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

by Matt James

  We make it there without incident, but Jill slips and bangs into the side-door of our target vehicle. The boom is answered by a guttural snarl. Freaking out, both Jill and I claw desperately at the door handle of the Winnebago only to find it locked. With nowhere else to go, I put Jill between me and the motorhome and wait for the inevitable to happen.

  Jill gently lays a hand on my shoulder and steps up beside me. She’s gingerly holding her own weapon, favoring her left hand the most. It seems to have taken the worst of the rope burn.

  “Till death do us part?” I ask, looking at her.

  She smiles slightly, then frowns, but before I get a reply, the door behind us makes a soft clicking sound. Raising an eyebrow, I reach back and attempt to pop the handle for a second time. To my relief, it opens, and I all but throw Jill inside. Hurriedly following her in, I carefully swing the door shut, but not before witnessing one of the dogs leap into the bed of a truck—the one we had been hiding behind a moment ago.

  It caught our scent, I think. Two more join it. They all did…

  Seeing enough, I close the door without a sound. Grinding my teeth, I relock it. I plea that it doesn’t click as loudly as it did before. While more of a soft popping sound, I know that the heightened senses of the Unseen-dogs can effortlessly pick up on it.

  Click.

  I close my eyes, hearing the beasts barking and howling somewhere outside. Hopefully, they’ll lose our scent in the gloom surrounding us and the soft, ocean breeze swirling through the parking lot. I pray it’s enough to confuse our pursuers.

  Jill hugs me, burying her face into my chest. The heavy panting of one of the dogs increases, blowing out a long breath against the door. Jill squeezes hard, knowing as I do that the end is coming soon if it, in fact, discovers us. One of the creatures, let alone four, could rip our shelter apart with ease if it is given a reason to do so.

  Neither of us takes in any air for what feels like minutes. We hold it and wait for whatever is about to happen. I pull Jill in closer, thankful to hear the animal snort and then pad away. Still, we wait a bit longer before saying a word.

  Jill speaks first, but it’s not what I thought she’d say.

  “Um, Frank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We aren’t alone.”

  Her eyes are on something behind me. I spin and start to raise my gun, but Jill quickly pushes it away. I’m happy she did too. From beneath the foldout kitchen table crawls a little girl. She’s covered in blood and holding an equally bloodied butcher’s knife in both hands. The child is wide-eyed and in shock…but she’s alive.

  Tears stream down her face, and she throws herself into my wife’s open arms. Jill had already knelt, slipping her gun into the back of her pants as soon as she saw the girl.

  “It’s okay,” Jill says, comforting the weeping girl. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  5

  “What’s your name, honey?” Jill asks, wiping the blood from the girl’s cheek. I don’t know whose blood it is, but the shape of the print looks an awful lot like someone’s handprint.

  A loving gesture for sure. I confirm that she’s alone inside “Winnie the Winnebago.” A parent maybe?

  “Hope,” she replies, nervously. “Hope Diaz.”

  “Hope…” Jill repeats, looking up at me with likewise wet eyes. She wipes her own tears away. “Such a wonderful name.”

  The two ladies are now sitting at the table. Hope is in Jill’s lap and seems to be coming out of her stupor. Human contact is a beautiful thing sometimes. I leave my station at the door and sit across from them, earning a nervous look from the little girl. Jill soothes her anxiety away by gently rubbing the top of her hand.

  My attention switches back and forth between the two women. Jill and Hope are eerily similar in appearance. While Jill’s naturally darkish complexion is due to her Italian heritage, Hope’s skin tone was handed down to her by her Hispanic bloodline. Her hair is jet-black, like Jill’s, but curlier. Each has dark-brown irises that feel like they’re looking into your soul when you make eye contact.

  “Hope, this is my husband, Frank—he’s a police officer.” Jill’s tone is jovial and upbeat considering our situation. I know she’s exaggerating it a little for Hope’s sake.

  Hope’s eyes open more, looking downright hopeful. I've earned the child's trust, simply by being a cop. Plus, kids her age are taught that police officers are supposed to be protective of others.

