the double-sided lot for a quick getaway—one we’ll undoubtedly need. There’s no telling what’s inside and I want to leave all options open.
Throwing the vehicle into park, I kill the engine and turn around and look at the three women in the backseat. I’m half tempted to leave them here, with Jill behind the wheel. But I think better of it. I’m not comfortable splitting up right now. Say we have to make a mad dash for it out the back door, and Jill, Hope, and my mother are still out front…
No thanks.
“Let’s be quick here,” I say, opening my door.
Jill and Mom open theirs as well, and Hope follows on Jill’s side. Dad meets me around front, shotgun in hand. He gives me a look that doesn’t exactly instill me with confidence.
I take the lead and head up the short flight of concrete steps. The center portion is stained with blood, making me happily use the outside edge. Analyzing the drying plasma, I conclude that its origins are from within Art’s. Plus, the bodies piled up just inside the broken front doors make it pretty damn obvious…
I’m a regular Columbo.
“Stay close,” I say, watching Mom nock an arrow. Dad shoulders his shotgun as well. Jill and Hope are unarmed but are holding one another’s hand. I draw my gun and step around the mound of the dead.
“Hmmm.”
“What it is, Frank?” Dad asks.
I nod to the corpses.
“They’re all Unseen, not human. They’ve all been shot too.”
His eyebrow raises. “Arthur?”
I shrug. “Could be.”
Without any trouble from anyone, Art or not, we successfully make it into the store. It’s as I remember from the grand reopening. Regrettably, it’s the only time I’ve been here since the remodel.
The two-story, glass building is essentially one massive room with the second level being one large ring atop the first. At the rear of this level is a set of stalled escalators leading up to, and down from, the second story. The upstairs section is where Art houses all of his hunting supplies. It’s where we need to head now.
The main floor houses the cash registers to the front-right, and the left side of the store contains football, baseball, and golf equipment, as well as the clothing or uniforms and accessories that each sport requires. The right-hand portion of the store is where all the shoes and cleats are, and the rear of the building is bike and gym stuff.
The center of the room has one wide path from us to the bottom of the escalators and—
“Son…”
I gaze at my father and see a look of horror on his face. His eyes aren’t on me, though. They’re looking at my chest. I follow his line of sight and see a single red dot centered on my sternum. I look over my shoulder and notice that the Unseen all have big holes in their chests.
Crap.
“Hold it right there!”
The voice booms across the space, echoing through the high-ceilinged structure. I can’t tell whether its Art or not, but Dad can.
“You going to shoot my son, Arthur?”
The red dot instantly vanishes.
“Irv?” The voice asks, sounding confused. “Is that you?”
I see movement across the room and above us. A figure stands up between the escalators’ upstairs exits. He’s clutching a large rifle in both hands. Slowly, he limps around the left-hand escalator and reveals himself.
Arthur Stetter.
And boy does he look like shit.
24
Only a year younger than my father, Art’s grizzled appearance makes him seem much older. He’s always possessed a slight build, but now he looks downright emaciated. His thick, white beard is streaked with blood and is as wild as the hair on his head.
“What happened here, Arthur?” Dad asks, staying in stride with his friend.
“Everything went to hell, that’s what!” he replies, spitting venom with his words. “My beautiful store is decimated because of those…things!”
“Yeah,” Dad says, glancing back at me, “we’ve run into them too.”
Now upstairs, we make a left toward the camping equipment. As you’d expect with an outdoor superstore like this, Art has everything. I’m already taking inventory on what we might need.
Sleeping bags. LED lanterns. Water canteens. Binoculars.
I want it all. There’s no telling when we’ll be able to stop at a place like this again. And if Art doesn’t willingly give us what we want, I’ll have to figure out another way to get it. I’m not talking about killing the man in cold blood, mind you, but I’ll do just about anything to ensure my family’s survival.
I pray I’m not forced to have that talk with the man.
The left-hand portion of the second level holds the main walkway from department to department. We’re halfway through the camping supplies, heading toward the hunting gear. I’ve got my eyes on the shotgun cabinet…that happens to be empty.
Wonderful.
Art must see my disappointment and explains what happened.
“Two days ago, I get some punk banging on the doors of my store. Me and the people who stayed put refused to let him in. It wasn’t until we saw that he was being chased by one of those things that I did.” His shoulders drop as he steps up to the rear counter. “One got in and…that’s when I lost everything here.”
