Dead Moon 2: Home Sweet Hell (Dead Moon Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thrillers)

by Matt James

  There, hanging upside-down, I decide to wait it out.

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

  After seven such Mississippies, I hear a car pull up next to me. A door pops open, and someone enters the motorhome via the missing side door. Jill’s grimy, yet stunning face, slides up next to mine and she sighs, stroking my cheek and smiling—just before she unbuckles me, and I drop like a sack of potatoes.

  15

  Watching the upside-down Winnie fade away in my mirror isn’t easy. It feels as if we just lost a member of our little survivalist family. Vinny, Carla, John, the older couple we met in the museum… Uh, what were their names? Oh, right, the Howards… Either way, I know that it’s just a Winnebago and not a person. The emptiness still is there, however.

  Jill and Hope are quietly sitting in the back seat holding hands, and I’m up front with Wes, who is behind the wheel of the Chevy SUV. At this point, we’re forced to follow the flow of traffic, weaving in and out of wrecks and bodies. Southern and 441 is an immense intersection. It sits right smack in the middle of three different cities within Palm Beach County: West Palm Beach, Royal Palm Beach, and Wellington. The intersection acts as a sort of natural border between each town.

  Wellington sits to the southwest of the intersection, and that’s right where Wes has us headed. He turns south onto 441 and eases over a splintered crack in the road. Suspiciously—nervously, really—the breakage is directly over the C-51 Southern Boulevard drainage canal. The waterway stretches due west for more than forty miles while joining other tributaries before finally emptying into Florida’s principal freshwater body, the ninth largest in the United States, Lake Okeechobee.

  What could be in the lake now?

  The canal starts at the coast. If something from the ocean made its way in—or if some bass mutated into a variation of an Unseen-Moby Dick… One time, when I was a kid, I hooked a giant snapping turtle while fishing in a canal near my house. It climbed out of the water with my hook in its mouth looking quite upset with me. I guess it really doesn’t matter what’s beneath the surface of C-51, though. As far as I can tell, we don’t plan on going fishing any time soon.

  “It’s terrible,” Wes says, talking to himself more than me. “They’re everywhere.”

  He’s talking about the dead. We saw just as many bodies between here and the prison, so I’m not entirely sure what made him comment about it now. Maybe it’s the fact that vultures are finally showing up? At least there aren’t as many as you’d typically see when driving past a garbage dump.

  Not yet.

  “That there are,” I say, nodding as I look out of my crimson-stained window. I glance into my vanity mirror and make eye contact with an exhausted-looking Jill. Her eyes are red, and the bags beneath them look heavy. Being the strong woman that she is, she gives me a small smile, telling me that she’s okay.

  I remember feeling the same way back in New York, but now, even though it hasn’t been that long, I don’t feel very much at all. The highway is painted red… Literally. Blood pools in the curbs, backing up the drains along with who knows how many corpses. Every vehicle, including ours, is bathed in the stuff too.

  Even worse than Jill’s hair clogging the shower drain. I sneer. Seriously, Frank, you need to get that morbid shit under control, I think you’re losing it.

  Fifty feet past the cracked section of road, my fears come true and something mammoth in size bursts through the concrete as if it’s a sheet of particle board. Debris explodes, and, for a moment, I can’t make out what just obliterated the sidewalk and right two lanes of 441. I turn in my seat and feel my leg protest the move, ignoring it. I need to see what it is.

  Its face—his face—emerges from the haze first, or rather, its snout. Regrettably, we get our answer to what happened to Babe.

  “Friggin great,” Wes says, glancing back and forth between the road and the enormous animal. “Pig’s back.”

  The dark brown, drenched creature climbs through the crumbling road, sniffing the air as he does. I spin in my seat and get a good look at him, seeing that his leathery skin is ravaged with wounds. Whatever scared him off earlier, rats or not, did a number on his hide. Maybe they’ll show up again and discourage Babe from pursuing us now? Just like some of the other Unseen, he sways his head back and forth, all while testing the air around him with a pulse of his nose. My eyes open wide when he stops and turns our way.

