In Memoriam

by Matt James

  “You know,” I say, laughing, “usually, whenever something blows up, we go in the other direction—not towards it.”

  Jill smirks. “Definitely…”

  Uh, oh, I think, hearing the distance in her voice. Jill isn’t with me mentally. She’s thinking of something else.

  “What’s up?” I ask, continuing down Sanctuary Way. The road is clear except for the snow and a couple of downed trees that were too big to move without a chainsaw—and I ain’t making that kind of noise unless I absolutely have to!

  “Nothing… Well, the explosion, I guess,” she explains. “It has me worried.”

  I shrug. “Might just be a gas line going up in flames, for all we know.”

  She softly bobs her head. “Sure, I guess. I just…”

  “Just what?”

  She faces me, eyes wet. “I just really don’t want to have to move again, Frank. It’s been so hard—”

  “I know it has,” I say, turning my attention back to the road. “Believe me…” I see the scene of the woman’s death off to our right as we pull out of the neighborhood, “I know.”

  Jill’s hand finds my leg, and she squeezes it gently. The gesture makes me smile, but whether she notices my reaction or not, I don’t know. She doesn’t make another sound either way.

  Sanctuary Way merges into Peace Creek—the road, not the stream—which connects us to the center of town. A tributary of the same name flows past our cabin’s backyard, peacefully scooting by with little more than a sploosh of icy water. I can almost hear it now as I imagine Hope and me sitting out back enjoying each other’s company—nature’s too.

  I still find the natural world intoxicating even though a large portion of the people living within it are trying to kill me every day. I finally, genuinely started to appreciate the outdoors for what it was, but only after I moved to Manhattan. Outdoors is freedom—a release from the hustle-and-bustle 0f everyday life.

  Swerving to run down a shambling goblin hardly breaks my thought process. It goes down beneath the heavy Yukon’s frame…and its wheels…with nothing more than a thump and a pair of bumps. The push bar attached to the front of the SUV did its job. Then, I did mine.

  Jill doesn’t react either. If you were to ask us how many Unseen we’ve killed since we escaped Manhattan, both of us would answer that same way. We’d scratch our heads and a shrug our shoulders. No one is keeping count. It’s not a pissing contest.

  I’m winning, though.

  Rural street after rural street pass us by on either side—as do the homes lining them. I recognize most of the roads too. We’ve been down a number of them in search of supplies and survivors. There are twenty-two bisecting streets between Sanctuary and the downtown area. We’ve explored six of them. We still a ton of ground to cover.

  The problem with trying to explore is that we come across more and more monsters as we get closer to Gatlinburg, thus impeding our progress. I’ve seen a handful of brutes and mobs of siren-led goblins. Unlike our death-defying romp down to the Tennessee River outside of Chattanooga, there haven’t been many gremlins around. I saw none back in New York. As for reapers, well, there haven't been many of them here.

  I think it’s a combo of luck-of-the-draw and survival-of-the-fittest. The children who turned were at a severe disadvantage when it came to defending themselves, being the smallest of the Unseen. So far, we’ve seen different variations depending on where we are. Currently, we have sirens, goblins, and burners to deal with, along with the occasional brute and whatever animal has changed.

  Screw this, I think, turning down the seventh road on the left.

  Jill looks at me. “What are you doing?”

  “Not going into town…not if I don’t have to.”

  She smiles. “I like that idea.”

  The supplies will be better there, but the dangers will be ten-fold. It’s a trade-off I’m willing to make for now. Eventually, we will need to go to town and take on whatever is waiting there.

  It could be nothing.

  There is a good possibility that Gatlinburg is completely deserted. The explosion, like I told Jill, could’ve just been a gas line going up in flames after being weakened. The Space Needle did a number on the town. I won't be shocked if that’s where the boom came from.

