by Matt James
As a child, my parents and I would routinely go on road trips, traveling the country. I have personally been to two-thirds of the states. My dad, the ex-boxer, has been to all fifty—most while either fighting or managing other fighters.
Eventually, he settled down and opened his own gym where I quickly became his best pupil. But unlike the others he worked with, I was never trained to actually become a pro boxer. Dad didn’t want that life for me. No, he better prepared me to become a police officer, something I had wanted to do since I was ten.
My father secretly rooted for me behind my mother’s back, pretending to be as upset as she was. He was scared for me, for sure, but I’ve never seen the old man prouder than the day I announced I was joining the police academy. Both of my folks calmed some when I decided to stay put and work near home.
“The Moon men have a sixth sense when in a fight,” Dad used to say. “When trouble comes calling, we Moons have an innate ability to get out of harm’s way.”
“And your concussions?” I’d ask.
“What about ’em? I’m alive, aren’t I?”
Rolling my eyes, I focus on the road ahead of me and not my father’s antics. I could write a book about the man. And he always had a tale to tell, including stories from his days of living on the road and from his experiences with the guys he managed and coached.
The highway narrows in sections, shoving the concrete divider on my left closer and closer. I mean, it’s sketchy on a normal day. Right now, with even less room to maneuver, it’s making me really uncomfortable. The only consolation is that it appears as if traffic had been light on “doomsday.”
Left, right, left, right… We chug along and snake our way past accident after accident.
We aren’t the only people on the road either.
From my side mirror, I can see other cars rolling along behind us. Apparently, Winnie is at the front of the pack, leading an impromptu exodus. It makes me smile. With so much death surrounding us, it's great to see real people and find out that not everyone became an Unseen. The revelation sheds a little light on this darkening world.
After a few minutes, a rolled semi-truck doesn’t just slow us—it stops us. The cab and its trailer are both on their side. The front end is pinned to the inner concrete wall, while the trailer it was pulling lays across most of the three-lane road. We’re currently stopped in the middle lane, and I have nowhere to pass the wreck in either direction, left or right.
Dammit!
I’m not what you’d call an expert at operating vehicles similar to Winnie, especially one with an ass the size of hers. I’m not sure I can get us out of this by simply putting it in reverse and backtracking the way we came. Besides, there’s a handful of cars lined up behind me now. I can’t go left or right either. To my left is the concrete divider. To my right is another column of fender benders.
For some reason, I feel bad mentioning Winnie’s ass. Nevertheless, we’re effectively stuck. I look into my mirrors again. All of us. With authority, my fists find the steering wheel, and I get up, and lean in closer to the windshield, needing to find a solution.
There are a lot of people depending on me.
Off to the right is a small, beat-to-shit Honda Civic, and its driver’s side door is wide open. It’s the only thing between us and the vacant shoulder. From where I am, the space beyond looks clear, and if I can move the Honda out of the way, we should be able to squeeze through without a problem.
All of us. I NEED to get these people to freedom. After that, unfortunately, they’ll be on their own. I wish I had the resources to do more for them, but I don’t. And in order for any of this to come to fruition, I have to leave the safety of Winnie’s womb.
I stand and check my gun. I have seven more rounds in this magazine with another full one in reserve. Checking the area in front of us, I return the mag to its place in the handgrip of my pistol and turn—only to find a really pissed-off-looking Jillian Moon standing in front of the side door.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
8
“That’s a terrible idea, Frank!” she hisses, keeping her voice down. “You know it, and I know it. We need to be more careful now.”
She means because Hope is around now. And she’s right. It’s definitely a bad idea to go out there. I don’t want to argue with her either. I want to be that more responsible guy too, but I can’t. Not right now anyways.
I think of the other cars. “There’s no other option.”
Jill spotted them as soon as we stopped, and yet, she’s still trying to reason with me. She must be scared shitless since she doesn't care about helping the others. In the end, she fails to come up with anything that can sway me. Her shoulders drop, and she reaches around the small of her back, going for her gun.
