Vicious Moon

by Lee Roland

  The creature roared louder than the boom box thumping the walls with teeth-rattling bass. The Bastinados grabbed their weapons. They barely glanced at me as I crossed the room at a dead run. Two guards stood at the front door, but they had their eyes on the monster, too. I shoved my way past the guards. Screams and gunshots filled the night. Throw the door bolt and I emerged onto the sidewalk.

  I raced down the street. I hadn’t gone far when the ground suddenly heaved and shuddered under my feet. The whole block thundered with a massive explosion. A vast wind howled, furious and red, and surged down the street in battering waves.

  Tornados of brilliant orange fire blasted out the windows of the building I’d escaped, and washed over the street like an outrageous, misguided sunrise. A hot hand of air picked me up and slammed me to the broken concrete. I twisted and landed face-first to protect the boy strapped to my back, then rolled to my side with my body between him and the inferno. I covered my face with my arms. More explosions followed and the doomed building’s front facade crumbled into the street while burning debris rained from the sky.

  What in the Earth Mother’s name had been in there?

  When the fury abated a bit, I forced myself to my feet and headed for the car. Was the pavement moving or was it me staggering?

  The sound of the explosion still hammered my eardrums. I opened the back door, peeled away the straps and protective covering holding the boy secure against my body. I laid him across the backseat. He didn’t seem injured, and he still slept from the sedative I’d given him to keep him calm.

  It wasn’t until I climbed in the driver’s seat and fumbled for my key that I noticed the blood—my blood—too much blood. Slick wet crimson streaked down the side of my face and soaked half my shirt. Shards of glass protruded like rough diamonds from my forearm’s blistered skin. It didn’t hurt—yet. Pain would come soon enough.

  I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

  Another deeper blast rumbled under the street, shaking the car.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, police, fire trucks, ambulances, rushing to the scene. They rarely entered the Barrows, but the magnitude of the blast I’d lived through couldn’t be ignored.

  I turned the key again. And again.

  Last month I’d had to make a choice. Fix the car’s starter or buy special hand-loaded bronze bullets. I’d chosen bullets.

  The fourth time I twisted the key, the engine jerked to life. It sputtered twice, then smoothed. I popped it into gear and rolled forward, away from the fiery beast still raging behind.

  Symptoms of shock crept in and pain found me. It rose by increments, increasing in intensity with every passing moment. My heart raced at a frantic pace and my arms shook so I could barely hold the wheel. Sweat formed an icy second skin as my body temperature took a nosedive. Sweet Mother, it hurt. The street blurred and shifted in my vision. Worse, though, was the feeling of pursuit. My little car chased through the deserted streets by some invisible, unimaginable horror. With considerable will, I kept my foot from mashing down the gas pedal.

  Clouds drifted away from the cold, exquisite full moon.

  “Follow,” a soft voice whispered and urged me on. The white orb in the sky suddenly filled the windshield, rising to a brilliant mass of pure, clear light. I drove toward the radiance, navigating well-known streets as if dreaming of driving. North, keep moving north. A stop sign? Okay. Don’t run that red light. If a cop stopped me, they’d call an ambulance, take me to the hospital, and I’d die. I was already beyond the skill of modern medicine’s healing.

  The child in the backseat moaned, as if in a nightmare. I had to stay conscious long enough to get him to safety. I wouldn’t go down for nothing.

  The guiding brilliance faded as I reached my destination. Control of the automobile eluded me, however, and the mailbox loomed. Before I could hit the brakes, I’d rolled over the box and the small sign that marked the home and business of Madam Abigail. The sign offered psychic readings, but gave not a hint of the true power and grace of the woman who dwelled and worked there.

  I plowed through the flowered yard. Abby was going to be seriously pissed at me. Two feet from the front porch, the car jerked to a halt. Abby would find me. Abby would care for me as she always had. Luminous moonlight filled the night again, then faded, leaving only sweet-smelling flowers that lured me into painless darkness.