by Matt James
“Ask him?” I nod my chin at Art.
Art takes a moment to think it over, stroking his long, blood-stained beard as he does. “Mmmm… We rappel.” He looks at me. “I can have the equipment ready in a few minutes.”
“Good,” I reply. “The rest of us will take that time to stock up. Grab the biggest duffle bag you can and fill it.”
I give each of the people around me a task. “Mom, more arrows and anything else you and I might need. Jill, take Hope and see what clothes you can find. All weather stuff—we have no idea what to expect from here on out. Dad, you and I, camping supplies—the whole shebang.”
We all get moving and head for our designated departments. For our part, Dad and I head for the camping supplies.
“Camping,” he asks in a hushed tone, “really?”
I shrug. “Need to prepare for the worst, you know?” We enter the row that holds the dead goblin. “I don’t think things are going to get better for anyone any time soon. All those impossible post-apocalyptic movies we’ve seen over the years…”
Dad looks at me. “That’s us now, isn’t it?”
I nod and inspect the creature. “This is a male. I call them goblins. I’ve named the entire species the Unseen for obvious reasons. They’re usually pack hunters, but every now and again you’ll find one on his own.”
“His?” Dad asks. “It’s not a him anymore, son.”
“I know, but they used to be. We owe them that much. They weren’t always soulless monsters.”
My father doesn’t argue with me there. His beliefs are solid and unmoving. His faith, he says, is what keeps him going on the bad days.
Dad sustained a number of head injuries while in the ring, so many that he frequently suffers from horrible migraines. He has meds for them, thankfully. The problem with our current situation is that he won’t have them forever. Eventually, his supply will run out, and he’ll be down for the count until the pain subsides.
My father bends over and plucks the still wrapped machete from the floor. He pulls out a small pocketknife and quickly opens the packaging, handing me the weapon, hilt first.
“This yours?”
I take it. “It was going to be, but I got a little preoccupied with the siren.”
“The creature in the cheerleader uniform?”
I nod. “Yeah, her.”
“Well, now it is,” he says, moving to the tents.
I look over the blade and buckle its sheath to the left side of my belt. I feel a little like a pirate as I pull the machete free and spin it like I did my police baton. It’s a lot heavier than the baton, but should be useful nonetheless.
“This should work.”
I join Dad at the tents and see him heft a sizeable rectangular pack onto his shoulder.
“That should work,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees, patting the bundle. “It sleeps eight. Plenty of room.”
“Just like the old days,” I say, recalling our camping trips to Johnathan Dickinson State Park.
Named after the Quaker merchant from Port Royal, Jamaica, the park features some awesome hiking trails and campsites. My family and I used to camp there once a year throughout most of my childhood. Mom, Dad, and I would meet our extended families there and make a long weekend out of it. The trip was a blast every single time.
“Okay,” I say, ticking off what we need. “Tent, check. Backpacks and bedrolls are next I guess.”
For the next few minutes, we gather the gear we think we’ll need, stuff everything into multiple duffel bags, and meet the others at the gun counter. Jill and Hope are each carrying overstuffed bags of what I presume are clothes. I don’t get into the details of what they picked out, however. I trust my wife’s judgment.
Mom hefts her quarry onto the counter, dividing the boxed arrows up into hers and his. Twelve-packs of arrows for her traditional bow and only four for my variant—ninety-six arrows total. I frown at my lack of ammo, but then, she hands me something I wasn’t expecting.
“Here, Frank.”
“A bow?” I ask, accepting the offered all black, sleek weapon.
She nods. “OMP Night Ridge recurve bow.”
“Brand-new,” Art says, joining us. He drops an armful of climbing harnesses on the floor, as well as two separate coiled lengths of ropes. Then, he moves to the window and clears the broken glass away from the frame using his rifle’s barrel. “Just got it in two weeks ago.” He quickly ties off an end of the rope to the railing behind us. He pulls on the knot, checking it. Satisfied that it’ll hold, he drops the length of the rope and turns. “The best one they have.”
