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

by Matt James

  We halt our chaotic roll with me atop him. I pull my arm free and, instead of choking him, I dig my forearm into the back of his head, pressing him face first into the floor. Still gripping the slick knife hilt, I yank it free and drive it home again and again. After the third strike, his aggressive flails slow, and after the fourth such impalement, his body goes limp.

  I get to my knees and toss the knife aside. Next are my hands, of which, I wipe clean on a random shirt hanging from a clearance rack. I take a moment to catch my breath and find Hope.

  “Frank!”

  She throws herself into my arms. Her sobs are drowned out by Babe bursting through the front of the building. Until now, he had stayed put in the parking lot. Doing his part, Art puts two rounds into the pig’s flank, enraging him even more.

  “Come on,” I say, hefting Hope onto my hip.

  I leave the knife and draw my pistol. I carefully hand my crossbow to Hope for the time being—at least until I can find a safe place to hide her. Jill meets us halfway and takes Hope from me.

  “Lock yourselves in Art’s office,” I say, getting a nervous look from Jill in return.

  “Go,” Mom says, overhearing me. “We’ll be fine.”

  She nocks an arrow and lets it fly. I don’t watch what it hits—if anything. Instead, I return my attention to the ladies in front of me.

  “You sure?” Jill asks.

  I heft the Predator onto my shoulder and wink.

  Jill smiles and heads off. As long as nothing follows them over there, Jill and Hope should be fine. It’s not like Jill can’t handle herself. Plus, you don’t want to piss off mama bear!

  “Uh,” Dad says, “a little help?”

  He’s standing in the middle of the escalators’ exits, rotating between them both with his shotgun. Boom, switch. Boom, switch. Boom, switch. But it's not the enemies below that has his attention, even though he’s staring down the barrel of his 12-gauge.

  It’s the enemies climbing their way up to us.

  More?

  The other siren, just like the lone goblin, has managed to scale the inner wall of the building. She has almost made it to the far side of the room… And so have Jill and Hope.

  My eyes widen. This is precisely what I was hoping to avoid.

  “Go,” Mom says, stepping up next to Dad, “help them.” She only has a few arrows left and, like Jill, Hope, and the siren, her ammo is on the other side. I don’t want to leave my parents, but I know that they’d do the same thing if it were me in danger and not Jill and Hope.

  I nod to my mother and father and, once again, sprint away. Jill and Hope went around to the left. I decide to go right and try to get the siren’s attention.

  I draw my gun.

  This oughta work.

  With only five rounds left, I waver just for a second. In the time it takes for me to second-guess myself, and then pull the trigger, the siren leans out of the way of the shot, and I miss. I curse myself for hesitating. Instead of striking the flesh of the female Unseen, the bullet shatters the south window behind the gun counter.

  But the job got done. The siren faces me and snarls in annoyance. Then, she leaps into action, moving impossibly fast. I raise the crossbow and realize that I have no chance of hitting her. So, I do the only other thing that makes sense.

  I run.

  26

  Just before I duck behind a display of already built tents and pop-up tailgate canopies, I make sure the siren is following me. I make eye contact with her and then dart right. Her reaction to seeing me is like that of a curious, but angry dog. Her head tilts to the side, and she snarls and drools. It’s usually not a good look for anyone, but for a member of the Unseen…

  I imagine an overzealous fashion photographer screaming, “Yes! Perfect! Absolutely orgasmic!” Then, the little man would toss the camera to one of his underpaid assistants, pat his sweaty forehead while sipping on an overpriced bottle of sparkling water, and complain that his skinny jeans are too baggy.

  I could go back to the scene of the goblin’s death from just a few minutes earlier, or I could look for something a little bit bigger than a hunting knife. Damn. With most of the store’s inventory gone, or scattered around, I can’t find anything I can use. After zigging and zagging from shelve to shelve, I smile when I finally spot what I want.

  A machete.

  Unfortunately, my delay in finding the machete has allowed the siren to catch up to me before I can open the blade’s stupid packaging—zip ties and all. Only ten feet away, and down on all fours, she stalks me like a hungry lioness. Her clothes tell me that she was once a high school cheerleader. It makes the situation even creepier. I stand perfectly still as she inhales deep, hoping she won’t notice me.

