There's Blood on the Moon Tonight

by Bryn Roar

  Years ago, she and her friends had lost their bearings in these woods, and before they knew it they’d found themselves traveling over the same ground, over and over again. A fruitless circle, just like in the books.

  Once Bud realized what was happening, he’d calmly taken matters in hand. He’d led them through the Pines by blazing a trail and walking away from the sun’s westward descent, until they came out along the East End dirt road. Easy peasy, teasy squeezey.

  Of course, back then we didn’t have the to navigate all these feckin’ blow downs!

  It was impossible to see in a straight line, much less maintain one. They could go back the way they came—she didn’t think it would be too difficult to find their way out—but what would Buddy boy think when he got back to the Bunker, later in the afternoon, only to find they weren’t there yet? Would he attempt a search with dark coming on?

  She knew the answer to that one: Of course, he would! The big doofus. He’d pile on the firearms; slip a buck knife between his teeth, and Rambo his way through an army of Rabids in search of his loved ones. Outta my way, you red-eyed motherfuckers! I’m here to save the day!

  Cue the Calvary horn.

  Josie sighed and chose the most obvious direction in which to travel. Time to start blazing a trail, Miss Tits.

  Something obvious and eye level. She tore a strip from her right sleeve and tied the bright red cloth to a tree branch. Satisfied with the result, she nodded her head. Fluttering in the breeze like that, it would be hard to miss.

  Noting the precaution, Rusty’s eyebrows flexed upwards. “Hey, Tits, are we los—”

  “Ralphie! You seen anything suspicious?” Josie said, shooting Rusty a look.

  Tubby waited until Bill joined them. “No…but…”

  “But what?” Bill snapped. He looked at Tubby the way every bully in his life had ever had. With disgust and cruel contemplation. The eyes…they never lie.

  Tubby moved away from Mr. Brown. Suddenly he wasn’t too keen on Bud’s super cool pops. He turned instead to Rusty and Josie. “Do y’all smell smoke?”

  *******

  Bud’s Zippo barely made a dent in the darkness. The Rabid kept its distance to the outer limit of the light, in just enough of the tepid glow to identify it. Bud’s distorted image stared back at him from the reflection in Rupert Henderson’s mirrored sunglasses. The sheriff’s shades were why Bud hadn’t seen the red eyes staring back at him.

  Bud wondered if that was a deliberate subterfuge, keeping his burning eyes in check like that.

  Despite Henderson’s grievous injuries, suffered outside his office before the storm, when Pig attacked him, the sheriff, for the first time in his life, was a man to be reckoned with. A dangerous man. The severed arm in his right hand was testament to that fact.

  Torn flaps of skin hung loosely from Rupert’s face and skull. White bone gleamed back from the glow of Bud’s Zippo. Maggots feasted in a deep well where his nose used to be. The mass of them rose and fell, rose and fell, as if one breathing entity, reminding Bud of that childhood mummy nightmare.

  Before the Red-Eyed Man, that is…

  Looking at the rabid lawman, Bud had to wonder if even then his dreams might not have been trying to prepare him for this day. After all, even the most traumatic events imaginable are easier to bear the second time around.

  Truth was, Bud was more curious now than scared. He studied the Rabid the way Diane Fossey once studied the mountain gorillas. Cautious, to be sure, yet calm and cool. Instead of being horrified by Henderson’s freakishly long tongue—as it snaked out and snatched itself a mouthful of maggots—Bud simply remarked: “Now if that shit ain’t demonic, then neither is Rosemary’s baby.

  “Sheriff, you okay?” Bud asked. Silly fucking question, since Henderson had just taken a bite out of the severed arm. “Maggots are just a side dish for you, huh?”

  Bud glanced over at the corpse; sure enough, it was missing an arm. Henderson had pretty much stripped the tasty morsel of muscle and flesh. Except for the hand, it was mostly bone and maggots. The squirming larvae fell from the denuded extremity like grains of rice.

  Bud began inching himself towards the bomb shelter. “Anybody else at this here buffet?”

  “Buuuuuddd,” the sheriff gurgled cheerfully in response. It came out like a run-on belch. Deep and rumbling belch/speak. Remembering Bud’s name seemed to please the Rabid no end. It was, Rupert suddenly recalled, the very reason he’d come down this hole in the first place. To await Bud and his reject friends. The anonymous caller, back on Tuesday, having given excellent directions to their underground bunker.

  In the meantime, he’d had a nice little snack. A “Buffet”, as Bud called it. He tried clapping but his left hand just ended up slapping the severed arm in his right fist. The moldy hand waved at Bud, creating surreal shadow puppets on the wall. A literal Creepshow.

  The Zippo was unbearably hot now. Bud shifted it between his blistering fingers, careful not to drop it again. It was imperative he keep the Rabid in front of him—especially if there was another one behind it somewhere.

