by Matt James
Well, not something…
Someone.
Man! I’m REALLY glad I was inside for that!
4
I can’t turn away. It’s just too damn gruesome to do so—like a horrific car wreck. You don’t want to look, but you do anyways. It’s like a morbid tick every human has. We just love carnage. It’s why bad news sells so well. And cats… For whatever reason those little devils are popular too.
There’s a few dozen people down on the streets right now, not to mention those zipping by in cars, but I’m only concerned with one of them. She’s the first I lock onto while the chaos ensues.
I watch as she grabs her head and shrieks into the sky above. Even behind my closed bedroom window I can hear that woman holler like she’s on fire and standing right next to me.
Like a Siren uses her voice to call men to their deaths.
Don’t ask me why I just thought of that. I’m not sure where it came from either. My mind tends to wander sometimes. I’d like to think that most men’s minds have the same tendency.
This is the moment—the first time I witness one of them changing. It’s something I’ll never forget—and believe me… I want to forget it.
As she screams, she clutches her fists tighter and tighter. Then, all at once she reaches up and yanks, tearing a good portion of her hair out. Blood and skin fly everywhere as she continues to rid herself of the annoyance. Once bald and bloodied, the woman, turns her elongating fingernails on herself.
More specifically, her eyes.
This is what I can’t forget. She, along with everyone else on the street below for as far as I can see, dig at their eye sockets. It’s the car crash I was telling you about. I can’t look away. They ripped their own eyes out! Something in them snapped, obviously caused by the meteor.
What else could it be? Was it the glow? Or maybe some kind of contagion was spread over the city?
Doesn’t matter. What does matter, is that the human race is severely boned if this happened on a larger, wider scale. Manhattan is just one of five boroughs that make up the island. In all, there are—were—over eight million people living here. Say I’m lucky and only a quarter of the people of New York City changed. It’s still a number closing in on two million!
Please be a lot less.
Before I turn away, I watch as she leaps at a group of high-schoolers—who have also changed—and start tearing into them like the bear did Leo. Slash and bite. Slash and rip.
Grossed out, I shut the curtains and grab the remote for the TV, flicking to the closest news channel. What I see is the same thing I saw from forty feet up. The cameraman gets an up close and personal look at his once attractive reporter friend as she does the same gruesome thing to herself that the woman—the Siren—here did. Shortly after the reporter begins her transformation, the camera falls to the ground, landing awkwardly on its side with a bang.
I tilt my head to the left so the image is right-side up and almost gag. The on-the-scene reporter is tearing her cameraman apart, hacking him to pieces. All of New York City just got a close up of the attacker too.
The ragged eye sockets.
The fang-like, sharpened teeth.
The skinned head.
It’s the same, I think, glancing to my closed curtains, but in reality, looking through them to street level. It was definitely the same exact behavior that I had just witnessed firsthand.
Then, the TV winks out.
“Shit.”
I try to power it back on, but the cable box is having none of it. It’s working just fine. It’s the link that’s gone.
My cell phone rings, blaring Lady Marmalade across the room. I leap into my bed, roll, and come up on the other side, grabbing it from the nightstand in a move I swear I never practiced before. I look down at its screen and shutter.
It reads, Babe.
It’s my nickname for Jill—something I’ve been calling her since we started dating. My dad calls my mom that, and my grandpa called my grandma that. It’s just something the Moon men do.
I answer. “Jill!”
“Oh, my God, Frank!” She’s out of breath. Running? “What the hell is happening?” The wavering in her voice tells me she’s crying too. Dammit, I think. You shouldn’t have left. But then I do a double take and look at myself in the mirror mounted across the room. Seeing the reflection of a man in a t-shirt and boxers angers me.
She was going to the gala regardless, numbnuts!
I start to pace.
You should have left with her, you prick!
I don’t get to answer her either.
“People are dying. People are killing each other. I don’t know why, but the ones attacking are coming in from the streets. Security is escorting us deeper into the museum. They are locking the front doors until they figure out what the hell’s going on,” her voice quivers again, “but I’m afraid that a few of them are still inside with us.”
Coming in from the streets?
I look back to my window and rush over. With just my forefinger, I draw back the curtains and slowly peek outside.
I wish I didn’t.
It’s a massacre, the woman from before is dead, along with dozens of others. It looks like she took out at least half of those herself. Blood covers every square inch of the streets and sidewalks too. I continue my scan of the area and see that every window down below is destroyed and smashed.
Movement catches my eye and I see a shopkeeper—the one that runs the ice cream store across the street. He’s forcibly dragged out from inside his business and gored alive by two men.
What ‘used to be’ men.
The detective in me watches it unfold, dissecting everything I see, absorbing it like one of Vincent Price’s sponges. The ‘i-scream’ man was normal, not one of the creatures. He hadn’t been outside when the meteor flew over. Like Jill and me.
Radiation?
It’s the only thing that makes sense with this new revelation. Abaddon must have given off some kind of energy field or something when it passed by—the red glow maybe. It must have screwed with the DNA of the people who witnessed it enter the atmosphere or something, altering our genetic code on the fly. My teenage imagination takes over and my mind starts going through every movie and comic book I’ve watched or read.