  “Must go faster.”

  Wes doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, I feel the SUV gain speed and pull away. Babe lifts his head into the sky and squeals, stepping toward us, limping like yours truly.

  I stay turned and watch as, one after the other, every car that’s in his way goes sailing into the air.

  Whereas we have to pump the brakes every few feet, so we don’t crash, Babe just ducks his broad snout and uses it like a train’s pilot—a “cow guard.” Size doesn't matter to him. Babe just dips his head down and then jerks it up again. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in action from the front. Before, Hope and I were watching the spectacle from behind. Both angles, for entirely different reasons, are terrible.

  Luckily for us, southbound 441 isn’t as congested as it could’ve been. I’ve spent a lot of time in standstills on this very road, clenching my steering wheel in a death grip while audibly wondering how someone that drives that bad could possibly have their license.

  The right lane opens up, and to my shock, Wes hops the curb with a jolt, keeping the driver’s side tires on the road. It’s an awkward angle to sit, but we’re making better time than before. He leaves and re-climbs the sidewalk three more times and, in the blink of an eye, the Wellington Regional Hospital passes us on our right.

  “Frank,” Jill says, grabbing my shoulder from behind, “look.”

  I see them.

  People—humans—dozens of them, are huddled outside a stained sign that reads ‘Emergency Room.’ But they aren’t getting in. Whoever is inside the hospital has seemingly closed up shop. Maybe it's because the hospital has reached capacity, or worse yet, perhaps it's because people on the wrong side of the law have taken control.

  “We need to do something,” Jill says.

  But I don’t answer.

  Wes does.

  “Like what?” He glances back at her. “While I’d love to help them, we need to worry about ourselves first.”

  I can see that the words hurt to say, but since leaving the prison, Wes now fully comprehends the state of things.

  The hospital itself looks to be in bad shape. I don’t get a great look at the rest of the building as we pass by, but it resembles everything else around here. Surrounded by the dead and covered in red. It looks like an ambulance went into the retention pond out front too. I think I can even see a few bodies floating face down nearby.

  Dammit.

  Wes dodges a small group of goblins in the road, causing us to fishtail through the muck within the second busiest intersection in the area. The next major street south of Southern is Forest Hill Boulevard and entrenched atop its southwest corner is the enormous Mall at Wellington Green.

  “We need to go that way!” I yell, pointing west down Forest Hill as we blow by it. Wes straightens us out, making me jam my left index finger into the glass.

  Ouch.

  “I know!” he shouts back. He tips his head toward the rear of the SUV. “But we ain’t makin’ it much farther with that thing on our asses.”

  “It’s getting late too,” Jill adds. “We lost some daylight on the overpass.” I notice her reflexively squeeze Hope’s hand harder as she speaks. Hope, for the most part, has been silent since we climbed into the SUV—minus a couple of squeaks.

  Unfortunately, I agree with both Jill and Wes, and I scan the area for somewhere to lose the pig. The only thing that makes any sense at all is the two-story mall.

  “Over there,” I say, pointing.

  “The mall?” Jill asks.

  I nod. “It’s big enough that we might be
able to lose it in one of the department stores.”

  Wes mumbles something that sounds like, “Mood port.”

  “What?” I ask, not hearing him entirely.

  “Food court,” he replies, looking sheepish. “If we have time, I mean.”

  “Really, Wes?” Jill asks, sounding sick.

  He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road.

  Honestly, I can’t blame the guy. What I wouldn’t give for a slice of pepperoni pizza from Sbarro’s. My mouth waters just thinking about it. Then, my stomach joins in when I remember that the mall has a Chick-fil-A too.

  Nuggets, waffle fries, and a milkshake… Yum.

  And it’s not even Sunday.

  But as I look around at the horrid scene, my dream of perfectly cooked, crisp waffle fries is annihilated. I mean, it’s not like Chick-fil-A is open right now. Nothing is. I eye Wes.

  Not even the police are open for business. Like most of the other survivors, they are in hiding too. Besides the Wellington hospital and the prison, we haven’t seen a lot of non-Unseen movement since being on the road. It seems that people have either gotten out of Dodge or have died.

