DEAD MOON Box Set: Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (Books 1-3)

by Matt James

  She’s starving, I realize. Now that she isn’t trying to maul me, I can clearly see that she’s emaciated.

  The lighting is dim, but there’s still just enough sunshine peeking its way through the canopy to see by. The clearing we’re in is surrounded by tall pine trees—a spot that was supposed to be our campground for the night.

  Until we ran into the siren.

  I expel another set of snot-rockets, grip the hilt of my machete with both hands, and charge the seething woman. I still can’t get myself to call them “its,” mostly because they were once human. But this…beast…isn’t human anymore.

  I slice the air in a looping arc and surprisingly catch the siren across the gut. I honestly didn’t expect to hit her at all, just keep her at bay until I came up with a better plan. Usually, they’re as agile as a cat. That's not at all what this one is displaying.

  She doesn’t stop her advance because of it either.

  The laceration isn’t deep, but it should’ve at least made her think twice. Nope. I await her next attempt on my life and I’m stunned when, instead of furthering her attack, she stops—but it’s only because she nonchalantly yanks the arrow from her chest like it was nothing more than a thorn.

  Did I mention that they’re tough SOB’s?

  While she relieves herself of the inconvenience, her grotesque, empty eye sockets never leave me. The only emotions she exhibits are frustration and anger.

  Her eyebrows angle down, yet surprisingly, she takes a second step back. Is she finally going to admit defeat and flee—live to fight another day? Nope… Instead, she leaps into the air arms out wide, talon-tipped fingers curled, ready to tear me to pieces. At the top of her arc, her body passes in front of the sun, enveloping her in an aura of light.

  It’s both an angelic and demonic sight to behold.

  This feels like a last-ditch effort on her part—one of desperation. This is literally the one attack that I can easily defend myself against. All I have to do is time it right.

  As an alternative to parrying her aerial assault, or instead of just flat-out running away, I do the exact opposite and step closer and duck beneath her outstretched arms. I use her own momentum against her and bury the blade of my machete deep into her gut. Then, I swiftly sidestep her and release the weapon’s hilt.

  The siren continues past me and tumbles to a stop, coming to a rest on her side. She’s unmoving, but alive. Even in the low light, I can see that she’s still breathing.

  She’s lost a lot of blood, I think, seeing the slick of crimson she left behind.

  While supernatural in some respects, the Unseen still need the necessary amounts of food, water, and blood to survive. It’s the only natural thing they have left going for them.

  Cautiously, I creep forward, fists balled. With no working crossbow, and now no machete, the only things I have left are my battered hands. The other weapon I have is my Night Ridge recurve bow, but it's off with my discarded backpack. Besides, I’m still not a great shot with the traditional bow and don’t trust it, or my ability to use it, yet.

  I mean, I just got semi-comfortable with the crossbow, and now, it’s a goner.

  Five feet from her, she abandons her strategy of playing dead and springs at me, just as a gun’s report echoes throughout the forest. My adversary is struck in the chest and drops to the leafy floor where she slides to a halt at my feet, face buried in the dirt.

  This time, she’s dead.

  I turn and find Jill leaning against a tree with one hand, and her Smith & Wesson revolver in the other. Releasing herself from the same tree that had only recently banged her up, Jill clutches the ribs on her left side and saunters over to me.

  I turn as Dad lets loose a shouted curse. But the battle is over by the time I notice what’s going on. The stock of his shotgun meets the side of a goblin’s head. The hard shot knocks the creature to the ground. The goblin, like the siren, doesn’t get up… Dad is breathing hard, and the typically non-lethal end of his weapon is dripping in blood.

  Where’s Hope and Mom?

  I start to panic but relax when they step out of the brush to my left. While everyone else is armed with a means in which to protect themselves, the only object Hope has in her little hands is the stuffed animal she acquired while in JCPenney—though she does carry a small pocketknife in her back pocket now.

  That kid sure does love that thing—the toy, I mean—not the knife.

  “His name is Skylar, and he’s a Jaquin,” Hope had once explained.

  “Uh,” I replied, “sure…”

  “Everyone okay?” I ask, catching my breath.