  Here, the plots of land are about two acres in size and are lined with trees acting as privacy fences. The first house on the right is a charred husk of itself. So, I head across the street instead, pulling into, and up, the dirt driveway. A chain-link gate is bent and broken, giving Jill and me unperturbed access. Halfway between the front entrance and the home, I stop and throw the Yukon into park. Before we climb out, Jill and I check our surroundings and verify that we’re alone.

  Together, we pop open our doors and leave them that way to use as shields if need be. You never know if some crazed local is waiting for something to shoot. Another thirty seconds of silence goes by, and my alert status drops to nil.

  Closing my door, I open the driver’s side passenger door and retrieve my bow and quiver. We made a lot of noise earlier. I’d rather not test our luck again. I quickly draw one of my carbon fiber bolts and nock it. I keep the tension on the bowstring to a minimum, however.

  Jill steps around the front of the SUV with her bat on her shoulder. If I didn’t know any better, it’d look like she was ready to hit a couple dingers. The composite bat has seen its share of soft tissue—bone too.

  I’m not quite sure why Jill has chosen it as her go-to, non-gun weapon. She probably has a lot of frustration and aggression to get out of her system. I know from experience that beating on things is the best therapy. I used to hit a heavy bag like Jill does now.

  Without a word, we head up the driveway and climb the steps to the front door. Like most homes, it’s unlocked. The owners would’ve been in a hurry to leave and didn't bother to lock anything up. The initial arrival of the Unseen had been the most dangerous time so far. The only way to aptly describe it was “utter chaos.” Now, things have slowed down and have become easier to handle.

  Easier… Yeah, right.

  Nothing about this way of life is easy. Sure, it’s a more straightforward way to live, but it ain’t easier. We’re still in survival mode. We’ve yet to enter the state of moving forward and living on—starting a new life.

  When will the next, safer phase of our lives begin? Honestly, I have no fucking clue. Tomorrow? A month from now? Never? God, I hope it isn’t the third option. I can hear the game show announcer say it too.

  “And behind door number three… A kick in the face!”

  POW!

  My internal amusement must be apparent because Jill comments on it.

  “What’s with the smile?” she asks, opening the door.

  “Nothing,” I reply, changing the topic of conversation. “Look for something for Hope. It’s our first Christmas on the lam, and I want it to be as good as it can be for her.”

  For all of us…

  The door swings open freely, providing us with a clue as to what happened to the owners of this place. Twin streaks of blood, from the inside of the door to somewhere around the corner into the den, greet us. The couple that lived here had been killed and dragged away.

  That’s actually good news for us. Ugh, did I really think that? Still, it really is a positive thing for Jill and me. It means that we’re most likely alone. It also means that the place might still be stocked with pre-apocalyptic sustenance. Also, there’s a distinct possibility I could go on a Woody Harrelson-like rampage if I don’t get my hands on a beer soon—not that I’m an acholic, by any means.

  I just really, really want one.

  It’s been a couple weeks, and I’ve seen some freaky shit. Beer will definitely help get my nerves under control. Plus, getting it cold won’t be hard. Everything is cold right now! I look right and see the home’s owner’s dining room has a fully stocked liquor bar.

  My eyes open wide. That’ll do.

  To the left is the kitchen, and
that’s where we head. I’ll visit the bar on the way out. First, food and medicine. Then, we’ll see what else we can find, including a Christmas gift for Hope.

  Right… Food, medicine, toy, booze. Got it.

  Besides smelling dank and being utterly void of life, the kitchen looks normal. The sink and most of the cupboards line the left-hand wall—the front of the house. A window is perfectly situated so that if you were doing a load of dishes, you’d have a great view of the front yard.

  “Frank.”

  I turn away from the window. Jill is standing in front of what must be the pantry. She’s positioned herself in a way that I can’t see what she sees. But the quarry must be good because she pulls a folded hunk of plastic from inside her jacket and dives into the floor-to-ceiling cupboard. The garbage bag is quickly filled with spoils.

  A hunched figure steps into the kitchen through a secondary entrance attached to the living room. I quickly pull back my nocked arrow and let it fly. The ultra-sharp head buries itself into the Unseen’s gut, spilling him back into the space beyond.

