There's Blood on the Moon Tonight

by Bryn Roar

  Bud took a seat on a slab of graffiti strewn cement. “It all began with my old man. Like I said, he runs the museum of wax horrors on Main Street. He used to be a cop, but…well…anyway, he was always into horror, see? Sci-fi. Monsters. Robots. Jack the Ripper. All the sub-genres that fit into that freaky little field. So he decided to make his hobby into a career. Have you seen that replica of Robby the Robot in the window at Moon Man’s?”

  “Yeah! I’ve been wondering about that too,” Tubby said, a little downcast. He was disappointed the robot wasn’t in fact the real McCoy. It sure looked like it.

  “My dad was the one who built and sold it to that character, Tim Garfield. That squirrelly little dude who owns Moon Man’s. We’ve got another one just like it in our museum. We call him the Tin Man. The robot, not my dad.” Bud laughed. “My old man loves robots. His bedroom is filled with the old tin type toys so popular back in the fifties. Anything sci-fi related, but mostly rocket ships and robots. He tinkers with ‘em the way some geezers tinker with model trains. As a kid he got me interested in that kind of shit, too. While other guys collected baseball cards, or played video games until their thumbs bled, my pop was getting me all worked up about old horror movies. You know: Dracula, Frankenstein, King Kong, The Wolfman…I began collecting anything to do with the Genre, acquiring a lot of my stuff from the old man’s personal collection. Then a few years ago I saw that Rusty and Big Red here were hanging around the museum a lot, asking my dad all sorts of intelligent questions…and so, I struck up a conversation with them, too.”

  “Which nearly caused me to shit my shorts,” Rusty drawled. Tubby could tell he wasn’t kidding.

  “Buddy boy wasn’t exactly known back then for his sparkling wit and conversation,” Josie replied.

  “As opposed to now?” Rusty asked incredulously.

  “Wise guys, ayyy,” Bud said, mimicking Curly from the Three Stooges. He picked up a pinecone and bonked Rusty on top of the head. “So it turned out we share the same interests. Ain’t that right, porcupine?”

  “Soitenly,” said Rusty, rubbing his noggin. “We’re all into the Genre, as we call our thang. And each of us has a specialty, so to speak. We all plan on making a living out of it someday. That way if only one of us makes it big, he or she can open the door for the rest of us.”

  “I’m into literature,” Josie said, jumping up and down. Her enthusiasm for the subject made her oblivious to her bouncing breasts. “I’m gonna be a writer, hopefully. I’ve read everything from Bram Stoker to Stephen King, and a whole lot of horror writers that most people have never even heard of, much less read.”

  “You mean guys like Matheson and Lovecraft?” Tubby couldn’t believe his ears. It seemed too good to be true. Kids into the same kinda stuff he was! A trio of likeminded peers, their passion literally worn on their coats, those tough green army jackets, with that familiar monster font in thick black thread. Oh, how he longed to wear one of those coats! His name emblazoned over the right front pocket. To finally belong! He didn’t understand all that circle jazz Bud had been talking about, but he recognized their supernatural obsession all too well.

  Josie ceased her jumping and gave Tubby a dubious look. “You’ve read Richard Matheson, have ye?”

  “The Incredible Shrinking Man. Nightmare at 20,000 feet. I am Legend. Jeepers, Josie. He’s one of my favorites. But Stephen King…now that’s my hero. I’ve read all of his books and short stories a dozen times over.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Rusty said, thinking to trip the fat boy up. “What’s your favorite Stephen King short story then? The Lottery, I bet.”

  Tubby rolled his eyes. “Nice try, Rusty. That’s Shirley Jackson. Doi! My favorite short story—King or otherwise—is Word Processor of the Gods.”

  “Aye, that’s a grand one,” Josie agreed. “Tell me the truth, though. Were you like me the first time you read that story? Did you get so worked up you just had to take a peek at the end to see if it would work out okay?”

  “Guilty,” Tubby sighed.

  Josie laughed and mussed Tubby’s hair again. Rusty stood off to the side; a little jealous of all the attention Tubby was getting from his friends.

  Bud stood above it all, on top of the tumbledown, looking pleased with himself.

  My instincts were right! Yes, this is the one. Thelast Creep! He pointed down at Rusty, hoping to lift his friend’s spirits with some flattery.

  “Rust Bucket, there, is into collecting movies and burning old ones onto DVDS. The little genius is our film historian and idea man. Mark my words, Tubby, he’s gonna be the next Tarantino. Me, I’m into memorabilia and the tie ins. Background stuff, you know? Like models, toys, this great old magazine called Famous Monsters of Filmland, and movie props that my dad has given me over the years. I want to follow in my old man’s footsteps someday; only I’m going to do it off this miserable rock. Take the Brown Family Concept to the masses, so to speak—Oh, I almost forgot, I have a collection of cool old movie posters, too.”

  “You mean 1-sheets?” Tubby said.

  “Huh. Is that what they call movie posters in the theater biz?”