  There were three sets of footprints up above: the Sheriff had on his Cat’s Paw boots. Ked’s, size 9, was decomposing right behind him. Unaccounted for was Mr. Bare Feet—unbeknownst to Bud, Lester Noonan. And thanks to Josie and Christine, no longer a threat to anyone.

  Bud held the hatchet aloft, inching his way towards Rupert, trying to get within striking distance. His eyes dropped down to the empty holster, hanging from the sheriff’s gunbelt; somewhere along the way Festus had lost his sidearm. Good deal, Bud thought. That levels the playing field between us.

  Saliva drooled from the Rabid’s clacking jaws, slimy long strands of the stuff. Besides the dreadful injuries to Henderson’s filleted face, Bud could make out several other open wounds. The worst of that lot was a puss-filled, human-sized bite on his forearm that looked and smelled gangrenous. So far gone, even the maggots wouldn’t touch it. The other injuries looked to be half-hearted attempts by something to feed on Henderson.

  Rupert belched from the deepest recesses of his gut.“Fuuucckk yoooouu, Buuuuuuuuuudddd!”

  Bud assumed the old fart was simply cursing at him, using that timeworn slang, which held all sorts of derogatory meaning. Watching Henderson stroke the crotch of his filthy pants, however, Bud realized it had a more literal definition. He actually wants to fuck me! Bud made a come-hither gesture. “Well, come and get it, old man!”

  Henderson gurgled as he circled his prey. “Yesss! Come and get ittt! I come and get it right nooowww!”

  Bud let the Sheriff get within one body-length of him, his muscles tensing for an opening. If he timed the move just right, he’d drop Henderson like a bad habit.

  Realizing his prey wasn’t going to run, the Rabid frowned. The boy’s lack of fear was bewildering.

  Bud reached out with the Zippo, holding it aloft, the flesh on his fingertips sizzling on the hot metal, the lighter within the Rabid’s reach now…

  Henderson’s attention automatically focused on the flame; he took a swipe at it, trying to knock it out of Bud’s hand. He missed. Bud raised it again, taunting him with the fluttering flame, like the humpback Fritz in Frankenstein.

  Henderson missed again…

  Bud edged closer still…

  Henderson saw his chance. He dove in, off-balance, swiping at the light—just as Bud had envisioned he would. The rusty hatchet made its calculated descent now, inches from Rupert’s startled face, forcing his head up and back, his throat unprotected and stretched taught…

  Cocking his right leg back like Billy Jack, Bud watched his target fully present itself, pretty as a bull’s-eye. Fast as lightning, Bud’s foot lashed out at the center ring…

  *******

  Bill Brown hung back a little until the kids had advanced far enough ahead to lose sight of him. Then, without wondering why or examining his suddenly malevolent motives, he tore the red strip of cloth from the pine bough. He brought it up to
his nose and inhaled the girl’s pleasing scent, smelling so much more than strawberries and sunshine. Drool oozed from his twisted grin, trailing all the way down to the ground. No longer tired or hurting, Bill Brown sniffed the air like a bloodhound. In fact, except for his hypersensitive eyes and constricting throat, he felt rather sturdy. Even the headache had abated. Or maybe he was just responding to pain differently now. The rest of his body and senses seemed to thrum with some supernatural power, aching to be unleashed on the innocent and naive.

  Speaking of innocence, he watched the young people ahead of him climb over a fallen tree. The one called Josie had taken off her coat and wrapped it around her waist. His eyes roamed over her unencumbered breasts, stripping away the tight, red tee-shirt that covered them. The newborn Rabid tucked the trail marker into its pocket and grinned again, saliva running freely from either side of its mouth.“Ready or not, here I come…”

  *******

  At that same moment, with his father now beyond reason or help, Bud watched Rupert claw at his throat. Gasping for air. Bud’s Timberland hiking boot had caved in Henderson’s exposed Adam’s apple, cracking the sheriff’s windpipe in two. Rupert was unable to draw a breath.

  He lay on the floor of the Bunker, flopping around like a bass in the bottom of a boat. His red eyes became dimmer as his life force ebbed away.

  Henderson’s glasses had flown off his head and landed on the dead body. Maggots squirmed in vain over the frames in search of fresh flesh. Bud walked over and stared at the unrecognizable corpse, trying to ascertain its identity, and how it came to be here, but he couldn’t begin to form a guess. Then again, it was no more a mystery than how Henderson had ended up in his Bunker! How had either of them learned of its location? What were they doing down here? Waiting on him? For Bud’s friends? It was frustrating to know he would never realize either of their motives. As always, Bud felt no fear of the sheriff. He stepped over the man to get past him. He’d felt the Rabid’s windpipe crack underneath his foot, and he knew Henderson wouldn’t be getting up again.

  Shit, even boogeymen have to breathe!

  Bud let the ax and his hot Zippo drop to the floor, the lighter’s blue flame winking out, allowing himself finally to feel the fire in his fingertips, sucking them deep into his mouth. He found his way over to the coffee table and fumbled with a pack of matches, striking one and lighting the Coleman. The propane lantern lit the shelter and the adjoining alcove, banishing the dark to the farthest corners. It raised Bud’s flagging spirits and refreshed his faltering hopes. Yes, as God had ascertained early on in His career, light was good!