  I set Winnie’s first aid kit on the table. “Let me see those hands, Jill.” Hope had retrieved it for us after Jill cringed while trying to pick her up. Shortly after that, they sat at the table.

  Incredible that the kid thought of helping Jill so fast. The thought makes me smile.

  Wanting more information out of the girl, I decide to tread softly with my first question.

  “So, kiddo… How old are you?”

  “I’m seven, Mr. Frank.”

  I smile. “Just Frank is fine.”

  Her face glows. For a kid her age, being able to call an adult by only his, or her, first name is a big deal. She nods and gives me a smile.

  “Okay…Frank.” She smiles again.

  “And you can call me, Jill.”

  Hope nods emphatically, pleased with the leeway we’re giving her. Usually, I wouldn’t be okay with a kid calling me “Frank.” Call me old-school, but I think children should see adults in a different light. Respect is important to me. Elders deserve that.

  But not now, I think. ‘Frank’ will be just fine.

  Jill’s hands look worse than they are, but both the blisters and torn skin are going to be painful for a few days, at least. As I figured, her left hand got it much worse than her right. Thankfully, like me, she’s a righty. I clean them up with the last half of a random bottle of water. Speaking of which…

  I look at Hope. “Do you have any food in here?”

  “And…water?” Jill adds, wincing when I wipe the wounds clean with an alcohol pad.

  “I think there are some snacks left.” Hope blushes. “But I ate a lot of them.”

  She slides off Jill’s lap and moves to the adjacent kitchenette. There’s a small stove/oven combo with a microwave mounted above it, as well as a small sink, a fridge, and the pantry Hope had mentioned. She throws the door to the pantry open and pulls out an unopened box of Ritz crackers.

  Better than nothing.

  “Is this your Winnebago, Hope?” I ask, laying a layer of gauze atop Jill’s left hand. Then, I wrap it tight enough to hold it in place without causing her any more discomfort than I have to.

  “Win-nuh-bay-go?” Hope asks, sounding out the word.

  I glance at Jill and then back to Hope. “I guess that’s a no?”

  The girl shakes her head, giving us a soft giggle like the question was utterly ridiculous. “No, pfft… We live close to the beach. We come here all the time.”

  “We?” Jill asks, prodding the child gently.

  Still facing the pantry, I see Hope’s chin, and shoulders drop. “Me and my mommy and daddy.”

  Jill’s hand goes to her mouth. I can tell she’s trying, with all her might, to choke back a sob. This seven-year-old girl has survived in an abandoned Winnebago without her parents—who are more than likely a part of the dead outside.

  I put up a hand and stop Jill before she can ask what happened to them. Hope needs to reveal that herself. She’s been incredibly strong so far and has obviously buried what happened to her parents while focusing on her own survival—whether she knows that or not. Jill and I did the same thing when our cousins Vinny and Carla died in Manhattan.

  My eyes shift to Hope. Poor kid.

  * * *

  Darkness quickly envelopes everything around us. The same thing happened in New York except, miraculously, part of this place still has power! More than just the pier too. None of us check to see what else could be giving off the light, though. Drawing unwanted attention to ourselves would be an awful thing. It doesn’t seem to be headl
ights either. If left on, they would’ve died by now.

  That reminds me… I need to try and start Winnie in the morning.

  For now, Jill, me, and our new friend, Hope, all curl up together on the bed in the back room. The full-size mattress makes it a tight fit, but we make it work. No one undresses either. The last thing we need is to get caught with our pants down—literally. A pair of nightstands, one of each side of the bed, currently holds our weapons. We need to keep them close at all times. Hope lies between us, eyes closed, knees in her chest.

  Jill did what she could for the little girl, cleaning her up with what limited resources we found. Luckily for us, there was a case of baby wipes in the cramped bathroom. And by “bathroom,” I mean the room the size of a small closet with a toilet built for Oompa Loompas. Now, Hope looks halfway normal. Besides a few bumps and bruises, the only real damage she has sustained is a cut on her chin and another on her temple beneath her hair. Since laying down for the night, Jill hasn’t stopped stroking the girl’s head.