  “That’s right. My dad used to remodel old movie houses, see? You wouldn’t believe the 1-sheets we’ve found in those dumps over the years! My dad’s collection is worth thousands of dollars. Heck, I’ve even got an original Carrie hanging over my bed! I’d love to show them to you. Maybe you guys could come to the Drive-In one night. See a movie as my guests?”

  “So you’re really into the Genre, huh?” Bud asked. He ignored the offered bribe, though. He recognized the loneliness in Tubby Tolson’s eyes, and while he sympathized, it wasn’t reason enough to make the kid aCreep. That decision would be up to his friends—even if he’d already made up his mind.

  “You bet I am! I covered my bedroom walls with pictures from that same magazine you were just talking about—only I had to buy most of mine on e-Bay.”

  “Whoa, you collect Famous Monsters, too?” Bud shook his head and laughed. “Okay then, who was the editor of that auspicious magazine?”

  Tubby didn’t skip a beat. “Forrest J. Ackerman. Also known as Uncle Forry to his legion of fans.”

  Bud snapped his fingers, as if to say: That tears it!“So what do you think? Are we creeps…or are weCreeps.”

  Tubby knew exactly what Bud meant. He smiled and nodded. “You guys areCreeps…and I’d love to be one too. That is,” he gulped, “if you’ll have me.”

  Bud screwed a cigarette between his lips and lit up. He snapped his Zippo shut and peered down at Tubby through the haze of blue smoke leaking from his nose. “Fair enough,” he sniffed. “Tell you what, Hoss. Let the three of us hash it out amongst ourselves. We’ll get back with you in a day or two.”

  Bud said it in such a flat, bored tone, that the conclusion seemed forgone. Tubby reproached himself for getting his hopes up so high. His eyes downcast, he shrugged as if it was inconsequential. “Oh…sure. I guess I can start home now. Maybe I’ll see you around. And hey, thanks again for helping me out earlier with Lester.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply but turned on his heels. Beginning the long, sad trek home.

  He heard Josie say something to Bud, and then she was calling him. “Hey, Ralphie! Wait up, tiger!”

  He liked the way Josie O’Hara said his name. The way her full lips pursed around the R. When he was younger his mom used to call him Ralphie, and he’d hated it. The way she said it, made it sound so babyish. Coming out of Josie’s mouth, though, the name sounded somehow…roguish. Sexy, even!

  She grabbed him by the arm and spun him around, her slender fingers cool on his flushed skin. “Look, Ralphie, despite what you think we’re not giving you the brush off. I’ll bet you my complete set of Stephen King first editions that by this time tomorrow you’ll be aCreep.”

  “Gee, Josie. You really mean it?”

  “Sure I mean it! But you’ve got to understand, love. We’ve never considered another person for membership before. And believ
e me, not including me own brother, who asks me every damn day, there’ve been plenty who’ve tried. Bud’s very particular. To be honest, Rusty and I were shocked that he even invited you out here today. He’s never done that before either! Even so, we’ve got to give everyone a chance to have their say.”

  “You mean…”

  “Well, yeah. If anyone says no, then…

  Josie saw the dejection on his face and quickly put in: “Hey, you know my vote, and it was Bud’s idea to bring you up for membership in the first place. So…”

  “So…it’s up to Rusty?”

  “Uh-huh. Personally, I think you’re a shoo-in.”

  Tubby watched Josie rush back to her friends. The three of them convened for a moment more, and then one-by-one they dropped down into the so-called bunker.

  Tubby stood there, his mouth gaping open like a moron. Jiminy Christmas! There really is some sort of fort down there! What a tough place for a clubhouse!

  He turned and made his way back along the edge of the lake, the same way they’d journeyed. In front of him, a brown rabbit hopped across the narrow path. It paused to look up at Tubby, and then in a tan flash it disappeared into the forest beyond. Apparently, in a big hurry.

  Late! I’m late! For a very important date!

  Tubby laughed. If ever there was a Wonderland, it had to be right here on this weird little island.

  Then like the tardy rabbit itself, Tubby disappeared into the waiting forest.

  The Pines seemed much quieter than before. When he was with the others, hadn’t there been the constant hum of crickets in the background? Birds chirping in the trees? In the distance Tubby could hear a thrumming sound. Mechanical like. Coming from the western edge of the lake, before the forest turned to swamp.

  Through a green screen of lofty limbs, he could just make out a facility of some sort. Metal pipes going every which way. A humming, felt more than heard.

  “Huh. That must be the water treatment plant over there. Well, at least I won’t be drinking a glass of water with a green loogey floating in it!”

  Since he had a few hours to kill before he could go home, Tubby decided to do a little exploring on his own. First he needed to tend to his grumbling belly. The rumbly in his tumbly, as his mother liked to say during snack time.

  The sun was bright and the air so hot he could see waves of heat shimmering in the still afternoon air. Hard to believe Halloween wasn’t much more than two weeks away. He wondered if theCreeps still went Trick or Treating. Last year he’d gone as Frankenstein’s monster and had lived to regret it.