  I get no verbal answers, instead, all I get I get is a couple of soft head bobs and a pair of shoulder shrugs. I search for my discarded gear while Jill and Dad dig into their coat pockets and reload their weapons.

  I’m thankful that Jill and Hope grabbed as much winter gear as they did before we left Arthur’s Outdoor Supply. While Florida’s winters are mostly mild, the southern Appalachians get rather chilly.

  I’m ‘this close’ to having to microwave my boxers.

  My wife limps over to me and carefully slides into my arms. At first, all I get is a face full of her beanie cap. I don’t care, though. I squeeze her nonetheless but hurriedly let go of her when she whimpers.

  “Sorry,” I say, releasing my grip. I reach up and pluck a leaf from her hat. “She tossed you pretty good, huh?”

  Jill softly laughs. “Like Satan’s mechanical bull.”

  She checks out my nose, carefully touching it. “How is it?”

  “I’ve had worse,” I reply. I show her as much and pinch it hard. She smiles when I wince. I frown but also give her a smirk. “Been better too.”

  “Son?” Dad asks, speaking up from across the clearing.

  “Yeah?”

  “How ’bout we find a new spot to camp?”

  I nod and reach down for my Predator crossbow and sigh. The bowstring has been cleaved in two, rendering the weapon useless. Having no way to fix it, I regrettably toss it aside, spotting my recurve bow, backpack, and bedroll nearby.

  Initially, we all had a lovely eight-person tent to sleep in, but it took way too much time to set up and tear down on a daily basis. The last time we saw it, it was half-collapsed somewhere near the South Georgia state line.

  We’re currently on the northern side of the state, where it meets Tennessee. Since then, we’ve either slept in the cramped, but safer, confines of the Jeep, an option we don’t have any longer as well, or more recently, we’ve been roughing it the old-fashioned way and sleeping underneath the stars with just our bedrolls and our nightmares.

  With someone always awake keeping watch.

  Everyone except Hope takes shifts—even my mother does it. She refuses to do anything different. My mom’s words echo in my head as I sling my pack over my shoulder and retrieve my bow.

  “Whether you like it or not, Frank,” Mom said, “I’m in this with you until the end—and like everyone else, I need to pull my weight.”

  While her nightly archery lessons have proved valuable—I’m an okay shot, I guess… I’m not sure how much longer my parents can keep this up. They’re in great shape for their age, but eventually, they’re bodies are going to quit on them.

  “Alright…” I kneel and remove my machete from the siren’s stomach with one quick, wet jerk. Then, I wipe it down as well as I can, using her shirt as a towel. I stand, sheathe it, and turn to my family, Hope included. “Let’s find that new spot and get some shut-eye.”

  2

  We hike a little further north, deeper into the trees bordering Lookout Mountain, before settling down for the night. Instead of finding another clearing, we stick to the heavily wooded area in the western foothills. And once again, we stay on the less-beaten path. Regrettably, the siren’s blood will no doubt attract a scavenger or three.

  As far as the woods are concerned… “Point Park” is back up the mountain and contains a historic Civil War site called Poin
t Lookout. I thought about having us climb up to the old stone fort before dismissing the idea as foolish. We’d be out in the open, have no escape if cornered, and worse, most likely find other survivors.

  We don’t need that kind of attention. Getting around with five people is hard enough. What if there was fifteen or twenty of us? We’d become an Unseen buffet line.

  During the nights that we’ve spent outside, I’ve heard the cries of others—human and inhuman alike. It reminds me that the Unseen never stop hunting. Ever. Anyone that camps inside Point Lookout would surely be an easy meal. The sounds also continually remind me that there are, in fact, other people out there like us.

  The police officer in me wants to go looking for anyone who needs help. But I’m not a cop anymore. It’s just one of the many reasons that we’re camped here instead. The risk. Jill and I have both stated that we need to take fewer risks with our lives now. Hope needs us. My parents do too.

  A twig snaps to my right. Quickly nocking an arrow, I bolt upright and move to investigate the disturbance. Steadily, I draw the bowstring back and sneak around the brush between me and my target.