  I hope that our parents were part of the mass exodus, but I’d never forgive myself if we didn’t at least take a look. We’re so close to their neighborhood. It’s only a couple of miles west of here. Our folks both live in the same community too, so it’ll make the trip quicker than it could’ve been.

  The first of four smaller intersections, each accessing the mall grounds, comes up fast. Wes slows and aims us between two cars. I cringe as metal shrieks. We barely squeezed through. Hope covers her ears against the shrill cry, and Jill pulls the girl’s head into her chest.

  Just as I think we’re about to overshoot the right-hand turn, Wes stomps on the brakes and yanks hard on the wheel. Strangely, something blocks out the sun. Babe. He’s closer than I thought. Wes’ last minute decision had saved us.

  “Saw it duck its head to flip us,” he explains. “Needed it to be as close as possible.”

  As for Babe, he stumbles and falls, rolling into a concrete telephone pole. His girth smashes through it, but the damage is done, and when he doesn’t immediately get up, I, just for a second, think he’s dead. My eyes open wide in shock as the Unseen-pig starts to right himself.

  “Don’t stop,” I say, turning around.

  “No shit, really?” Wes replies. “Thought we’d stop and go check on the pig instead.”

  The entrance road to the mall is short here unlike the ones on Forest Hill. In seconds, Wes power slides us through the three-way intersection, and I roll my eyes at the sign that says, “Inbound Traffic Does Not Stop.” The reason it’s funny is only about half of the drivers here actually pay attention to it, making it a real pain in the ass to navigate the mall entrances and the large circular, main road that encompasses it.

  After Wes’ aggressive left, he takes the first right he can fit us through and pushes the SUV up the steadying incline. From here, we’ll enter the mall on the second floor.

  JCPenney, here we come.

  And boy do we come.

  Wes floors the pedal and grits his teeth. I see why when I turn around. Babe has just shown himself, walking past the palm trees and shrubs that border the parking lot. Stopping to unload everyone, while quieter, will also be much slower. I look forward and then back again. In the time it takes to do so, Babe spots us and falls in line.

  Jill’s eyes find mine before I turn around and buckle myself in. She’s worried. Then again, so am I. This isn’t exactly the Blues Brothers. That mall was designed to be destroyed in glorious fashion. This one…not so much.

  Wes shouts as we careen into the curb and go airborne. We land and bounce, and I’m pretty sure I hear something snap and come loose beneath us. Next, we smash through the two sets of glass doors leading into the department store and decimate the front desk, registers included, on the other side. Cash goes flying into the air looking like a pricey, overstuffed party popper.

  The SUV comes to a jarring halt and lists hard to one side. Catching my breath, I watch a multitude of grumpy, old men, Benjamin Franklin, and George Washington included, begin their descent upon us.

  16

  From what I can tell, most of the upstairs portion of JCPenney miraculously has power. Sort of… Some parts flicker on and off in random intervals.

  The second level is stocked with everything a child or woman could ever need, and since we have one of each with us, we decide to get them a change of, well, everything. Wes was against us doing so, but the front entrance was so mangled that Babe couldn’t follow us…yet. I figure that he’ll eventually find a way in, but for the moment, he’s been refused at the door.

  First is Hope. She picks out a pink Elena of Avalor long-sleeved t-shirt and a new pair of jeans and sneakers. Elena is apparently a newish Disney princess with Hispanic heritage. She’s perfect for someone like Hope to latch onto. The kid was pretty damn cute when covered in blood. Now, she’s downright adorable.

  I wipe my eye.

  “You okay, Frank?” Hope asks, looking concerned.

  I nod and get a smile out of Jill. “Yeah, kiddo… My eyes are just a little sweaty.”

  “Eyes don’t sweat,” Wes says, not really paying attention to the conversation. He’s been prairie dogging the department store since arriving, nervous as all hell, head on a swivel.

  I notice that Hope’s attention is elsewhere, eyeing the shelves of stuffed animals to our left at the center of the quaint toy area. It gives me an idea—something that will pick up the girl’s spirits if only a little.