  My last conversation with General Gilmour comes to mind. It was moments before Jill and I “borrowed” the Coast Guard cutter…and before I shot the guy in the head.

  I had just refused to join his team of specialists. He was planning an operation to take out as many of the Unseen as possible while also instructing others on the best ways to do so. He wanted me to lead the charge since I had the most experience killing them up close. Being the family man that he was, Gilmour understood my refusal to aid him on his quest to rid the planet of the Unseen.

  I had told him that Jill and I wanted to come to Florida and check on our parents. I even mentioned starting my own family. Jill and I have tried for years with no positive results.

  Just a half-dozen miscarriages and an infinite amount of heartbreak.

  Eventually, we both moved on with our professions and stopped trying. Jill’s legal career took off, and my job as a detective with the NYPD got more and more demanding. We started to resent one another, and while slight at first, it eventually erupted into a wildfire of loathing.

  But the end of the world saved us.

  And we may have saved Hope in the process of saving ourselves. I smile and look at my girls. Hang on… My girls? Life altering situations can change one’s perspective on things, huh?

  While both aren’t technically “my” girls, I am responsible for them. Jill needs more looking after than I’m willing to admit aloud. Even contemplating it is dangerous territory with how mental women can be. They can sense a man’s thoughts like a great white shark can detect blood in the water.

  Blood in the water. I frown in disgust at my own thoughts, thinking of the crimson water to the east. Good timing, Frank.

  I catch myself staring at Hope and look up at Jill. She’s studying me the same way that I was eyeing the girl. I’m propped up on a couple of pillows while Jill and Hope are both laying down flat—like I should be doing. My wife’s face is only inches from the back of Hope’s head. I’ve never seen her this protective over another human being in my life.

  I smile again.

  “What?” she asks quietly.

  I feel myself blush. “Nothing… It’s nothing.”

  Jill knows what she’s doing. I don’t need to call her out. No one in their right mind should be calling dibs on an orphaned child. Yet, here we are, staking our claim, planting our flag on the unclaimed territory that is Hope.

  I blame Abaddon personally…as does every other person on the planet. It’s really not that unique of a feeling, come to think of it.

  Chaos, emotion, death, distress… They can all lead to some pretty strange feelings when thrown into a blender and pureed. I was never this emotional before Abaddon landed. Now, well, I’m Jill. I can’t escape this feeling—like I’m about to crack and come apart at the seams.

  Then again, if I felt fine right now, I’d be no better than the Unseen.

  “I’ve seen that look before, Frank,” Jill says, eyeing me. “It’s not nothing.”

  Hope groans and rolls over, throwing her arm over Jill’s head. From where I’m sitting, all I can see is her eyes now. They're soft and bursting with love. I smile again—I can’t help it. My reaction causes Jill to tear up…in a good way.

  Hope yawns but is still half-asleep, mumbling her words as she speaks. “What’s wrong, Jill?”

  “Nothing, kiddo,” I answer quickly. “Everything is fine. You’re safe.”

  She turns over and nestles into me this time. “That’s good. You’re very nice…like my mommy and daddy were.”

  Were.

  My eyes find Jill’s. Hope knows her parents are dead. I’m shocked that she isn’t totally breaking down right now but realize that she’s been dealing with their deaths on her own for some time now. That’s assuming they survived a day or two after everything happened and didn’t die or turn into monsters right away.

  Poor kid.

  I wrap my arm around the girl and close my eyes. I doubt I’ll sleep much, but I need to try. Jill and I slept pretty good while out on the water, but that was mostly because one of us was always awake, keeping watch and navigating the boat. At night, we docked somewhere scenic, too afraid to be on the water. There’s no telling what’s down there now. Even before Abaddon, the ocean spooked me.

  Now? No thanks.

