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

by Matt James

  “This is all home-grown muscle, kiddo.”

  He said that one afternoon while we sparred with one another. I was sixteen at the time, and Dad was forty-four. Shirtless, he flexed when he said that, and it got a laugh out of me…until he sent me sprawling into the ropes with a nasty uppercut.

  I glance over my shoulder to Hope. I’ve called her “kiddo” a number of times now. It must be my inner Irvin Moon coming out. My father hated his given name growing up and, instead, went by his middle name, Francis, or Frank. We are both Frank to those that know us, but I’m not a “Junior” like most people would assume.

  Mom still calls him Irvin, and it drives him nuts. I think she just likes to watch his blood boil.

  I can feel a smirk develop. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “What?” Jill asks.

  My smirk turns into a full-fledged smile. “Just thinking of Mom poking the bear.”

  I see Jill smile out of the corner of my eye.

  “I swear,” she says snickering a little, “Deb loves to terrorize him.”

  I shake my head and chortle hard. “Her favorite hobby.”

  “Who?” Hope asks.

  Jill turns around in her seat. “Frank’s parents.” She places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “They’re great people.”

  “And yours?”

  I peek at Jill and see her wilt under Hope’s gaze.

  “They’re, uh,” I reply, “not too bad.”

  In truth, Jill’s folks are hard-asses and don’t like me much. The main reason they dislike me is that we haven’t given them a grandchild yet. What they won’t take into consideration is that it’s Jill who can’t get pregnant the old-fashion-way, not me being quote, “unfit to do the job,” as her father, Anthony, has so eloquently said in the past.

  God, I hate that man.

  For Jill’s sake, I hope they’re alright. Jill’s mom, Cynthia, for the most part, has treated me fairly, but I always sensed that she felt I was unworthy, and that Jill shouldn't have picked me to marry. My relationship with Cynthia is more awkward than bad—but it isn’t good either.

  They live on Napoleon Boulevard. whereas my folks live on Mandela Lane. Yes, the streets are named after famous historical figures. Anthony would take our mind-numbing arguments as far as bringing up the roads we lived on.

  “Napoleon was a man of action,” he’d say with a determined look. “A great leader.”

  I’d laugh and say, “At least Nelson Mandela wasn’t four-foot-nine…”

  Believe me, it was funnier if you were there.

  The memory is erased when I have to dodge a fallen palm tree. I mean, I know it’s Florida and all, but the number of palms that were planted in Nottingham is ridiculous. The property manager even went as far as adding more fifteen years ago, and now, after every major storm, there are coconuts everywhere—which is to say, all the time because we get severe storms regularly.

  I can’t begin to tell you how many coconuts are floating in the water between the streets. There must be a hundred of them on this street alone! I never thought a meteor could screw with the weather, yet, here we are. I’m not going to try and figure it out either. It’s freaky, and it happened. End of story.

  “Are we there yet?”

  Both Jill and I turn around and stare at Hope, who shrinks into herself. It was hard not to react to that statement the way most people do when they are driving in a car. From her own reaction, I’m guessing she didn’t mean anything by it.

  “Almost, kiddo.”

  I mentally announce the streets as we pass them. H… I… J… K… L…

  “Mandela Lane,” I say. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We’re here.”

  21

  Like all the other streets connecting to Nottingham Trail, Mandela Lane is just one road that ends in a cul-de-sac. Funny enough, I used to live in a cul-de-sac when I was a boy, as do my parents now. It was the best place to grow up, perfect for playing outdoors. Outdoor play is a strange and archaic activity to the new generation, and it makes me sad.

  Did you know that selfie-related deaths have “outscored” shark attack deaths across the globe over the last three years?

  Boom… Mind bomb.

  Get out and play, but not in a tiger shark’s living room…

  Besides the noticeable property damage, blood, and bodies, Mandela Lane looks completely normal.

