There's Blood on the Moon Tonight

by Bryn Roar

  Ironically, after thousands of years of our best efforts to eradicate them, RS13 would be responsible for eliminating rodents from all but the most remote regions on earth. But not before they would repay the favor in kind…

  *******

  Some 24 hours after catching his squirrel, Pig had given Pops the shock of his long life by going right for his bewhiskered throat. If you had told Pops that he would end his days in the jaws of his peaceable, rather idiotic dog, he would’ve cackled right in your face. Pig hadn’t so much as growled at anyone in his whole life! Then again, that’s what made RS13 so deadly. It made the peaceful fierce, the loving twisted, and the kind hearted hateful.

  And it drove them all certifiably insane.

  Pig stood at the foot of the stairs, a shaggy monolith of fur and teeth, blocking their egress as surely as if he was a brick wall. Josie took in a sharp breath. Tubby’s was a little louder. It was Friday in the Pines all over again. Only this time there was no nearby lake to jump into. The 211-pound Mastiff’s once-beautiful brindle-coat was now matted and filthy. Like a rat that’s just crawled out of a sewer pipe. Feces, foul and fluid, dripped from his feathered haunches and tail, steamy and rank. Yet that shitty stink didn’t fully explain the stench steaming off of the dog. It smelled as if Pig had been rolling around on a rotting carcass. Or was a rotting carcass himself. It was a trait all of the RS13 victims shared. An ungodly reek.

  Dirty foam fell from his hanging jowls, splattering thickly on the cement sidewalk, where it sizzled and popped like the effluence from some mad experiment. The dog’s eyes were of course red, but were so gummy with pus and mucous that it was hard to see them through all the muck. His boxy head bobbled on the muscular stalk of his neck, seemingly in synch with the chattering of his teeth.

  He stared up at Josie, while seeming to ignore Tubby Tolson altogether.

  Pig sniffed the air and growled. The deep rumbling sounded muffled and glutinous. As if his airways were clogged with congestion. Despite that pneumonic rattle, the Mastiff advanced three of the concrete steps in a single healthy stride. Josie and Tubby retreated to the top of the stairs. Seeing they weren’t going to run, Pig held his ground, halfway up the flight. His huge right paw poised in the air, waiting on their next move.

  “Let’s go back to Bidwell’s office,” Tubby said, pulling on Josie’s sleeve.

  She patted his hand. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ralphie. Even if he didn’t knock in the damn door—which he’s certainly capable of; I mean, look at him—he’d still be waiting for us to come out.”

  “Maybe we could scare him away with the air horn,” Tubby offered, holding up the device for her to see.

  Josie pushed it aside. She didn’t want to wonder where this shaggy beast might be hiding-in-wait later on—more importantly, she wanted to eliminate any possibility it might cross paths with Bud and Rusty. She took the revolver from her pocket and aimed it at the dog’s head. Like the gray bitch before him, there really was only the one answer. What gave her startled pause was the look in the male dog’s eyes. She shuddered at the human-like glint observing her so intently. So…so…Face it, Tits. The phrase you’re looking for here is so Lester-like. Rude, roaming eyes. Yes. A most familiar look, That. One she’d weathered a thousand times before.

  Only never from anything on four feckin’ legs!

  Josie gulped, realizing there was also one other disturbing distinction: Nor one so determined…

  It was bad enough thinking the animal meant to maul, maybe even eat them, but those intentions, as terrifying as they were, were at least to be expected of a sick predator. Like a tiger with an infected paw. Or a bear with worn down teeth. It was the Call of The Wild, after all. If you can no longer catch your usual supper, then find something slower. She’d watched enough shows on the Discovery Channel to know that people sometimes ended up on an animal’s menu. At any given moment, somewhere in the world, an animal was eating someone. But to imagine an apex predator having these sick kinds of thoughts, like a rapist on the midnight prowl, was altogether unnatural. It bespoke of an evil that was all too…human. Yes. That Look in Pig’s eyes. It was altogether too human…

  Josie’s hand shook as she squeezed off a shot, hoping to eliminate that amorous glint.