“What about this?” I ask, holding up my crossbow.
“Use it for now,” Mom replies. “When we have time, I’ll teach you how to use the Night Ridge.”
I’m not entirely sure about the bow, but the Predator, for how awesome it is, might be more of a hinderance considering the time it takes to reload. If I can nock twice as many arrows in the same amount of time it takes me to load just one with my crossbow, then it’ll be worth it to learn how to shoot it.
Plus, I have a feeling that we’ll have a lot of time on our hands over the next leg of our journey.
“Can’t hurt to try,” I say, looking over the bow. “It’s not like I have another choice in the matter.” I draw my pistol. “I’m out.”
Jill pulls her reloaded revolver free and hands it to me, grip first. “Here.”
I shake my head. “No. You keep it.” I hold up the Night Ridge. “I’ll figure this thing out.”
She smiles and holsters the six-shooter on her right hip.
“Y’all ready?” Art asks. Everyone nods. “Right then… Out we go.”
“What about Babe?” Hope asks, sounding scared. “What if he sees us?”
My eyes find hers. “We’ll be fine, kiddo.”
Art steps up. “I’ll keep him busy while you guys hit the bricks.”
“You’re coming along too, right?” Mom asks.
He winks. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Before anyone can say another word, Art jogs away, rifle in hand, shouting, “Here, piggy, piggy, piggy! Sooey!”
Babe immediately squeals in response and begins to thrash beneath us.
“If there’s anyone that can keep the pig busy,” Dad says, “it’s Art.” He looks at us. “He has a way with words.”
I shake my head and take a peek outside. I look east and west, making sure that the parking lot is clear. It is, but Southern isn’t. Nothing is close, though. If we’re quick and stay quiet, we should be fine.
Before we exit, I tie-off all our gear onto the other rope and then also tie its end to the railing, next to the first rope’s knot. With Dad and Jill’s help, we lift the bundle over the ledge and slowly lower it to the ground below.
“Alright,” happy that worked, “get your harnesses on and let’s get the hell out of here.”
I pick up the spool of rope and hurl it out of the window. I, like everyone else, including Hope, slip into their rappelling harnesses. Hope won’t climb on her own, though. I’ll have her clip onto me instead. Luckily for us, my family is an outdoorsy bunch. None of us are professionals when it comes to climbing, by any means, but we do have a little experience. Jill has the most time on a rock wall out of any of us. She’s built for it—long and lean.
“It’s a great workout, Frank,” she explained when telling me that she picked up the sport a while back.
“Hope, you’re with me.” She nods, eyes on the floor, and shuffles over to me, looking very nervous. “Hey,” I say, kneeling in front of her. She looks up at me. “Trust me.” She nods again.
I stand and address the others. “We’ll go first and make sure the coast is clear.”
“Ready?” I ask gripping Hope’s shoulders. She nods softly.
I lift her up and secure her harness to mine with a carabiner clip and climb onto the rear counter. Next, I thread the rope through my harness’ waist clips, turn and lean out over the con
crete beneath. Chest to chest, Hope squeezes me as hard as she can. I comprehend giving the girl a three count, but figure it’ll only make her more nervous. So, instead, I jump, taking our descent slowly. I don’t have gloves on and don’t need to end up with burns like Jill.
Speaking of her burns, she hasn’t mentioned them in quite a while. What a trooper, I think, thankful that the drop is only twenty feet in height. Any more and my hands would be toast.
I unclip Hope and together, we quickly untie our gear. Taking as much as we can, we head for the Jeep. I quickly pop the rear gate and begin to load things in.
“Keep watch, will ya?” I ask.
Hope nods and turns around.
Mom is next to come down, then Jill. Jill has smartly wrapped her hands in a torn shirt, protecting the already damaged skin. She grimaces upon landing but doesn’t complain. As soon as she hits solid ground, she unhooks, draws her revolver, and grabs a bag of supplies.