  Mom and Dad’s place is at the end of the street and is one of four homes in the cul-de-sac. A new pit forms in my stomach when I see that most of their neighbors’ cars are still in their driveways. I can’t imagine my parents surviving while hearing their longtime friends being slaughtered. Most, if not all, of the people living on Mandela Lane, have been here for at least ten years. It’s a testament to the living conditions…and lack of real-estate market. The business of buying and selling of homes hasn’t been a friendly one as of late in South Florida.

  Not like it was a decade ago.

  As an agent, mom did well for herself then, selling our family’s old, gorgeous, custom-designed two-story home for a hefty profit. She even helped Jill and me find our place in Manhattan.

  Fucking Abaddon…

  I haven’t had time to think about what we lost back in New York. Why would I at this point? The only thing that I wanted out of that hell hole was Jill. Obviously, it would’ve been great to come out of there with Vinny and Carla alive as well. That goes without saying. But if I’m honest, I would’ve traded them both for my wife.

  Man, that feels heartless.

  We pass by Pat and Kelly’s place. Then, Don and Jennie’s. Next is Mark and Nora’s… Those two have a killer saltwater pool, and a full bar out back. I know all these people so well and have no clue if they survived or not.

  “Look.”

  I follow Jill’s outstretched finger and see Mom’s Camry on its side. Something big made its way through here at some point. While not the biggest four-door in the world, the Toyota wouldn’t have been an easy tip. Babe’s prodigious girth flashes across my mind. Is there something that big hunting the survivors of Nottingham?

  I sigh. Probably…

  As of now, I’ll think the worst and will be happy if it doesn’t happen.

  “What a shitty way to think,” I mumble.

  “Huh?” Hope asks.

  “Nothing,” I reply, pulling the Jeep into the Moon family driveway.

  I’m assuming Dad’s Mustang is in the garage—where it usually is. It’s a beautiful, all-black, brand-new BULLITT. He literally just got it six weeks ago. I really feel for the guy too. He always wanted one, all the way back to the Steve McQueen days, and when he finally picked one up, the world went to shit.

  I haven’t even seen it in person. He sent me a picture the day he got it, along with his thumb taking up half the shot. Mom and I laughed, but at the same time, I yearned to get behind the wheel of that thing.

  With Mom’s “boring” sedan to my left, in the front yard, the brick driveway is empty. I park in the middle of it and kill the engine. I can’t hide my nervousness. I have no idea what I’ll find inside. Are they alive and watching Home Improvement reruns, or are they in tiny, little pieces all over the living room?

  The latter makes me queasy.

  Drawing my pistol, I check the magazine and see that I have seven rounds left. If there is something to shoot, I’ll have to make every shot count.

  Jill and I open our doors as one. I step away from the Jeep and stand guard as she retrieves Hope from the back. The three of us just stand there and listen to the breeze. It’s the only thing making a sound minus the occasional squawk of a bird overhead. Luckily for us, none of them seemed to have changed. The Unseen, in all their forms, are evil. A winged variation would be the worst of them all.

  Alfred Hitchcock…eat your heart out.

  Gripping the gun with both hands, I quickly move to the front door and find the frame broken and the door itself ajar. I can just make out a dresser on the other side, giving me hope that
they are alive. One of them must’ve put the piece of furniture there as a blockade against an enemy. But how long ago was that?

  I hand Jill my gun and try to shoulder the door open. It moves slightly, but not a lot. If I were them, I would’ve loaded the drawers with anything I could find and make the dresser as heavy as I could.

  Digging in, I ram the door hard and am happy to see it open more. It takes three more tries before I can squeeze inside and move the blockade. Jill and Hope are next, and when I turn around, I’m face-to-face with the tip of a carbon arrow belonging to a familiar looking recurve bow.

  I drop to the floor and shout, “Don’t shoot!”

  “Frank?”

  The bewildered look on her face must match mine. Then, she breaks free of the shock and loosens her grip on the bowstring. She picked up the sport of archery eight years ago and practices daily in the backyard much to the chagrin of her neighbors. As far as they know, Mom has never accidentally sent an arrow flying into their lawn.

  “Who is it, Deb?”

  The voice comes from the other room, and with my mother’s help, and Jill’s, I get up and rush into the master bedroom, but not before embracing my mom hard.

