by Matt James
“The hell…” I say to myself. “Where—”
“Over here, Frank!”
I turn around and see Betty half-inside the corner most apartment—away from the side with the fire escapes. The first thing that goes through my head is, Son of a bitch… There will be no backdoors out of this place, no fire escape to climb. The second thing that goes through my head is worse, though. I haven’t seen a Goblin travel alone before, which only means one thing…
I race down the hall, sprinting at full speed. I need to get inside before another of the monsters sees where we went. Our scent will undoubtedly bring them this way, but hopefully they will lose us once we’re inside, behind the locked door.
Let’s hope so, I think as I pause and look back down the corridor. Nothing is there, but I don’t trust the luck of it. We are most definitely not alone. It’s only a matter of time, before we are sitting ducks, trapped in the worst possible spot on the seventh floor.
“No escape,” I whisper to myself, mentally going through a laundry list of things that could happen. None of them good.
Let’s just hope that luck thing actually comes true for once. So far since everything has happened, the only luck I’ve had is bad luck…and shit luck. Neither of which I’m overly fond of.
“You’re still alive,” I say, entering the home. “That’s gotta’ count for something.”
I’ve found myself talking to myself a lot lately. It’s probably because I’m alone most of the time and Betty is the first live person I’ve actually talked to in a while. I’ve always been prone to having conversations with myself, though. My mom and dad used to catch me talking to nobody on dozens of occasions. I’d be playing video games, or watching a movie, and I’d just be sitting there mumbling to myself. It wasn’t the imaginary friend phase either, it was just easier for me to think aloud, then put my thoughts together inside my head. My parents being the dedicated Christians they are, told me I was talking to God.
They did the same, but didn’t vocalize it like I did, and still do to this day. Am I talking to God? I have absolutely no idea, but just talking at all makes me feel just that little bit more normal, and considering the circumstances… That’s a win in my book.
If I wasn’t talking, I’d probably be dead.
“Well, God,” I murmur as I shut the front door, hoping this works, “please find Jill and protect her. Tell her I’ll be there soon.”
10
“Who is she?” I ask, setting my glass of scotch down. I swallow slowly, tasting every little nuance the malt has to offer. It’s a brand I’ve never heard, but hey, I’m a beer man. I only drink this kind of stuff on special occasions, or when I’m trying to forget something horrible from my job like that high-school kid that shot himself a few weeks ago.
This definitely qualifies as one of those times.
The only other time I pounded something like this was in Betty’s place, but that was for physical and mental pain. I would never condone that in a normal setting. My mind and body were just so beat and broken that the long suckle of whiskey called to me, beckoning me to indulge.
Betty saw me eyeing Joan’s liquor cabinet and offered me a taste. She said that Joan wouldn’t mind. Originally, I had asked if her friend had any beer handy, but she said no. “Joan only likes the hard stuff.”
“Tough woman,” I say, trying to coax some information out of my new friend, but the five-foot-nothing blonde says exactly that…nothing. I can tell she’s worried. Her eyes show her age, maybe fifty. She’s about ten years my senior give-or-take, and fifteen Jill’s. The only answer I do get out of Betty is a nod, agreeing that her friend was, indeed, tough.
I look around the place and see a plethora of pictures. Betty isn’t in a single one. The investigator in me tells me that Betty and Joan were newish friends. I even recall her telling me that the other woman had only moved in within the last year or two.
Joan hasn’t updated her pictures in a while.
“Can I get another?” I ask, standing. I don’t wait for Betty to answer, I just waltz into the kitchen, an exact duplicate of Betty’s—the entire apartment is—and pour myself another round. I glance at the fridge and pause. It’s not a long enough look for Betty to notice, but in the small amount of time I had, I saw all I needed.
One picture is on the black Maytag.
It’s one of Betty and another woman, presumably Joan, embraced in something more than a friendly hug. They’re at the top of the Empire State Building with a picturesque sunset in the background.
More than just friends…
I shake off the revelation, but now fully understand why Betty is still here. She’s waiting for her friend to come back. Another gift I have of detecting is that I’m really good at reading people. Betty knows Joan isn’t coming back. In fact, I bet you anything she already knows that Joan is dead. She may have even seen her body.
No reason to go down that road, Frank. She’s been through enough, but then I see the other woman’s haircut. It’s a black pixie-styled hairdo, exactly the same as the untoweled body we saw on the stairs.
Damn.
Joan must have been in the shower when everything went down and rushed out of her place, coming to check on Betty. She only made it halfway though.
I blink the realization away. “You, uh… You said something about a weapon?”
She nods and stands, heading to the room directly off the living room. If I’m right and this place is set up like Betty’s, then she’s headed to Joan’s bedroom. I go to follow, but stop, turn, and grab my half-empty glass. I enter a moment after Betty and find her in the walk-in closet, removing a pile of laundry from… A gun safe.
“Here,” she says, lifting it.
I grab the tough looking case and set it on the bed. It’s a four-dial combo lock, pretty old-school considering most gun safe’s use a fingerprint scanning system.
“What’s the combination?”
Betty shrugs. “No idea.”