  Then, she smiles.

  I abandon my futile attempt at opening the machete and run, just as the siren leaps at me. But her overly aggressive attack carries her past me and right into one of the open tents. As soon as she lands and rolls, the tent collapses. Her reaction is instantaneous. The siren thrashes wildly and tangles herself more and more within the sturdy polyester material and fiberglass support poles.

  I contemplate just stopping and shooting her right then and there, but decide it isn’t worth the ammo. With as much as she’s flailing about, there’s no way I’ll be able to put her down for good with just one shot. Every display around her is destroyed as she bashes into them. It’s as if a rabid honey badger has gotten itself stuck in an oversized candy wrapper.

  Only four bullets left, I remind myself. Make every one count.

  Making up my mind, I head south, back toward the gun counter. I think about heading for Art’s office but balk at the idea. While hiding with Jill and Hope sounds like a great plan on the surface, it’s not considering their surroundings. Yes, Jill and I might be able to stand our ground within the small office, but there’s also a chance I would draw the siren to nothing more than a human-sized Lunchable. The office would be the packaging and Jill, Hope, and I would be the meat and cheese combo.

  The girls shouldn’t pay for my arrogance. It’s why I pass them by and continue into the water sports department.

  The squeals and shrieks from Babe are deafening. I can tell Art is still alive by the booms of his rifle. Even Dad’s shotgun blasts are still echoing around the cube-shaped building. Hearing Mom’s voice call out who and what to shoot is an excellent sign too.

  Everyone is still here. I look over my shoulder and watch the siren running along the south railing like she’s a tightrope performer. Except maybe me.

  Everything around me would be a terrible weapon against any Unseen, but a siren? That would be like pulling the trigger of a gun that shoots out the little flag that says BANG!

  Fishing polls, swim fins, more kayaks…

  Kayaks!

  What do you steer a kayak with? Answer: An oar.

  I beeline straight for the rack holding them. Selecting the largest one, I turn and find that the siren has already gone airborne. She’s midair, arms stretched out in front of her, looking very much like the she-demon she is. With my gun back in my holster and my crossbow slung around my back, I’m now relegated to using this…tool…to defend myself with.

  As if I’m a Ninja Turtle, I parry her diving advance with a swat of my improvised bow staff. Donatello would be proud! My spontaneity and ingenuity have kept me alive this long, let's hope that it’ll do the same for a little while longer.

  The siren lands and slashes at my legs. I turn the finned staff downward and block the attack—but she almost slaps the oar out of my hands. I need to remember that, even though this creature is built like a prototypical female high school cheerleader, it doesn’t mean she isn’t as strong as someone two or three times her size.

  Never underestimate your opponent.

  It was one of a thousand things my father used to drill into me when training me as a kid. He would regularly go on about how he lost to someone he was one hundred percent sure he could beat. He let his guard down and l
et his arrogance guide him instead of allowing his training do so.

  Unlike Dad, if I were to “let down my guard,” I’d die.

  I block the next three strikes, but she catches me across the left shoulder with a quick swipe of the dagger-like claws. I growl in pain and slap her in the side of the head with my own swift strike. The fact that I landed a solid blow builds my confidence enough that I do the ballsy thing and advance on her. There’s a BIG difference between ballsy and cocky…

  Wearing her down is my new plan. Even though she’s the more physically gifted fighter, I can actually see what I’m doing. I don’t let up either. I slap and poke at her from all kinds of angles, pushing her closer and closer to the railing.

  She swings at my face. I respond by ducking and rocking her left knee as hard as I can. The blow causes her to stumble, and instead of stopping to catch my breath, I push the attack further and go for her other leg—then her gut. The blows aren’t as solid as the first, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t just as effective.

  I launch forward when the siren stumbles, driving her into the railing, pinning her there with the sturdy oar. I put all my weight into the girl with the hopes of tipping her up and over to the first floor. I have at least eighty pounds of weight and seven inches of height on her, but like with all sirens, their slighter stature can be deceiving.