Babe hollers inside the store. The noise freezes everyone, except my father. He’s next and drops like a bomb before tightening his grip. For a second, he just hangs there, shotgun dangling over his back. Eventually, he gets his wits about him and successfully lowers himself the rest of the way.
He unclips and sees me staring at him. “Just a little rusty,” he whispers, flinching when Babe squeals again. We all turn and see the pig facing us.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “Everyone in the Jeep, now!”
They follow my order and begin to pile in.
“What about Arthur?” Mom yells, looking back as she opens the driver’s side rear door.
“Go dammit!” The voice comes from above. “Get out of here!”
“What about you?” Dad shouts.
“I’ll be fine! But you won’t if you don’t leave!” He looks at me. “Take care of that family, Frank!”
I wave goodbye and jump in, starting the engine as Jill slams the hatch closed. She throws open the front passenger side door and jumps in. I floor the pedal before she can even close it and buckle her seatbelt. If I had waited, Babe would’ve rammed us like we were a broken-down car on the train tracks.
The last thing I see in my mirror before turning out of the parking lot is Art’s rifle flashing from the window above. Babe spins in a circle, once again attempting to locate the fictional bee. It would be comical if he hadn’t just tried to T-bone us.
Dad growls and bangs the base of his fist on his window.
“Damn you, Arthur.”
“Hey,” I say, meeting his hard eyes in my mirror, “he saved us.”
He sighs and relaxes some. “I know, Frank… I know…”
I turn right and head west on Southern. The road continues on that path across the entire state, having plenty of ultra-rural spots to hide along the way. That’s going to be our best chance for survival. We need to stay off the beaten path. The less populated the area, the better.
“Where are we going?” Hope asks, from the center, rear seat.
“Tennessee,” I reply. “Need to check in on Jill’s parents.”
“But isn’t that really far from here—like a hundred miles away?”
I smile. She’s cute for sure.
“It’s a little further than that, kiddo.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
I glance at Jill, and then back into my mirror at Hope. “I don’t know.” I gaze back out over the road and sigh. “I really don’t know…”
SONG OF SORROW (Dead Moon Book 3)
By Matt James
Description:
Frank Moon has no idea what to expect next. The Unseen are everywhere, in all shapes and sizes. The remains of the dead are everywhere too... Millions are gone, and Frank is doing everything he can to keep his family from becoming a part of the death toll.
His in-laws are missing and are believed to be hunkered down in their cabin in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. When Frank and the others arrive on the scene, they discover that a whole new horror awaits them there. Some of the Unseen aren’t just ravenous monsters roaming a dying world. A few of the creatures carry with them a lethal virus that has the ability to wipe out humanity forever.
1
“Shoot!” I yell, keeping the creature at bay.
The siren’s fanged jaws are impossibly close to snapping shut on my throat. The only things between her and my tasty jugular are my busted crossbow and my slick, bloodied hands, and if someone doesn’t get this bitch off me soon, I’m done for.
Seriously, her hot, stinking breath is enough to put me down. It smells like a combo of dead fish and fresh, wet cat food.
I’m flat on my back with the she-devil Unseen straddling my waist. Like me, she’s gripping my broken weapon hard. But unlike me, her grip is solid whereas mine is quickly failing. I have the crossbow pushed sideways across her chest, and when she leans in closer, I feel some resistance.
Oh, right, there’s something else between us besides my bow.
Just before she pounced on me, I loosed an arrow from across the wooded area’s small clearing. Now, the projectile is wedged into my Kevlar vest. The carbon fiber arrow is acting as a temporary brace against her gnashing teeth. For its part, the tip of my arrow is embedded deep into her chest.
If only the damn thing had punctured something vital…
If it—the brace—slips off in any direction, or breaks, she’ll have nothing but my waning strength in the middle of her and her next meal.
My eyes widen when the arrow flexes and creaks.
“Now, dammit!” I shout, feeling my face flush.