  “Grab one,” I whisper grinning mischievously.

  The toys are unspoiled for the most part. Only a few of them are splattered in blood. I escort Hope to them and see the origin of the stains. Luckily for me, Hope is so zoned in on them that she doesn’t notice the man and little boy huddled together in death at the rear of the room. They’re directly behind the shelves and if Hope circles around to the opposite side of the display, she’ll see them.

  Shit.

  “This one,” she says, handing it to me.

  I read the tag. “A jaquin?” I say a silent thank you when she doesn’t circle around the display but turns to face me instead.

  She nods emphatically. “Elena…” Hope motions proudly to her new shirt. “She’s friends with them. Look…” I hand back the toy, which I now realize is a winged jaguar with the colors of a macaw. Happy with her choice, she smiles and pulls it into her chest, hugging it hard. She’s a kid after all. “They’re funny and cause lots of trouble.” She eyes me hard, serious. “But not the bad kind of trouble.”

  “Uh, cool,” I reply, looking at Jill with a shrug as she steps up next to me. “That’s really, really cool.”

  What can I say, being a dad is a new experience for me? These conversations are…

  The revelation that I’ve sort of become this girl’s father hits me like a cannon blast to the cerebellum. I stumble, even more than I have been, and grab onto the nearest rack of clothes.

  “Woah there, killer,” Jill says, steadying me. She kneels and looks at my leg. “Let’s take a look at this, huh?”

  Wes joins us and rustles Hope’s hair before shouldering his rifle. “Go ahead. She’ll be safer than the Pope.”

  I nod my thanks and let Jill duck underneath my armpit even though the support really isn’t needed. I’m in bad shape, but not that bad of shape. Before heading to the changing room, we shop for a minute and allow Jill to grab a few things to change into.

  Once inside the larger handicap stall, I all but fall onto the bench and close my eyes. Jill locks the door, giving us what little privacy we can ask for. I undo my belt and help Jill carefully pull down my jeans, weary of my thigh.

  “Well,” she says, only peeling away the wrapping enough to see, “it’s not as bad as I thought.”

  I laugh. “Says the woman without a hole in her leg.”

  She grips my leg, just below the wound,
and squeezes. I whimper but, inevitably, laugh.

  So does Jill. “Watch it, buster.”

  I lean forward and inspect the injury. Funny enough, it doesn’t look all that bad. The location of the wound is the real problem, not the severity of it. I remember wrecking a three-wheeler one time and slightly puncturing my calf muscle with the foot peg. The cut was minuscule compared to the pain. The hairline break in my ankle was the biggest problem, though. Regardless, the seemingly insignificant injury caused a lot of discomfort for some time.

  Jill lets me rest for a second while she quickly changes. Her body is cut and bruised—like mine. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who’s being beat to shit.

  She freezes when we hear someone let loose a high-pitched shriek. My mind immediately thinks of Hope. Then, an all too familiar scratching sound fills the calm-quiet of the changing room, keeping Jill from buttoning her jeans. The bone-chilling noise times itself perfectly with a horror-movie-inspired light flicker.

  I know it’s an Unseen but have no idea which kind. We both draw our pistols and aim them at the locked door. Siren or goblin—or even a reaper or brute… Any of the variations can burst through the partition at any moment. If it’s a brute, we’re dead. Any of the others are still bad, but we should be able to defend ourselves if there’s only one—two or three tops.

  Shit, I think, fearing for Hope.

  We’re only two stalls into the changing room, and our door is quickly met with a bump and a sniffing sound. Like most all changing rooms, the doors don’t reach the floor, which is asinine considering the number of perverts that populated the wacky world we used to live in. Unfortunately, it’s much worse now.

  It’s definitely an Unseen creature too. A pair of gnarled, clawed feet step up in front of us, and it's not long until the once human figure tries the knob. Nothing happens, thankfully.

  I sneer in disgust as blood drips down the door, pooling around the thing’s feet. Whatever it is, it has killed something—someone—recently.