  It’s too late by the time I realize what I just shot. If I had seen him for what he was, I would’ve yelled for Jill to drop what she was doing and run.

  But instead, the burner goes supernova.

  5

  I’m thrown into the sink and bash my head against the window above it. Gone is my bow, as is my wife, for that matter. I can’t tell where Jill is. The smoke and flames are too much for my eyes. So, I shut them and half-roll, half-fall off the counter. I blink hard, and I think I see Jill’s feet. She’s still inside the pantry and buried beneath its inventory and a layer of shelving and drywall.

  “Jill!” I call out, tears streaking down my scorched face.

  The living room is a fireball, and its tendrils of heat are making their way closer to us with each passing moment. I stay low and army crawl my way to Jill, snagging my bow as I do. I was lucky that it landed where it did. If it hadn’t, there was no way it would’ve survived the impending demise of the home.

  My hand finds Jill’s right foot, and she nearly kicks me in the face when I touch her.

  “It’s me!” I shout, happy to see that she is still conscious.

  She relaxes and yells back. “I’m stuck!”

  “Just wonderful,” I mumble, gripping onto both of her ankles. Unfortunately, because I’m on my stomach, I can’t get the right amount of leverage to yank her free. We’ve been through a lot together, yet this might be the strangest situation of all.

  I try a second time and almost stop as soon as I start, realizing this isn’t going to work no matter how hard I want it to. The only way I’ll get her free of her bonds is to get up and pull. So, I take a deep breath and get to my feet. Gripping her feet, I close my eyes. The smoke stings them something fierce. When I pull…she doesn’t move.

  What the fuck is grabbing her?

  I try again and, this time, I’m successful…sort of.

  A second explosion rocks the living room and tosses Jill and me back toward the front of the home. I hit the cabinets beneath the sink, and Jill hits me. Together, we sit there and take a moment to clear our heads. It's then that I see Jill is clutching the bag of wares as if it’s a newborn child.

  “Really?” I ask, climbing to my feet.

  “What?” she replies, not understanding my shock.

  “The bag!” I pull her back toward the door. “You couldn’t have dropped it?”

  “Hell no,” she says, shaking her head hard. “Not a chance.”

  Now, it’s my turn to shake my head—but it's in disbelief. She almost died because of her decision. I know the supplies are essential, but they aren’t that important. We could’ve, just as simply, gone to the next house and tried again.

  Before exiting, I rush into the dining room and grab the only bottle of liquor that looks to have survived the burner’s foundation rocking concussion. It’s a bourbon of some kind.

  Eagle Rare? I think, reading the label. Ten years old...

  I’m not what you’d call a whiskey connoisseur. Is it whiskey or whisky? Make up your damn mind, people! I have no idea if this stuff is any good or not. Don’t care either. After what Jill just put me through, I’m going to enjoy it, regardless.

  I lift the bottle and smile, tickled to see that it’s nearly full.

  “What’s that?” Jill asks, coughing hard.

  I pop the cork and take a sip. This stuff is incredible! I let the decade-old spirit run its course down my gullet before I answer. When I do, I do it with nothing but love for Jill. I know what she was doing was right. She wasn’t thinking of herself when she refused to let go of the bag.

  She was thinking of the others—mostly Hope.

  She was doing exactly what I would’ve done.

  “This?” I say, replacing the cork. “It’s a gift for being married to someone as stubborn as you.”

  Grinning, Jill tilts her head up and kisses me on the lips, licking them after she does. She looks down at the bottle. “Well, if it tastes as good as you do, I’d say you did well with the both of us.” She smiles wide. “We’ll count it as your Christmas gift.”

  I roll my eyes and help her down the front steps. The house is now engulfed in flames, and it will no doubt bring all sorts of predators calling. The explosion back in town shoots back to the front of my brain. If a group of dangerous people caused that one, this fire might bring them this way as well.

  “Come on,” I say, hurrying us along. “We need to go.”