So, the demon from above is playing God…
“You still there, Frank?”
Jill.
“Hang in there, Babe. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You hear me? I’ll be there as soon as—”
The line goes dead. The power does too, plunging me into darkness.
I throw open the curtains and scan my surroundings. All of the street lamps lining the sidewalks wink out one-by-one. Knowing the size of the grid I’m on, makes me shudder. There are literally thousands of people without power now, maybe more if it exceeds past my neighborhood.
My relationship with my wife was strained beyond the breaking point, but somehow, we survived. I only cared about myself, but now… I think back to what our therapist said.
“It’s high time you started caring again, Frank.”
Knowing the woman I swore to protect and vowed to love forever is on the other side of town and on the verge of hysteria, throws me into motion. I yank on my jeans and bunny hop over to my closet. Throwing opening the door, I grin. I grab my shoulder holster and my service pistol, a standard issue Glock 19. I slip it on and pocket three extra clips.
Next, I grab my telescoping police baton and a small bottle of military grade pepper spray. I’m not sure what effects the spray will have on the creatures below. They don’t have eyes… Rethinking the clunkiness and possible ineffectiveness of the cylindrical weapon, I toss it over my shoulder, leaving it behind.
“Shotgun?” I ask myself, rubbing my chin.
I’m really contemplating bringing the 12-gauge, but want to keep my travels quick and as inconspicuous as possible. Plus, if it comes to it, Vinny’s shop is sort of on the way. He’s my cousin and he owns and operate
s Vincente’s, a real high-end hoity-toity gun store. It’s over on Madison just off 64th a little.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking. I do, in fact, have a cousin named Vinny, and I remind him of it frequently asking him if his real last name isn’t Gambini. Well, technically he’s Jill’s cousin, but he and I have always gotten along and he takes care of me from time to time, and I him.
Let’s just hope he’s still alive.
I slip on my overly worn leather jacket and turn to the mirror, seeing myself. I have a look of determination on my face that I haven’t seen in a long, long time. It’s the same one I had twenty years ago when I joined the police academy.
The shrink was right… It’s time I started caring again.
“I’m coming, Babe.”
5
I explode out of my apartment building and see what a modern artist’s interpretation of Hell is. Fires billow through the streets casting horrifying shadows over everything in sight. People are savagely fighting each other, most monsters. Some not. I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do and quickly realize transportation is going to be tricky.
Looks like I’m going on foot. Luckily, the island is only about three miles wide at its broadest point so I should be able to get there sooner rather than later.
Jill and I have walked the distance twice before and it really didn’t take long. By car it only takes about fifteen minutes or so. By foot it should only take you forty-five minutes at most if you’re in a real hurry. The average person would take longer since they are most likely wandering around shopping.
I’m hoping to get there in less time. I look at my watch and tell myself thirty minutes. Three ten-minute miles shouldn’t be an issue. I used to run 5k’s under that a few years back. I figure with my extra motivation and whatnot, I should be able to best that time.
Hiding in the alcove of my building’s front door, I take in the landscape once more and survey the battlefield. I need to find a safe—somewhat safe—passage through the carnage that Abaddon seemingly wrought upon the city. What I see is disturbing to say the least.
The two creatures finish their goring of the ice cream shop owner and turn their attention my way. I duck and dive into the fray, coming out of my roll behind a smashed SUV. It’s pinned to a light post, with skid marks underneath it.
Must have screeched to a halt and slammed into the post.
Then something gets my attention away from the wreck.
Speaking of screeching…
I can hear the noise everywhere. The things cry out all over the neighborhood, crying into the night like rabid wolves. It sounds like they’re in pain, but it also sounds feral, like they’re hunting—searching.
Screams mix in with the shrieking of the inhuman beasts, making me cringe.
Ugh, I think as I realize that a lot of the screaming is also innocent people getting eaten alive, gored by their neighbors and friends. It’s like a choir of death is performing on the streets of Manhattan.
The SUV is thumped into from the other side and I hear more shrieking, but this is the sound of metal being torn and bent. I quickly stand and peek through the driver’s side window, past the body slumped over the steering wheel, and see the duo of monsters from across the street.
More glass shatters as they climb in, intent on getting to their next meal. I duck back down, gripped in fear. I know I need to get moving, but I’m unsure of what to do. I’m a police detective, not some real-life demon slayer Constantine-type. I deal with some pretty insane people occasionally, but nothing like this. People for the most part have rational thinking on their side, being able to see the error of their ways. Or they can at least be talked down and reasoned with.
I peek again and see them dig into their meal. Not a chance. These things have none of their humanity left. They are the living embodiment of a nightmare, radiating pure evil.
This is like Hannibal Lecter and the Devil had a baby.
A cold shiver envelopes my body and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I need to get off this street and figure out a plan.
A low growling quickly rises to a snarl above me and I tilt my head skyward, seeing one of those nightmares. The man-thing—a Goblin I quickly decide—leans out over the roof of the SUV staring down at me. It’s as unnerving a feeling as I’ve ever felt. Even without its eyes intact, it feels like it’s looking into my very soul, searching for a weakness to exploit.