Ugh… Okay, think… I look up and see Betty watching me.
“What’s Joan’s birthday?”
“August, 8th,” she replies, quickly. Really quickly. Then, she blushes and turns away.
“Okay, so 0-8-0-8.”
I flip the rotary dials into place, but nothing. The lock doesn’t budge. I’m still locked out.
I look back up to Betty. Hmmm, I wonder…
“And yours?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Just humor me.”
She answers me with a quizzical look, “March, 30th, but I’m not sure why you need—”
Click.
I open the lid and smile, looking up to Betty. Her mouth is hanging open and a single set of tears fall from each eye. Her lip quivers slightly, but she doesn’t full-on weep. She wipes it away and composes herself, leaving me alone with my new toy.
It’s not actually a new toy, but a duplicate of the one I already have, a Glock. I shake my head, remembering how I literally just damned the very beast itself… Luck. I badmouthed it and everything shitty it’s brought me—brought us. I mean the world, not just Jill and me. Everyone has suffered through a major case of the shitties recently.
I retrieve the gun, check it, and tuck it away, slipping it inbetween the small of my back and my pants. Underneath the gun are three more clips and I happily, almost eagerly, take them too. One joins its mostly empty brother in my shoulder holster and the other two go into the inside pocket of my jacket—the one that doesn’t have my badge in it.
Worst case scenario, I can dual-wield them both, something I’m not exactly good at. No cop is for that matter. At least the ones I’ve worked with.
Damn movies. They make us real cops look like pussies.
Placing my hand on my knee, I go to push off my leg and stand, but stop, seeing something else inside the safe. It’s wrapped in a cloth of some kind and is about ten-inches-long. Whatever it is, it barely fits, having been shoved inside diagonally.
I reach and pull, the piec
e resisting for just a moment. It gives and I carefully unwrap it, revealing the contents. It’s a beast of a knife. M9 Bayonet, I think, looking over the all black weapon. Thanks to some of those movies and video games I mentioned earlier, I’ve learned that this particular knife is a staple in the US Army. It’s also fairly common in Australia too, being used by many of their elite SAS units.
There’s a sheath with a belt loop attachment and I don both quickly. I see my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door and gasp.
Man, I look like crap.
The Frank Moon I see in the mirror is not the one I remember seeing last night when I decided to go on this little excursion. I’m beginning to realize that I’m still a day or two away from Jill with as slow as I’m traveling, but it’s the only way I can of think to stay relatively safe. Out in the open on the streets of Manhattan would only mean my demise.
My hair is matted down and grimy, along with my clothes. My jacket is torn at the shoulder where the window gashed me and my jeans are beyond ruined.
Speaking of which…
I shed my close friend and hang it on a nearby coat hook. My shirt underneath is likewise demolished, but I pay it no mind, gently taking it off.
My light chest hair is matted down, with sweat and blood, making me sneer at the sight. Thankfully, the blood is mine, so it’s not as disgusting as it could be. I’m still in good shape for not doing much exercising as of late. My five-foot-ten frame carries my 190-pounds well. I’ve only gained about ten since Jill and I got married, so that’s something to be proud of. I know a few people who have let themselves go after getting hitched, but not me. Plus, I have good genes. Mom and Dad are still in great shape for their ages.
Thank God they’re in Florida and not here.
Then again… I still have no idea how far Abaddon’s effects went. I’m not finding out anytime soon either. We are completely cut off. The only way to find out is to leave the island.
Not without Jill.
I wince as I try to rotate my cut and bruised shoulder, doing my best to check the wound, but stop when I see Betty staring at me from outside the bedroom door. She stands and enters, looking at my beat body.
“Let me see,” she says, motioning for me to turn a little.
I comply and she leans in, looking at the torn skin.
“It’s not dreadfully bad, but it definitely needs to be cleaned,” she points to the bathroom. “There’s antiseptic under the sink and a think there’s a pack of baby wipes too.”
“Baby wipes?” I ask.
She nods, smiling sheepishly. “You stink.”
* * * * *
“Gross.” My nostrils flare in disgust. “Just awful.” I look down into the sink and see the pile of soiled baby wipes. The colors of dirt and blood smeared together gives me the willies as I finish.
Not sure where to throw them away, I just leave them be for the moment and reenter the bedroom. Betty wiped down my shirt and jacket the best she could and I’m thankful for that. She’s been through a lot and has without hesitation helped me since she found me in her place.
I’m about to slip back into my nasty shirt, but Betty steps into view holding a needle and thread. She quickly hits the tip of the needle with a lighter, instantly disinfecting it.
“What’s that for?” I ask, hoping my assumptions are wrong.
“For that,” she answers, motioning to my shoulder. “It’s not a terrible wound, but it still needs to be closed. Lord knows what kind of infectious germs are out there.”
My face must show what I’m thinking.
“Don’t worry Frank. I was a nurse a few years back. Simple stitching like this is a breeze.”
Knowing she’s right and feeling a pinch better about her having experience, I relent and follow her back to the bar/kitchen counter hybrid, and sit.
“Frank calm down,” she says, looking down at my twitching leg.