  Just when I think I have her reeling, she gets her legs underneath her, grips the oar harder, and pushes back. I grunt in frustration, but also in effort. It’s taking everything I have to hold her back.

  The snarling girl pushes me the other way.

  “No…” I mumble. “Not…gonna…happen…”

  Then, it does. She pulls me in a few inches, which causes me to lose my balance. Now on my tiptoes, her upper body flexes. I know what’s about to happen.

  “Frank,” someone yells, “get down!”

  I’m straining so hard that the shouted words are garbled and somewhat incoherent. But the fact that they were actual words and not the growls and shrieks of an Unseen tells me to do as they say. I release my white-knuckled grip on the shaft of the oar and drop to the floor.

  When I hit, I watch as an arrow strikes the siren in the chest. She hardly even moves, curling her lip in disgust. Then, she’s thrown back by the force of a shotgun blast, showering me in her blood.

  Where I had failed, the blow succeeds in tossing the creature over the railing. When she disappears from sight, I look over my shoulder and see who I expected so see. Mom and Dad are there. Not surprisingly, the “shotgun blast” that had ultimately finished the siren off had come from an actual shotgun.

  With nothing to wipe off the crimson spray, I leave it and slowly get to my feet. I’m tired and sore—two things that don’t seem to be going away any time soon. Like the recent world-changing events, my present physical state seems to be the new normal.

  My leg aches as I stand tall.

  This is getting really old, I think, attempting to block out the discomfort. It isn’t working, but at least I’m trying. I’ll gladly give myself an “A” for effort. Maybe even a gold star or two…

  “Thanks,” I say, looking around.

  We’re alone for now and it gives me some time to catch my breath. But then I hear Babe’s squeals and the roar of what can only be the brute. I pick up my crossbow and take a look for myself, confirming my suspicion.

  Art is back at his original post by the escalators, pumping round after round into the brute. This one is bigger than Baldy, closer to the one I blew up with a semi full of fireworks. For his part, Babe is destroying what’s left of the first floor. Luckily for us, he’s much too big to make it up here, but that also means we can’t get down either—not without being steamrolled.

  Right. First, the brute. Then, the pig.

  I turn to Mom. “Can you get the girls?” She doesn’t look so sure. “Please, Mom. We need Jill’s help, and Hope can’t stay in there alone.”

  Mom’s indecision disappears at the prospects of Hope being frightened and unaccompanied inside a strange place. She nods and heads off. Dad and I go the other way and join Art near the escalators upstairs exits.

  The brute is a bleeding mess, yet he’s still upright, and a quarter of the way to us.

  “Why won’t this piece of shit die?” Art yells, irritated.

  “That’s what they do,” I reply. “They’re hard to kill. Believe me, it takes a lot to drop one of these guys.”

  Art looks at me hard in between shots. “You killed one?”

  I nod. “Blew him up.”

  Dad raises his shotgun and I take aim with my lighter hitting crossbow. “Go low, Dad,” I say, doing the opposite. If I can hit something vital, while Art and my father slow him down, then maybe we can succeed before he makes it up to the second floor and turns us to paste.

  Then, Babe.

  “Now.”

  Dad and Art open up, but I don’t. I take my time and line up each shot carefully. Like I would with any weapon, I squeeze the trigger—I don’t pull it. The first arrow imbeds itself around the brute’s sternum. I wasn’t trying to hit that part of his body, which means I need to adjust my aim. After I reload, I do just that and squeeze the trigger again.

  My arrow flies straight and true, right for the base of the brute’s throat. My plan is to pierce his windpipe and drop him that way. As of now, he’s been holding both his thick forearms in front of his face, blocking any attempt on his face. He casually leans an inch to his right and harmlessly takes the arrow in this arm.

  Fuck!

  “Get him to move his arms!” I shout, directing the assault. Dad and Art do as I say and start on his upper body.

  I go to reload my crossbow again and look up to see Jill, Hope, and my mother rushing our way. Jill already has her revolver drawn, and Mom has an arrow nocked. Both are ready to help any way they can. The brute bellows and when I return my attention back to him, I see why.