“No—don’t!” I grab her arm and stop her from doing so. “I need you behind the wheel and ready to move just in case I can’t get back here in time.”
She pulls her arm free. “Like hell I am! I’m not just going to sit around and watch you die!”
“What about Hope?”
“I…” Jill’s mouth hangs open as she struggles to find the words. “I know you want to help those people, but…”
“Jill,” I say, interrupting her, “I don’t plan on dying today. You’re my getaway driver.” I grin. “If things get bad, I’m running my still-alive ass back here.”
She laughs, closes her eyes, and rubs her temples. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”
I lean in and kiss her lips while her eyes are closed. She opens them when I head for the door. “So are you.” I flip the lock. “Lock it behind me and be ready to put the pedal to the metal.”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I throw open the door and step out, weapon up. My finger is just millimeters from the trigger, hovering right next to it. Staring down my gun’s sights, I clear the immediate area. There’s nothing else alive from what I can tell.
There’s nothing alive so far. I’ve learned to never underestimate the moment. Usually, whenever it is peaceful—it isn’t. Not for long, anyway.
I glance south and see the driver of the first car through their windshield. She looks anxious. So do her passengers.
Kids. Dammit.
To the east, directly next to the Winnebago, is a group of seven cars, and they’re all smushed together. They’re all different makes and models too. And they all look the same when they are burnt to a crisp—no matter if the car is a Toyota, Ford, or even a Maserati.
Which one started the large-scale blaze is unknown. The only thing I do know is that not all of the people inside the inferno were able to make a run for it. The handful of blackened skeletons within the wreckages are proof of that. One car has a pair of smaller, likewise charred, bodies in the backseat.
I close my eyes and breathe in deep.
The air is laced with burnt rubber and gasoline. The road around the pileup is as black as night. For that to happen, the heat must’ve been intense during the blaze. Even the asphalt itself looks to have melted slightly. After last night’s storm, everything is soaked—even the ordinarily fluffy ash.
Looking north, I face the semi and its trailer. While not the first time I’ve seen a semi turned over on a Florida highway, it is the first time I’ve seen one covered in smeared, bloodied handprints. A few people—at least, I think they were people—survived.
The fact that there are handprints here and not slash markings gives me reason to believe that I’m dealing with goblins, and possibly, sirens, not reapers.
More silence.
Or maybe, I might actually be alone?
Heading toward the semi, I stop in front of Winnie and give Jill a wave. She returns mine with one of her own, and it’s then I see that Hope has joined her and is standing on the front passenger seat. Our disagreement must’ve woken the child, and I left before seeing her.
Great, now she has a front row seat.
I take a second to give Hope a smal
l wave as well. Instead of returning it, she turns away and climbs into Jill’s arms, burying her face into Jill’s shoulder. I get a nervous look from my wife before I return to the task at hand: Moving the Honda.
Still not seeing anything threatening, I cautiously step toward the small two-door as if I’m stepping into a bath, testing its temperature. Then, I make a break for it and practically leap into the front seat. I’m happy to see that the vehicle was far enough away from the burned-out pileup that it was spared. I’m also glad to see that the owner left the car behind with the key still in the ignition.
Not having a key would’ve made this a lot harder.
Holstering my gun, I try to turn it over. I’m not at all surprised in the least to see that the battery is completely dead. So, instead of trying to start it, I merely flick the key into the “on” position. That lets me successfully shift the car into neutral. I climb out, dig my feet into the asphalt, and push. With no power steering, the process of pushing and turning the wheel is hard work. Luckily, it’s a Civic and not a fucking Suburban!
Satisfied that it's far enough away, I give the car one final shove and send it rolling down the sloping embankment to the right of the highway. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I turn around and flex for Jill and Hope. Even the woman driving the other car is applauding my efforts.