  6

  Your dreams are supposed to be a refuge from the hardships of everyday life, right? Sure. I used to think that way when I was younger. Even as a cop, I’d wake up to visions of brutally murdered people and the shouts of frightened children. Some nights were better than others, but for the most part, I’d have a nightmare almost every time I’d lay down.

  It’s gotten a lot worse since New York.

  Duh.

  The lingerie-wearing siren—along with her Happy Meal—was a real doozy. The couple had been in the middle of doing it when the woman turned into a monster. The guy, the, uh, happy meal… All he could do was lay there and watch her turn. I can’t imagine the feeling of dread he felt when she locked her dead eyes on him and pounced. He was in the worst possible position too.

  Naked and cuffed to the bed.

  Betty’s death also hit home. We met when I passed out in her recliner—after I broke into her apartment. Once she realized that I wasn’t there to hurt her, Betty and I hit it off. She was about twenty years older than me and spoke with a southern twang. Betty even fixed me up. I had recently cut myself while jumping through a window. We spent that night drinking, laughing, and telling stories.

  Then, a goblin tackled her and ripped her throat out.

  I can’t even focus on Vinny and Carla’s deaths. Those were infinitely worse than the bed guy—even Betty. They were killed by people, not monsters. In retrospect, the guys that gunned them down were the real monsters of Manhattan. They had a choice and did what they did freely. The Unseen are fueled by rage and instinct. They’re more animal than man.

  Shortly after our cousins were murdered, Jill and I teamed up on the gunmen with the Unseen. We used their arrival to make a run for it, timing their attack on the shooters perfectly. We knew what to look for when a group of goblins were near. The assholes who murdered our family were too high on their latest kills to notice.

  Believe it or not, there were some pretty close calls in Manhattan that didn’t include monsters. I know, right? While making our escape from the gun-wielding maniacs, the city began to crumble around Jill and me. We ran, dodging falling debris until we couldn’t do it any longer. An entire building collapsed right on top of us.

  Miraculously, we weren’t crushed…yet.

  Pancaked beneath tons of concrete and metal, Jill and I scraped and crawled to freedom. It was as if we were a part of an urban sandwich. We were the meat, the building and sidewalk the pumpernickel. I’m never one to feel claustrophobic, but I started to freak out a second after I tried to breathe and couldn’t. As many times as I had been close to death in the last couple of days, that moment was when I was the most afraid.
/>
  “No…” I mumble, recalling how Vinny and Carla were mowed down.

  “Oh, God…” Betty dies in my arms.

  “Can’t…breathe…” The crushing force of an entire fucking building.

  “Frank?”

  My eyes snap open, and I practically leap out of bed. It’s still night, and the tiny room is shadowed in darkness. The only illumination is coming from outside the small, frosted privacy window.

  I find two sets of eyes staring at me, both looking very worried. Their owners are huddled together, holding one another in fright. Jill and Hope sit perfectly still but don’t say a word. Jill has seen me in a lot worse shape. Hope hasn’t, though. This is a new experience for her—all of it. Now, the guy who’s supposed to be protecting her is freaking out and scaring her.

  “Hope…” I say breathing hard. “I’m…okay.” I look at Jill. “I’m fine…just a bad dream.”

  Hope stands and walks to the end of the bed. She’s almost eye level with my chest now. I lean in when she reaches up to me. With a delicate touch, she wipes a tear away from my eye and smiles.

  “I have them too.” Her face drops and she breaks into a full-on sob.

  I do the only thing I can think of and pick her up. This is new territory for me after all. She wraps her arms around me and buries her face into my neck.

  “It’s okay, kiddo,” I whisper, rubbing her back.

  Jill knee-walks over to us and hugs Hope from the other side, gripping me as well. This sandwich is a ton better than the concrete one in Manhattan.

  “He’s right, Hope,” Jill says. “We’re going to be okay.”

  The girl sniffs hard and nods, rubbing her forehead against my collarbone. It hurts, but I don’t say anything or push away. I’m sore as hell, but Hope needs this.

  We all do.