  The target? Jill.

  “Gah!” she yelps, leaping out of a low squat.

  Lowering the bow, I slowly release the string and let out my held breath. With nothing else around, I replace the arrow in my quiver and cross my arms.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  Jill answers me without saying a word. She casually reaches down into the shadows…and pulls up her pants. I had almost scared the shit out of her while she was taking a leak.

  Well, at least she had her pants down.

  “Oh,” I say, feeling foolish, “my bad. Thought you were something else.”

  She rolls her eyes and joins me back at my post. The sun will be rising soon, which means everyone will be getting up anyway. But until then, we plop down and just enjoy each other’s company in the crisp morning air.

  “How far are we from Gatlinburg?” I ask.

  “Hmmm,” Jill replies, thinking. “We’re just southwest of Chattanooga, and it’s about hundred miles from there—give or take. So…”

  She’s my compass right now. Her family has owned a cabin on the outskirts of Gatlinburg for two decades, and for many of Jill’s teen years, the D’Angelos regularly traveled to and from the vacation home. I kind of know the area, but mostly that of downtown Gatlinburg, not the places and cities surrounding it. I’ve stayed in the Chateau de Angelo, as we’ve come to jokingly call it, many times—mostly without her parents around, thankfully.

  “Great…” I reply, not liking her answer.

  “What’s wrong,” she swiftly adds, “besides the obvious, I mean?”

  I smile. She was quick to throw that last part in.

  Everything is wrong right now.

  “We can’t hike a hundred miles all that fast.”

  Jill’s eyes meet mine. She knows what I mean. She and I could do it, yes. Maybe… I’m not sure about the others, however.

  “Okay, then,” Jill says, sitting up and stretching just as the sun begins to peek through the trees, “we need to find a car.”

  I nod. “Supplies too.” I stand and crack my back. Ugh… Stupid tree. “We’re okay on water for now, but we need to find some grub. We’re running low on rations.”

  Our rations have included a lot of junk food recently, but also some fruits and veggies. About a week ago, we found an abandoned home with a large garden in back. Not only did we squat inside for the night, but we also raided the crops before leaving.

  “Ruby Falls,” Jill says, staring off.

  I grin. “Diarrhea water…”

  To the north of us, and just to the south of the Tennessee River, is the entrance to Ruby Falls. The underground waterfall is a well-known tourist attraction. The reason I called it what I did is because the water within Ruby Falls contains a high concentration of magnesium. Magnesium is, of course, a natural laxative.

  Hence, “diarrhea water.”

  Jill and I took a guided tour down to Ruby Falls a few years back. It was an incredible sight, considering that the waterfall is 145-feet-tall and sits over 1,100 feet beneath Lookout Mountain. I look around, taking in our current situation, and realize that we could probably live down there if we had too.

  It would be an uncomfortable endeavor, to say the least.

  Worst-case scenario, you poop your pants regularly.

  Best-case scenario, you have an unlimited supply of fresh water at your disposal, and still, poop your pants.

  Then again, we could settle down there and then get trapped and overrun. That would be worse than any bowel movement ever.

  While Jill and I wake the others, I think about how I might fortify the cave entrance, starting to like the idea of using it as a bottleneck against anyone wishing to cause us harm—people included. The first part is easy: Cut off power to the elevator, if there is any, that is. Next, we’d have to set up a blockade at the cave’s secondary exit—the one that is walkable and only used in case the elevator breaks down during operation hours.

  People too… The words are all too real.

  While usually on the run from the Unseen, we’ve also had our fair share of run-ins with an enemy of the human variety.

  It was two weeks ago, and we had just crossed into Georgia from Florida via I-75. We planned on stopping at the first major town we could find. In this case, it was Valdosta. Hope was running a temperature, and we needed to get her some medicine. It wasn’t anything too severe, and we wanted to keep it that way. Dragging a kid along with us is hard work, but dragging a sick one along… No thanks.

  Plus, Lord knows we could’ve used some painkillers ourselves.