Just as Jill and Hope begin to laugh, the semi’s upward facing, passenger side door is blown off its hinges from the inside. I pause my celebration and watch it sail into the air. But I’m no longer impressed by the door’s hangtime when I notice that it’s landing spot is going to be right where I’m standing.
I dive left and roll, draw my gun and get to one knee. There, I wait and aim at whatever is about to show itself. Ten nervous seconds later, a hand the size of my face reaches out of the cab and grips onto the semi’s door frame. I look on in awe as the siding groans and creeks within the thing’s grasp.
Slowly, I get to my feet and take a step toward Winnie. Jill is already behind the wheel, urging me forward, ready to go. I take another step and watch a second, equally enormous hand reach through the opening. It also grips onto the door frame, and then, both hands flex and pull their owner up.
Fuck me, I think, mouth agape.
The brutish Unseen is massive and is dressed in a pair of shredded overalls. The former truck driver turned into another new addition to the monster family. I take two more steps toward my ride before he officially notices me, growling in annoyance.
He isn’t aggravated at me, funny enough—it’s the semi truck’s narrow doorway that he’s groaning at. While typically not a tight squeeze, the enlarged beast seethes and bashes his way through the ultra-durable framework. I glance at Jill who is frantically waving at me to move my ass. But I can’t. There’s no way for her to steer the awkwardly built Winnebago through the opening in time. Nor is there time for the other people to make it through either.
It’s doable…but they’re going to need more time.
Landing with a crunch of asphalt, the brute stares me down with its grotesque, blind eyes. Just like the rest of its oversized body, the thing’s mouth is full of impossibly large fangs. A mop of red-tinted, blonde hair is buried beneath a distressed, backward facing trucker’s cap.
Instead of dashing through Winnie’s side door, I head right, squeezing the trigger of my gun twice as I do. Both 9mm rounds find their mark and bury themselves into the brute’s flesh—but neither of them seems to do anything worth a damn. With five more bullets left in my current mag, I opt for a different approach and holster my gun. I’m going to need a bigger weapon if I want to kill this thing.
A weapon I don’t have.
As I run, I inhale hard, identifying something that I noticed earlier. Gas, a lot of it, and it’s everywhere. The semi must be leaking the stuff, and since I can’t see any of it, it must be pooling directly beneath the cab. My already asinine idea is quickly launched to another level crazy.
I run to the rear of the trailer and leap for its side—currently its top. I’m thrilled to see that it’s just high enough off the ground for me to reach. I pull myself the rest of the way and get one knee up. Then, I roll onto the metal surface and land with an ungraceful bang. Climbing to my feet, I cringe when the car behind the motorhome starts blaring its horn. From here, I see the woman waving at the car behind her to move.
The brute takes notice of that…and Winnie.
Not good.
“Yo, ugly!” I yell with gusto. “Over here!”
Bubba growls but doesn’t turn. I need to get his attention squarely on me. I do the only thing I can think of and draw my gun again. I quickly fire a shot into his back and watch as he pauses mid-step and snarls.
Well, that worked.
The brute faces me as I stand atop the tipped over trailer, sliding around on its blood-drenched surface. Seriously, it’s coated in the stuff and is neither wet nor dry. As of now, it’s a gooey, viscous mess and I have to hold my hands out to the side to keep my balance as I walk.
Jill edges the vehicle forward, but the click of the shifting transmission gets the brute’s attention again. That’s not good. I need to keep his focus on me and off of the girls.
“I’m sure you get this all the time,” I say, doing my best to taunt the creature, “but you have your mother’s looks.” I slip but catch myself before I fall. “Annnd your uncle’s!”
He opens its mouth wide, unraveling a foot-long tongue.
That’s a new one…
“I bet you're popular with the girls with that thing—some guys too!”
I have no idea if the thing understands a word I’m saying, but he takes a couple of steps my way. I breathe easier knowing that Winnie, and her occupants, are all alive and intact, for the time being. Same goes for “Little Miss Beep Beep…”
Seriously, what the hell woman!