  Usually, a person, Unseen or otherwise, has two hands. The brute before me only has one now. Argh, matey, indeed. He backpedals before eventually regaining his footing and plodding up the stalled escalator once more.

  Stalled…

  “Art!” I shout, getting his attention just as the three ladies arrive.

  “What?” he asks, annoyed.

  “The escalators?”

  “What about them?”

  Now, I’m the only getting annoyed. “What are you, dense? Can you get them moving again?”

  Art’s eyebrows lift, and I think he’s about to come to the same realization that I have. When he doesn’t respond, I step forward and point to the right-hand people mover.

  “He’s coming up the wrong way!”

  That gets the old man moving. He dives for the red, emergency stop button that all escalators have and depresses it again. I know from experience as a kid that it stops the mobile stairs in case of emergency. Mom was so pissed when I did that once.

  So were the people on the escalator.

  A blaring buzzer resonates around us and startles the brute. Then, both escalators start up, and the big guy is sent back to the first floor, tumbling down the last ten feet. Babe takes notice and stops thrashing around the lower level.

  Maybe we can use him to our advantage?

  “Cover me,” I say, throwing my crossbow over my shoulder and mounting the descending stairs. I draw my pistol, knowing what I’m about to do will cut our future chance of survival down. Just as the rhino-sized pig turns to investigate the commotion, I open fire on him.

  My first two shots hit him square in the head, not doing much at all. But my third and last round hit him right in the face. Babe squeals in pain and with what looks like rage and charges me.

  More importantly, he charges the brute too.

  “Uh, Art,” I say, keeping my eyes on the pig, “stop the escalator.”

  “I’m trying!” he replies. “It isn’t working!”

  Son of a bitch…

  I turn and try to run up the descending
stairs, but my thigh won’t let me move fast enough. Come to think of it, I haven’t had to go up many steps since hurting it. So far, this place is one of the only ones I can recall. I wasn’t running back then either. I’m exerting more energy and effort right now and it’s killing my quad.

  “Art?” I ask again, praying for a miracle.

  “Nothing!”

  Well, there goes that.

  I’m only a few feet from the bottom now and will be pig chow unless I think of something. Unfortunately for me, I have absolutely nothing. I’m completely out of ideas. I can’t think of a single scenario that doesn’t result in me being squeezed like a lemon.

  The crack of a gunshot both startles me and brings me joy. I turn and find Jill rushing down the steps to my rescue, revolver in hand. She stops a few feet later, takes careful aim, and fires again. Babe squeals and tosses his head, snapping his jaws at the invisible bee that’s pissing him off. More importantly, it gets him moving faster towards us and the slow-moving brute. He’s been wallowing in a pool of blood for a bit, fading fast from blood loss. Even a monster such as him needs blood to survive.

  My nostrils flare in disgust when Babe hits the brute like a battering ram, mashing him under his massive hooves. The last thing I see of him, before the pig’s girth becomes his own personal solar eclipse, is his head popping like a grape. Jill squeezes off another round and Babe responds to the shot by stomping on the dead brute harder.

  “Aim for his eye sockets!” I shout, trying to begin my climb anew. I just arrived on the first floor and can barely stand. I’m spent and in severe pain right now. I lift my crossbow and take the shot from the hip. The pig is so immense that I hit him, but the arrow just sticks into his thick shoulder, not doing much of anything else.

  Jill fires again. She’s almost out of ammo too. She only has six shots in her Governor, and she’s already through five of them. She reaches me before using it and hands me her gun instead.

  “Here,” she says, “you’re a better shot.”

  I am, but I’m not in any shape to take the shot. Jill looks weary of it, though, trusting me more than herself. If I miss, we’re both done for. Lining up the pig’s face in my sights, I breathe in deep and hold it for a second. Then, I let it out and squeeze the revolver’s trigger. Babe stops cold in his tracks and begins to thrash wildly. Every time he tosses his head, a stream of blood spurts from his ruined left eye socket.