Shouldn’t be too hard to find one right now, I think.
Reacting on instinct, I dive back towards my building and turn, landing on my back. I then raise my gun and fire it once, hitting the Goblin square in the chest, throwing it back over the other side of the SUV.
The second of the two creatures rears its ugly mug up from its meal inside the vehicle. I dispatch that one as well with a well-placed headshot, shooting through the driver’s side window in the process. The shots are noisy and echo terribly, bouncing off the tall buildings around me.
Uh-oh.
I don’t wait to see what happens. I run, turning right and heading south down 1st Avenue as fast as my shaking legs can take me. Where am I going? I have no idea. All I need to do is get west somehow…someway. I told Jill I’d be there and I’m not going to let this, of all times, be the first time I let her down when it comes to her safety. She’s never once doubted it.
I hit the first intersection at a sprint and quickly look both ways. I’m not looking for cars, but more of the beasts…and they’re everywhere. Some lay dead, slain by the hand of a relative. Others have ragged bullet holes in their bodies, shot by civilians.
Or other cops…
The sidewalk is blocked ahead and I have to venture out into the middle of the street. It’s like a maze of cars and I have to leap the hoods of a few, but I’m making good time, and don’t let up on my speed.
Watching my back, I turn and see a small group of Goblins coming up behind me. I don’t think they’ve detected me yet, but I know I need to hide. But where? I scan for places and see something that gives me hope.
There’s a small pick-up truck, an old Chevy S10, and it has a canvas topper on its bed. If I can get under it before they see me…
Come to think of it, I’m not sure how they’re hunting. Maybe they see like a bat does, using echolocation? I quickly dismiss the idea, hearing the cacophony of shouts and screams. There’s too much ambient noise around me for them to hunt that way.
The truck is in the middle lane—in a clearing of sorts, making it easy to get to. I slide to a stop behind it and lift the heavy canvas tarp. Inside is a bevy of goods. Vegetables, fruit, bread, and canned goods. Looks like a local seller was out and about, making their rounds.
Slipping inside, I recover myself and push a few of the baskets towards the rear hatch. Then, I wait…and hope.
The inside smells like a garden market, abundant with the aromas of the fresh picks. I didn’t realize how nasty and disgusting the air outside had become in such a short time, but the smell of smoke and blood is thick and overpowering.
The growling gets closer, approaching from the direction I just came. Then, a scratching noise. The same part of the canvas I used to enter lifts slightly followed by a sniffing sound. They are smelling for something, hunting by scent.
Well, that sheds some light on how they hunt.
Then it lifts the canvas higher and reaches in, blood dripping from its overgrown claws. I squelch the idea of retreating further into the bed or just shooting the damn thing, knowing that such a stupid idea will get me killed. Its claws graze a bushel of strawberries just above my head, tipping them over on top of me. The sweet-smelling fruit tumbles and stops, covering my face and chest.
It’s getting close to finding me and when it does…
Slowly I raise my hand and pluck a strawberry from my body, tossing it past the Goblin’s face. It lands with an inaudible thump behind it, but the small distraction does its job. One of the other monsters grunts, getting this one’s a
ttention.
Its clawed digits are now just inches from my face, hovering over me. I can even see a slight drip of some poor soul’s blood about to trickle onto the point of my nose. But I get to mentally breathe a sigh of relief as the talon-tipped hand slowly retracts, and then all at once it disappears as the canvas falls and hides me once again.
I lay my head back and gasp for air. I didn’t even know I was holding my breath, but I was. As soon as I get a lungful of the fruit-laced air, I start to laugh, quickly covering my mouth. Surviving these first encounters has brought out those absurd giggles. I got them once before down in West Palm Beach, when some teenaged twit ran a red light while texting and almost plowed into my squad car. I was this close to almost dying and couldn’t help but laugh at the near miss. Then, I wholeheartedly laughed in the girl’s face as she cried, oblivious as to why I pulled her over and cuffed her.
But then I think about how close I’d just come to dying at the hands of a monster, becoming a permanent edition to the fruit salad I find myself hiding in. Tears stream down my face, falling away from my upturned face, and sliding down my temples. These are good tears though—happy tears. I’m crying for the same reason I was laughing.
I’m just damn happy to be alive.
6
The strawberries and blueberries are perfect. The bread is some type of multigrain, but soft and flavorful. I greedily eat, understanding that finding a decent meal in the coming day—maybe days at this rate—may be hard to come by.
Physically, I’m satisfied. Emotionally, I’m a mess. I’ve tried to leave my enclosure twice already, but haven’t worked up the courage to do so. My watch tells me I’ve been in the back of the truck for about thirty minutes. I’m terrified that there may be one of the creatures just outside the flap and they’ll hear me.
“Dammit, Frank. Man up,” I whisper, scolding myself. I was always the first one to bad mouth the hero in a movie for showing his emotions, or when a sports athlete cries after a tough loss. I would normally deal with such things by getting angry, focusing on my next task. Some people use their emotions differently, I guess.