With how effortlessly the brute shredded the semi, I cringe at the thought of him even so much as sneezing on the motorhome. The brute’s barrel chest and thick arms look strong enough to lift the vehicle off the ground and heave it into the weeds—right next to the Civic.
The fact that he’s nearly eight feet tall doesn’t help either. The Floridian Unseen are a whole new breed of DAMN! for sure.
Reapers, squids, brutes—
Opening his mouth impossibly wide, the trucker roars at me and charges. I holster my pistol and steady myself. I’d like nothing better than to shoot him in the head, but I refrain from doing so and hold my ground. Luckily, Jill has the same plan in mind and starts moving Winnie again, steering to where the Honda used to be.
So does Ms. Beep Beep and all her sheep. The line of cars are on each other’s asses, ready to leave the mayhem.
Readying myself, I brace for contact and am stunned when the brute shoulders into the trailer with the force of a wrecking ball. Somehow, I manage to leap into the air as the trailer rolls beneath me, landing back on its wheels. Moments later, gravity forcefully returns me from whence I came. Unfortunately for my cinematic escape, the trailer isn’t finished rolling when I hit, and my feet go out from under me.
I’m not thrown, thankfully, but I am slammed into the trailer’s hard, metal surface. At least the blood is on the side of the container and not the top, so I have that going for me. Most of the landing was absorbed by my body, but part of it was pounded into my skull.
Flat on my back, I wheeze. I can’t catch my breath. All the injuries that I suffered in Manhattan, while dulled over the last few days, rear their ugly heads once again.
“Ow,” I mumble, trying to get up. “Didn’t need that…”
I take a deep breath and cough. Besides my back and ribs hurting from the fall, and my head swimming from the solid knock, I smell gas, taking a more substantial whiff of the stuff than any human should ever do.
Gas.
I feel for the newest addition to my survivalist arsenal and eventually find it in my inner jacket pocket. Pulling it free, I turn onto my hands and knees and crawl to th
e side—just as the brute’s fist pulverizes the steel trailer. It, and me shake from the blow.
I quickly draw my gun and pump the last of my rounds into his face. The impacts cause him to stumble. Then, he teeters and tumbles right into a puddle of pooling liquid. Grinning ear-to-ear, I holster my empty gun and stand. Next, I spark the Zippo’s wheel, swiftly dragging it across my pant leg. Happy to see that it lit, I hold it out in front of me, and I say adios to Bubba.
As soon as I drop the lighter, the world around me instantaneously turns into a hellscape of fire. Pivoting, I run the other way and leap off the trailer, crashing onto the top of the awaiting Winnebago. My entire escape is paired with a musical number entitled, “Bubba’s Agonizing Screams.”
It’s really more of a solo act.
“Go, go, go!” I shout, pounding my fist on the roof.
Jill apparently hears me, because we speedily leave the accident in the dust. After a hundred yards, Jill gently brakes to let me in, making sure I’m not thrown to the asphalt. Five cars buzz by us, each and every one of the drivers waving as they go. I give them all a halfhearted wave back and turn around toward the inferno.
It’s then I see the logo of the company that owns the trailer. With Jill and Hope, I witness the inventory belonging to Neptune’s Fireworks explode into a rainbow fireball. For just a moment, we “ooh and ahh” as if the world was its usual self.
The morning sky is painted with a kaleidoscope of color. I even get to see a little of Hope’s seven-year-old innocence return when she dives into Jill’s arms, spooked by a mortar’s concussive force. Realizing that nothing is actually wrong, she blushes and watches the show anew.
I smile.
To be a kid again. How simple things used to be.
Another thirty seconds pass by before I usher Jill and Hope back into the motorhome. The explosions and subsequent light show are sure to bring some scavengers out of the neighboring tree line. I know from living here in the past that the fields to the west of the interstate are usually populated with a herd of grazing cattle.