  Raising the lantern in his hand, Bud approached the worm-ridden corpse again. For some reason he felt an affinity for this poor lost soul, and was reluctant to leave his side. A kindred spirit, that’s what he was, and I never even knew him. Strangely enough, he felt as if he’d let this person down. He knew without doubt or reservation that this was a victim of a Rabid, and not a Rabid himself. There was something terribly sad about his dying all alone down here, far away from his family and friends.

  A grave with no marker. Just like Joe’s dad.

  It was the body of a slightly built young man, not much bigger than Rusty, and by the looks of his Moon River Academy polo shirt, a fellow student at that—the school’s black crest embroidered over the left breast (girls wore a pink crest). The flesh was so liquefied that not even the boy’s parents could have identified him.

  Bud missed the significance of the book looped around the kid’s neck. The sad truth was, he’d never noticed it or the boy who wore it before. He was tempted to reach into the corpse’s pockets, to try and find a wallet, but a look at his watch told him it was already past noon.

  He’d used up seven hours already!

  Bud ran to the back of the shelter, ignoring his common sense screaming at him to beware dark shadows—not to mention that last set of unexplained tracks. Where’s that barefooted asshole hiding at? He’d wasted enough time as it was. From here on out he would have to leap before he looked. My father’s life depends on it!

  *******

  Josie took another breather at a tangle of wind-blown trees and brush, keeping the thick brush-wall to her back. Too thick and tangled for a Rabid to maneuver in. She shrugged off her backpack and waited on Tubby and Rusty to catch up with her. She could scarcely believe how far back her charges were lagging. The boys were walking abreast, several yards away, while Bill struggled to keep up, another thirty paces further back. So far back he was almost lost from view. She felt guilty, making them keep to such a brisk march, especially Bilbo, but if they didn’t reach the clearing before nightfall she knew they’d probably never make it out of the woods at all. Before that happened, though, there’d be the matter of a certain promise to keep.

  Like Old Yeller in the corncrib.

  She checked her watch, as Tubby and Rusty plopped down beside her. “12:15,” she said, tapping the face of her Timex. “Don’t get too comfortable, boyos. We’ve got to pick up the pace if we want to be underground before nightfall.”

  Tubby wiped his brow with a sleeve of his army coat. “Huh? I thought you said it was only three miles to the lake. Why should it take…wait a second…we’ve easily walked that distance by now! Jeepers, Josie! Are we lost?”

  “No, Ralphie. It’s just going to take us longer than I expected. If you haven’t noticed, love, these feckin’ windfalls are kicking our bleeding arses!”

  Rusty knew better. He’d been in these woods as often as Josie, and nothing looked familiar anymore, the landscape far too altered to recall. Yep. They were as lost as those two Kraut kids in the old fairy tale. Pointing that out, though, wouldn’t do them any good. Josie was doing the best she could. Besides, he couldn’t see where he would have done anything differently. Maybe they shouldn’t have taken the cemetery trail through the Pines, but for all they knew, the other paths were just as inaccessible.

  Rusty pushed his glasses up on his nose. “If we push Bilbo any harder, I don’t think he’s gonna make it. That virus will eat him alive if he doesn’t get some real rest soon. Man’s barely keeping up with us as it is.”

  Josie was barely listening, staring off into the woods behind them. “Speaking of Bilbo,” she said, looking scared. “Just where is that man?”

  *******

  Bud emerged from the Bunker, armed to the gills. Confident enough now to take on anything. The only thing missing from the picture was the knife clenched between his bared teeth. He checked his backpack for supplies once again. He’d emptied his belongings onto one of the bunk beds and re-packed it with a Maglite, one fully loaded .45, an extra clip, and a brick of shells. He then added a box of shotgun shells, a full water bottle, and almost as an afterthought, a can of lighter fluid and the flare gun, loaded with two flares. A razor sharp, twelve-inch buck knife rested in a leather sheath attached to his belt. The Mossberg pump-action 12 gauge, which he carried in his right hand, had six shells in its rack, and was a far superior weapon than the old Remington he’d left with Josie.

  Thinking of Joe made him remember something else. He went back for another .45 and one of the Maglites. He’d leave them for her and his dad at the top of the ladder-well. Maybe it would be enough to keep them on their toes when they came down this way. He didn’t have time to be more specific with a note.

  He checked his watch again to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake about the time.

  Just as he’d thought: it was 12:15 and they still hadn’t made it to the clearing! If they’d gotten an early enough start—and he felt certain Josie would’ve insisted on leaving shortly after sunup—then they should’ve been here by now. Christine would’ve made up for my head start. Where the hell are you, Joe? Fuck! Something’s happened! I just know it! Go back, Bud! Go back and find them!