  Dad is laid up on the bed, foot heavily wrapped in a medical bandage. When he sees me, his eyes light up, and tears stream down his cheeks. The same thing happens to Mom and me. I run to his side and hug him, never happier to see the old fool alive and somewhat well.

  “What?” Dad asks. “How?”

  Jill hugs my mother and recounts our adventure in and out of New York.

  “And who’s this?” Mom asks, kneeling in front of Hope. For all her interest in my parents, Hope slinks behind Jill.

  “This is Hope,” I explain. “She’s a friend.”

  Both of my parents look at me for further details, but I quickly shake my head. They get the hint and don’t push it. They’re smart enough to know that something terrible must’ve happened to her mom and dad.

  “Hope…” Mom says, holding out her hand. “My name is Deborah Moon. It’s really nice to meet you.”

  Hope nervously peeks out from behind Jill’s legs. “Frank’s mommy?”

  My mother nods emphatically. “Yes, that’s right. I’m Frank’s mom.”

  “Hope?” Her eyes find mine. “You can trust her.”

  Step by tiny step, Hope reveals herself and takes Mom’s hand, shaking it. “My name is Hope Diaz. Frank and Jill are my friends.” She smiles. “They helped me when I was alone.”

  Mom sniffs back tears, and looks up at me, taking my own hand. She knows how much Jill and I have wanted kids, and how much it means to us to kind of have one now. We may not be her real parents—we never will be—I know we can try and give the girl a good life. She deserves that much.

  So do we.

  I limp over to Dad and pat him on the shoulder.

  “So, what happened here?” I’m confused when he blushes. I look at Mom. “What?”

  Mom laughs. “Old fool turned his ankle trying to run from one of those damned things out back.”

  “Out back?” I ask.

  Dad takes over. “You know… The ones with the missing eyes.”

  “The Unseen,” I say, getting a questioning look from them both. Thankfully, neither one of them asks about it. I don’t have the energy to retell everything I’ve learned about them. Jill covered the basics of our escape. That should be good enough for now.

  “Sure…them,” he replies. “Don from down the street.” His face falls. “What used to be Don, anyways… Bastard tried to bite me. I turned and ran for it but rolled my ankle on a damned sprinkler head.” He laughs softly. “Went down like a ton of bricks.” He nods to Mom. “Your mother came running out with her bow and put two in Donny’s chest.”

  “Is it broken?” Jill asks, lifting and setting Hope on the bed.

  Dad shrugs. “Hell if I know.”

  Hope looks at his foot. “What if something got in here with you?”

  Dad grins and tosses back the comforter. There, next to him, is a Remington VERSA MAX Sportsman autoloader shotgun.

  He hefts the 12-gauge. “Your mother has her hobbies, and I have mine.”

  “Have you heard from my parents?” Jill asks, getting down to business.

  Mom shakes her head. Jill instantly covers her mouth with her hands.

  “But that’s because they aren’t here!” Mom quickly adds.

  “What?” Jill asks, looking at me.

  “The day before the…event…they flew out to their cabin.” Mom looks out the bedroom window. “They even asked us to join them.” She turns back to us. “To think, if we had gone, we wouldn’t be here with you.”

  “You’d be safe,” I say, not sure if I believe my own words.

  “Would we, son?” Dad asks. “Would we?” He throws his feet off the bed and gingerly stands, shotgun in hand. “Not to get all sappy on you, but I’d much rather be here, in a place I know well than up in the boons of Tennessee with Lord-knows-what crawling around there.” He grips my shoulder. “It’s good to know you’re okay too.” He looks at Jill and Hope. “All of you.”

  For the next couple of minutes, and after I re-barricade the front door, we sit in the living room and talk. Mom and Dad’s questions are succinct and easy to answer. We tell them about the cutter ride down the coast, the Lake Worth pier, the prison, Wes, the mall, and anything else that happened to us to get here.