I didn’t even know I was doing that.
“Okay, but could you go easy on me I—”
She douses me in what feels like a hundred gallons of rubbing alcohol, soaking the fresh wound. The cold feeling liquid runs down my arm and my ribs making me recoil.
Damn you ribs for being ticklish!
I quickly empty my vault of bad words, not caring that there’s a woman present. She sticks me with the needle, sending me into another volley of curses. Betty smiles the entire time, finding my reaction funny.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to be tough?” she asks.
“Excuse me for saying this,” I reply, gritting my teeth, “but please stick that question up your ass and just sew me the fuck up.”
She laughs and tweaks my wound a little getting an audible whimper out of me. “Oh, sorry—sorry!” She says, calming herself. Thankfully, she quickly finishes in silence, stopping a few minutes later.
She checks over her good deed. “Eh… It’s not my best work, but it’ll do until you get proper medical care. Just try not to over exert yourself too much if you can.”
Right.
“And by the way…” I say, getting back to the snarky comment about not being tough. “I may be a cop, but I’m still human and not used to having a woman I just met stitch me back together with a sewing needle.” I look at it in the bedroom mirror. “Not bad though.” I then slip my ruined shirt back on and grab my jacket. “Thanks for doing this.”
I stretch a little, testing the heavily wrapped bandages encompassing my shoulder. If it was any thicker, I’d look like I just pitched eight innings and now had my shoulder iced and wrapped.
I pause and sling my jacket over my chair of the makeshift bar, wanting everything to breathe a little longer. The cold of the apartment sends a chill up my back, making the hair on my arms stand up on end.
Betty is sitting in the chair next to me and she has the bottle of scotch in front of her with two more glasses poured. The liquor is helping with my overall mood and pain, numbing a little of both at the same time. There’s no way I would have been able to sit through what I just did without a little something extra coursing through my blood.
I can’t feel my cheeks. Is that weird?
Blinking hard, I sit and face her.
“So,” I say, taking another sip, “what now?”
She looks up at me, her eyes puffy from crying. “I’m leaving in the morning. Not with you, though.” She laughs a little. “There’s no way in hell I’m going towards the park. Plus,” she sniffs, “I won’t be able to keep up with your pace.”
I was about to say the same thing. The enemy—the Unseen—are supposedly getting more numerous the closer I get to the landing site. The closer I get to my goal, the worse it’s going to get, and the faster I’m going to have to move.
I nod, and stand, but something she said finally registers.
“Morning?” I ask, unaware of the time. I look down at my watch and see that it’s getting late.
“Dammit!” I yell, wanting to take it off and chuck it out the window.
“What is it?” Betty asks.
“I didn’t realize how late it was getting. I… I won’t be able to leave either. Not until sun-up anyways.”
Betty just smiles and looks over at the bottle of scotch.
I look too and laugh.
Looks like I’ve been invited to a sleep over.
11
Sunday Morning
We stayed up late, telling stories of our youth and drinking. It was a relieving experience for us both. Just two people with nothing in common enjoying each other’s company. I personally think it’s just the fact that we are alive and able to actually laugh a little at some of the stupid things we’ve each done. Brings some normalcy to the situation surrounding us.
Betty begged me to take the bed as beat up as I am. I laughed it off and said this would probably be the healthiest I’ll be. I’m expecting to get pretty much beat to death in the next day or however long it takes to get off the island.
I think she was secretl
y relieved when I told her to take Joan’s bed. Betty needs to be comfortable and at peace with leaving this place behind. The best way is to be at ease while you sleep. Especially with the past she and Joan have. If she never sees the other woman again, at least Betty will be able to have one more night around her things. She can say a proper goodbye.
I awake with a groan, feeling all the bumps from yesterday. The numbing effects of the alcohol are gone—except the headache.
Damn… Is that the third time I’ve woken up with a hangover in less than a day? Impressive…
She does the same. I can actually hear Betty wake with the same pain filled moan I did.
“You okay?” I ask, rubbing my head.
“Fine,” she replies, “but this is why I stick to beer.”
I laugh and wince at the sharp twinge of pain that shoots through my head. “Me too.”
She steps out of the bedroom, looking disheveled. Rings and bags encompass her eyes. Crying.
“Where are you going to go?” I ask, standing, concerned for my new friend.
She shrugs. “The water. Maybe I can find a boat or something and drift. Anywhere but here is preferable.”
I laugh. “No shit.”
She laughs and drains the remnants of a water bottle. “I’m going back to my place first and getting a few things.”
“Like a change of clothes?” I motion to my own wrecked attire. “Wish I’d thought of packing a bag before I bolted from my place.”
Wish I grabbed my shotgun, too.
She stands and heads for the front door. “You had a good reason to leave quickly.”
“True enough.”
She walks down the short hallway and grabs for the knob. I follow close behind, but stop when I see a familiar shape just inside the hall closet. I slide the door open all the way and reach in, procuring another new toy.
It’s a forty-two-inch pry bar—says so on the label—and comes complete with the two-pronged hook thing on the end. I look over the yellow painted steel and hold it up for Betty to see. It’s used, but still in good condition.