  We were in luck too. Just off the highway was a local pharmacy—a name I can’t recall. I offered to go in by myself and have a look around, but Dad announced that he’d be joining me, which was fine by me. At the time, all I had was my crossbow and a machete. That was/is a severe disadvantage in a world like we have now. While slow and a bit clumsy, the Predator crossbow was my chosen weapon whether I liked it or not.

  Dad casually carried his shotgun along, keeping the barrel low and his finger off the trigger. We cautiously entered the pharmacy and were startled by an old-timey ding. There, attached to the inner door frame, was an antique-ish doorbell, just like you’d see in some classic movies. It added even more to the “Mom and Pop” feel of the place.

  Every time a bell rings…an angel gets its throat ripped out.

  Not wanting to waste any time, I immediately found a sign that read “Pain Relief” and headed that way. Dad went to the aisle with food and water instead. It’s how we kept our inventory up. Every day we’d try to stop and resupply ourselves as if it was the last chance we'd get for a long time. The trunk to our Jeep was already overflowing with rations, and we intended to keep it that way. Typically, we’d try to stop at a gas station with power, for obvious reasons.

  Scratch-offs and beer! Kidding…kidding. Not about the beer, though.

  The actual pharmacy counter was in the back of the store, right where I was headed. The shelves that held the remains of the pain relief bottles were directly in front of it, and I naturally turned away from the counter to find my prize. Smiling, I plucked a five-hundred count bottle of Acetaminophen from the bottom shelf, along with a children’s version and stood.

  “Hey, what are you doing!”

  The voice came from behind me, and it wasn’t my father.

  Understanding the circumstances surrounding me, I slowly raised my hands and turned around. There, behind the counter of the ransacked pharmacy, were two people, one a woman, the other a man. Both were as pale as ghosts, rail thin, and had heavy bags underneath their eyes.

  For his part, the guy had a small-caliber pistol, and he had it trained on me. The famished woman had a pillowcase thrown over her left shoulder. The fact that they were focused on the drugs and not the food and water told me that I was dealing with a pair of junk
ies.

  Who now have a lifetime supply of fixes, I thought, shaking my head.

  The guy’s gun hand trembled terribly, revealing that he was already as high as a kite.

  Or possibly coming down from his magic carpet ride.

  “Uh, hi there,” I replied.

  “What are you doing here!” he shouted, waving his gun at me.

  The malnourished girl pointed a shaking finger at me. “You’re trying to steal our stash, aren’t you?”

  I glanced at the bottles in my hand. “This?” The accusation made me laugh, but I stopped when the gun steadied on my chest. “My kid is sick, that’s all.”

  “Here,” I said, cautiously reaching into my back pocket, “look…”

  Slowly, I opened my wallet and showed them my ID—more specifically, my badge.

  “I’m a detective with the NYPD, and I’m just trying to get this medicine to my daugh—”

  “He’s a cop!” the girl screamed, interrupting my explanation. “Shoot him!”

  I was about to say, “my daughter.” While not factual, Jill and I decided to call Hope that from now on, just in case we were forced to explain our relationship. She looks enough like Jill that it could work. Plus, Hope, even though she’s Hispanic and not Italian, speaks with no Spanish accent of any kind, just as Jill has no Italian inflection.

  Seriously, it’s crazy how much they look alike.

  I held out my hands. “Don’t shoot! Please…” Twitch, thankfully held his fire. “I’m not trying to take anything from you. Would I try to do something like that with only a crossbow and a machete?”

  What the two druggies didn’t know was that I had my pistol beneath my coat. It was empty, just like it is now, but they didn’t know that. I calmed and smiled when, two seconds later, I heard the shuck-shuck of a cocking shotgun.

  Did I forget to mention that I wasn’t alone? Oops.

  Twitch’s gun barrel swung to my right, toward my dad just as he revealed himself. Not taking any more chances, I drew my empty gun and leveled it at the girl.

  “Freeze!” I shouted, sounding as cliché as ever. “Move, and she’s dead.” Dad stepped forward. His aim was as solid as mine and, unlike Twitch’s hands, unwavering. “And believe me…” I warned. “I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”