  “When we saw what happened in New York on the news,” Mom’s voice catches, “we immediately thought of you two.” Her eyes water. “Then, when they leveled Manhattan…”

  “We’re okay, Deb,” Jill says, Hope in her lap. Mom is sitting next to them, holding one of Hope’s hands, rubbing the top of it.

  There’s a bang at the front door. I leap to my feet and pull my pistol. Dad slowly stands on his bad ankle and shoulders his shotgun. Mom stays put with Jill and Hope.

  “Who’s there?” Dad calls out.

  He’s answered by a shrill cry—a siren!

  Dad responds to the beast by pumping two shells into, and through, the wooden door. The creature is quickly silenced without even a shout of pain. The only noise we hear is her body falling to the brick walk.

  I turn to my father and grin. “Hopefully it wasn’t somebody trying to spread the ‘good news.’”

  22

  Before we headed out, Jill, Hope, and I had to do one thing. Shower. It was one of the most glorious moments of my life. I could literally hear Jill moan in ecstasy from the other room when she hopped in after me. Come to think of it, I made the exact same sound when the water first hit my neck and back. Even with all my bumps and bruises, bloodied wounds and all, the cleansing of filth felt incredible.

  Cleaning Hope was a little tricky in that she had never had a bath with anyone outside of her immediate family. Luckily, she could do most of it herself. Jill volunteered to sit in with the girl, which made my life easier. I would’ve gladly given Hope a hand but knew it would be better if Jill did it.

  Mom even went as far as running a quick wash for us since we were forced to pack light for our trip. With nothing but the clothes on our backs and what little food and water we stored in the Jeep, the three of us were grateful for the hospitality.

  “Of course,” Mom replies when I thank her.

  I’m shirtless and standing in the living room. Dad was watching out for us while we bathed, and while I waited for my shirt to be done, I armed myself as well. Just my jeans, my shoulder holster, and my handgun.

  “Oh, Frank…” she says, reacting to my beat body. I’m still bruised from my death-defying leap from the fire escape in Manhattan, as well as a dozen other things.

  I’m beyond a disaster, mind, body, and even soul, I know that. The shower did more than just clean my exterior. It also recharged my mind. It aided in clearing out some of the crap I’ve seen. Most is still there, but the effects of it have lessened some.

  It’s like I just deleted a large file off my phone. There’s st
ill a shit-ton of garbage on the device, but there’s also a little space for some new data.

  New memories. Better ones hopefully.

  I'm waiting to get back into the bathroom to finish getting ready since Hope and I cleaned up first. After a while, I decide to check on Jill. I figured she’d be done by now.

  Inching up to the door at the end of the hall, I go to knock. Just when my knuckles are about to make contact with the door, I hear something and pause. It’s slight, but it’s there. I place my ear against the thin wood and recognize a soft mewling.

  Jill is crying.

  I don’t knock. I slip out of my shoulder holster and set it on the hallway table next to me, and quickly enter and shut the door behind me. Jill barely looks up at me from the guest tub/shower combo. She’s still naked and huddled in the corner of the tub, knees to chest. I stay quiet and sit on the toilet next to her. If she wants to talk, she will.

  She sniffs in deep. “Hi.”

  I look down at her. “Hey there.”

  “Quite a week for us, huh?”

  I laugh but don’t reply with anything witty. Jill doesn’t need that right now. Plus, it’s been a hair longer than a week, but who’s counting?

  At least, I think it has.

  She looks at me through matted hair and smiles.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What, what?”

  “That look.” I reach out and playfully grab her chin. “This.”

  She slaps my hand away, and in doing so, exposes herself to me. I childishly eye her chest, messing with her.

  She smacks my knee and rolls her eyes.

  “Is that why you came in here, to see me in the buff?”

  I shake my head. “No, but the thought did cross my mind.” I shrug. “Besides if I wanted that, I’d wait until you fell asleep and lift your shirt like I used to do back home.”

  Jill tries to climb to her feet to no doubt hit me again but moves too fast inside the tub and slips. I grab her upper arm, steady her, and pull her in for a long, passion-filled kiss. I’m this close to climbing in the tub with her when we’re both startled by a knock at the door.