  The memory came back in a cold rush…

  Chuck Rowell, a neighborhood bully who’d tormented him mercilessly back in Atlanta, had caught Tubby on his way home with a sack full of candy and a First Place ribbon he’d won for the best costume at the school’s annual Monster Mash. Chuck had heisted his swollen pillowcase, blew his nose on Tubby’s blue ribbon, and for good measure had yanked the rubber bolts off Tubby’s neck. He still had the scars there to remind him.

  He remembered walking home empty-handed, his neck bleeding on either side, his blue ribbon dripping snot, thinking to himself: Will it always be thus?

  Back in the piney wilds of Moon Island, Tubby found himself answering that question. Maybe not, Ralph. Maybe fat boys like you can be happy, too…

  Maybe. Just maybe…

  *******

  According to Bud, The Bunker, as he called it, was actually the last remnant of an observatory/radio tower dating back to the early 40’s when the military occupied much of Moon Island as a lookout for German U-boats. Before America entered the fray it wasn’t that uncommon to spy German submarines trolling the Atlantic Seaboard, in search of supply vessels bound for desperate England. After the war the Army used the north end of the island for maneuvers before eventually leasing it out to the plainly named Research Center. Rumor had it the Center was a testing facility for biological weapons, although there had never been any evidence to bear out that conclusion. The Center had its own docks on the north end, and, according to Jessie Huggins who’d visited the facility on one long-ago occasion, was entirely self-sufficient and well maintained. It didn’t matter, either, that the elder Huggins had passed away several years ago; his word still held serious sway among the citizens of Moon, and therefore the caretakers of the Center went about their business largely ignored and unchallenged. Islanders still referred to the Center as the Army Base, but in fact the last real vestige of the Army’s presence on the island was the curious old bomb shelter that theCreeps had made their own.

  It lay hidden underneath the rubble of the old observation tower, on what was the highest point of elevation on the whole island. Graffiti tagged the sections of cement on every flat surface, some dating back to 1957, when the departing Army felled the tower.

  Rusty could find his father’s and Mr. O’Hara’s initials with his eyes closed. Josie too, for that matter. He had often seen her running her hands over her daddy’s name, trying to steal a piece of him back. It was a mystery to Josie and Rusty both, how their fathers (back when these woods had been their playground) never discovered the bomb shelter underneath the rubble. Bud didn’t see it that way. He felt the Bunker was waiting for him and him alone to first uncover it—even if he never voiced that odd notion out loud. My friends think I’m loopy enough as it is.

  Built underneath the sturdy slab foundation of the tower, back in the days of McCarthy and the Big Red Menace, the Bunker had withstood the blast of the dynamite, which had so completely taken out the tower itself. Bud had been by himself the day he discovered it, poking around, looking for spent casings and any other Army trash he could find, when he noticed a deep fissure underneath a large and long slab of concrete. Without stopping to consider the dangers of crawling around underneath all that rubble, Bud wriggled his way down into the dark hole. Beer cans, wine bottles, wrinkled condoms, and cigarette butts littered the dusty ground.

  For two generations, teens hanging out at the lake had used the cavity as a dump, which might also explain why no one had bothered to explore it any further.

  Luckily for Bud and his friends, Lizard Lake had years ago lost its allure to their so-called peers. Now most of the teenagers on Moon liked to hang out at the South End beach on weekends, at a place called the Circle Jerk, where Mr. Huggins allowed them to maintain a campfire. For that reason, and because most Mooners were superstitious about the Pines, theCreeps had the lake and the vast woods virtually to themselves.

  A few days after his discovery Bud showed Josie and Rusty what he’d uncovered out by the lake. Together, the three of them widened what they christened the Rabbit Hole, while at the same time shoring it up and better concealing it. Unless you knew what you were looking for, you could now stare right at the entrance without even knowing it! You entered the hideaway by crawling in on all fours. Like a rabbit. Certainly preferable to sliding in on one’s belly, which they’d had to do before enlarging the tunnel access. Once you crawled past that opening, you made a sharp right-hand turn in the dark. A clever switchback the kids had devised to further camouflage the entryway. Then a fifteen-foot slide down a smooth, cylindrical concrete pipe brought you down into an antechamber theCreeps called the alcove. Before the blast put it on a slant, the hollow shaft had been a ladder-well (it still had the rungs on one side), leading down into the Bunker’s antechamber.

  Because of the significant lip on the ladder-well there was little danger of falling down the shaft unawares. The demolition of the tower had regretfully taken out the hatch of the ladder-well. Otherwise, the Bunker would’ve suited Bud’s purposes perfectly. He said it was probably overhead, caught up somewhere in all that other rubble.

  To exit the Bunker you simply used the ladder-rungs to pull yourself up and out of the well. Because of their placement, it was a little awkward at first—not much different, though, than climbing up the backside of a jungle gym; just took some practice and upper arm strength.

  Rusty made the co
rner and then proceeded to bump his head against the switchback. “Fuck a duck!” It was his favorite profanity and he used it as frequently as possible, sometimes adding rubber or even yellow duck should the occasion call for that particular emphasis.