  I open my door just as the dining room, and the flammable liquid housed inside the bar within it, go up in flames. The window set inside the front wall explodes in a detonation of glass and heat. We’re too far down the driveway for it to affect us, though. I climb in and plop into my seat, watching Jill do the same thing into the passenger side. She sets our booty down on the floor between her feet and lets out a long, much-deserved sigh.

  “You okay?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Same old, same old.”

  I know how she feels. This is, no matter how much I’d like it not to be, the new norm.

  “So,” I say, starting the Yukon and throwing it into reverse, “what’d you get?”

  She smiles. “This, among other things.” She procures an un-opened, family pack of Oreos—and without a second thought, or an argument from me, rips it open. I take the cookie and relish in its deliciousness, and just for a moment, recall the good-old-days. The days when Jill and I despised one another and were childless and miserable.

  You know what, fuck the good-old-days! I think I’m starting to like things better off the way they are. I’m allowed to be selfish and say that we—the Moons—prefer what the world has become.

  Regrettably, a lot of good people have perished along the way.

  Betty, Vinny, Carla, Wes, most likely Arthur, Jill’s folks…

  The list, as they say, goes on. And it’ll continue to rise with time. I’m hoping the Unseen death toll increases more too—skyrockets even. Infection and disease have to be running rampant through their ranks. They are, quite literally, a walking open wound.

  I’ve never rooted for someone to get gangrene before.

  Gangrene, gangrene, gangrene! It’s the weirdest chant ever.

  “Hey,” Jill says softly, holding out another Oreo. “You want this?”

  I blink out of my thought and shake my head, no. She must see that I’m battling something internally, and she simply lays her left hand on my right thigh. It’s a warming gesture, one I usually give her when we travel. Plus, I just really love this woman’s legs. Strong and firm, just like the lady they’re attached to. She’s steadfast in what she believes in and she has the mental and physical capacity to get the work done.

  “We still need meds,” Jill says. “I’m worried about Hope.”

  I nod. “What do we have left?”

  Jill bites her lip and thinks. “A couple more days of Tylenol and a weeks’ worth of Pepto.”

  “Damn,” I mutter
, not liking her answer. We are seriously running thin on the one thing we need the most.

  As I pull out onto Peace Creek, I stop and look right, back up the hill toward Sanctuary. We could just as easily head to another house and look there, but the billowing smoke is a red flag. I don’t want to be caught out in the open if something big and bad comes to investigate—people included.

  The explosion.

  I haven’t been this worried in a while. Between that and Hope, I’ve been a mess mentally. Have you noticed? I mean, if you haven’t, it means you haven’t been paying attention to anything I’ve said.

  Unfortunately, I was so caught up with my own thoughts that I didn’t see the vehicle coming towards us as I pulled out onto the main road. It piledrives the frontend of the Yukon, totaling the stout SUV in the blink of an eye. Jill and I go twirling into a ditch where we then flip twice and land on our roof with a crunch of metal.

  Dazed, my concussed mind goes in and out of consciousness. I’m hanging upside-down with my seatbelt uncomfortably gripping my chest and waist. I can’t actually feel much right now. I’m mostly numb. The only thing I do feel is the gash on the left side of my temple.

  “Fuh…” I mumble, spitting blood. I think I bit the inside of my cheek. But again, I can’t feel much else besides the pumping of my own heart, but in my head—and also out of my head.

  Voices pick up all around us. None of them sound all that friendly either. There’s one consistent speaker too. He’s giving the orders to the other men. I blink and see four sets of legs rush toward our position. The angle is odd since we’re down in a shallow-ish ditch and tilted on our skulls. I’m forced to peer up into the sunlit, winter sky.

  The incoming threat clears my head some and gets me moving. Still ass-end-up, I try for my gun but can’t get to it. It’s pinned beneath the tightened cross strap of my seatbelt. So instead, I do the only other thing I can. I dig into the other, easier-to-access side of my jacket and remove my badge.