I’m pushing as hard as I can, but I have none of the leverage that she does. Plus, sirens are incredibly strong and never give up until one of us is dead. They’re savage, unrelenting, but cunning—smart.
“I can’t get a clean shot!” Jill yells from somewhere behind me.
“There’s too many of them!” Dad sounds farther away.
My left hand slips and the siren all but falls into me, mouth agape. But strangely, she doesn’t rip my Adam’s apple out. Instead, her disgusting maw is ripped away from my flesh just in the nick of time. Come to think of it, she may have actually nicked my neck. With her weight gone, I quickly sit up and identify my savior. She is barrel rolling across the clearing, entangled in a fight to the death with the siren.
Jill…
Now, it’s my turn to rescue her.
Jill is bucked hard into the base of a tree, yelping in pain as soon as she hits. I watch as she lands with a rustle of leaves and disappears from sight down a hill. There’s a bunch of steep ones around here.
I know that for a fact because we hiked up several of them.
Roughing it through the southern part of Tennessee is no joke when you're as tired and as sore as we are. And yes, we’re on foot now. We had to ditch our ride four days ago. The Jeep we snagged back in Florida blew a tire, and we didn’t have time to change it. We were attempting to push through an area that was swarming with Unseen when it happened. Meanwhile, we’ve stayed on the road less traveled as much as possible, finding shelter wherever we can.
It’s been just over three weeks since we left Wellington behind. The awful thing about traveling through Florida is that it’s a long-ass state—especially when most of the roads are at an impasse. We zigged and zagged across the state for days before finally popping out northwest of Orlando.
Then, we got stuck in the same bullshit again…and again…
Did I mention that we began our journey in the southern part of the state? We weren’t the only ones getting the hell out of Dodge either. Every so often, we’d inadvertently join up with other vehicles in a “convoy of survivors.”
Before that, I think Jill and I were the only people trying to get back into Florida. But we eventually found my parents alive and well—Hope too—love that little girl. Jill’s folks are still MIA, presumably hunkered down in their cabin in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
Or, they’re dead. Their bodies may still be back in Florida, for all I
know.
Unfortunately, we have no way of confirming whether or not they made it out of Wellington alive. They hit the road the day before the east coast of the United States was turned into Hell on Earth. Could they have made it to their cabin unscathed? Sure. Are they still alive after almost a month of monsters roaming the streets of America?
We’ll have to wait and see.
I jump to my feet and tackle the siren from behind, driving my shoulder into the small of her back. I make sure to keep all of my weight on her when we hit the same tree that Jill just did. She hits hard and slumps to the ground, stunned from the blow. I don’t let her recover and immediately leap onto her back and lay into her with my bare hands.
“Fuck you!” I scream, punching her in the back of the head multiple times. In between strikes, I hear a satisfying thud as her forehead connects with the tree over and over again.
“We need to get out of here!” The loud voice is followed by an even more deafening shotgun blast.
Before responding, I hit the siren again, wincing as I feel my knuckles split open. The sweat, blood, and dirt mixing together sting terribly, but I don’t let up. I keep up my barrage and grunt my reply. “I’m…thud…a little…thud…busy…thud!”
The siren shrieks and knocks me away with a hard elbow to my face. My eyes water as blood explodes from my nose. I scamper away, backward crab walking, while forcibly expelling the plasma from my nostrils in classic snot-rocket style. Lord knows how much of it ended up in my thickening mustache and beard. Usually, I keep my facial hair short, a five o’clock shadow at most. Right now, I feel like I’m well on my way to looking like Grizzly Adams.
After I put a good ten feet between us, I wipe away the tears and blood and get to one knee. She stands, facing away from me, panting like a dog. Her breaths are deep and raspy as if she recently smoked a carton of cigarettes.
I get to my feet and unsheathe the only other weapon I have left. The machete’s audible shink alerts the siren, and she comes to and launches herself into a frenzied attack. Typically, sirens are more calculating than this. This one is acting like a rabid animal—more specifically, a goblin.