  The round went wide of its target, ricocheting off the concrete riser. As the bullet scorched the air by his face, Pig backed up a step, giving Josie time to regroup.

  There’s considerable difference, she realized, shooting at inanimate targets…as opposed to those of flesh and blood. Even those which mean to rape me!

  Sensing Josie’s reticence, Pig warily advanced two more steps. His penis, long, red and sticky, emerged from its furry sheath, confirming Josie’s worst suspicions.

  Ignoring the dog’s arousal, she recalled Bud’s firearms instruction: “Take a deep breath before shooting. Then hold that breath before firing, slowly releasing it as you gently but firmly squeeze the trigger…”

  Josie inhaled and aimed right between Pig’s gummy eyes. Her second shot, still shy of the mark, sheared off one of the Mastiff’s ears. Thinking Josie meant to do just that Tubby gasped appreciatively. A mist of blood hung about the dog’s head like a hairy halo. Without the floppy ear, Pig’s head looked lopsided. He sniffed the furry lump at his feet, and then continued undeterred up the stairs.

  One slow step at a time…

  Furious, Josie cursed her ineptitude: “Silly stupid girl! Stop your feckin’ hands from shaking!” The anger helped dilute the fear, which in turn calmed her nerves. This time as she aimed down the barrel of the .38, it remained still in her leveled hands. The third round left the revolver and hit Pig smack in his right eye. The dog went down, tumbling the length of the stairs, sending tremors through the concrete and steel structure.

  The Mastiff yelped pitifully as he hit the street with a meaty thud. Trembling wretchedly from the mortal blow to his head, he wailed like a puppy in distress.

  Despite what she’d just experienced, Josie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the dog. No animal deserved to suffer from a disease like RS13. A disease that brought about such human-like afflictions. “Come on, Ralphie, let’s go. He’ll be dead by the time we walk past him.”

  “I don’t think so,” said her friend, pointing down the stairs. Josie’s eyes rolled slowly in that direction.

  No longer shaking now, Pig had somehow regained his splayed paws. Serene and strangely steady, he resumed his post at the foot of the stairs. Even more than his ability to take a bullet to the head and still get up, Josie feared this supernatural calm about the dog. Like the lurid look in his eye, it was all too evil. He peered up at Josie, his head cocked roguishly to one side, his jaws opening wide in what could only be…. A smile.

  Tubby whimpered behind her.

  Determined to end this obscenity, Josie stomped down the stairs to get a closer shot. Pig’s one eye opened wide, aglow with hate and hunger. A desperate desire that’s at the heart of every sexual sadist. The mangy motherfucker was still aroused, too. As if denying the existence of a bullet lodged in his brain, Pig shook his head and jowls, the violent thrusts sending the remnants of the ruined eyeball squirting up into the air, optic nerves fluttering behind it.

  Blood weeped out of the yawning, empty socket.

  Pig’s one red eye locked again on Josie. Avaricious and cold, it sent shivers down her spine. The human glint still alive and well. And eager to feed.

  That look! That motherfecking look! It enraged Josie. She walked right up to the dog, pointed the gun inches from its face, and blew that rude eye into jelly…

  *******

  Rusty and Bud were approaching the museum when they saw the three downed power lines, spitting and hissing in front of the doors. The electric cables were all that was left of the marquee. Like headless snakes, they writhed on top of the sidewalk, leaving random scorch marks on the concrete path, whipping and snapping about. “We’ll have to go around back to the service door,” Bud said.

/>   No mention was made of Chief Briarson’s old VW bug, parked haphazardly in front of the museum. Its two doors open wide, as if the occupants had gotten out in a big hurry. Where they’d fled to was also a mystery.

  Through the corner of his eye Bud saw the front door of Moon Man’s standing ajar, but didn’t investigate further. If he had, he would’ve discovered the nude body of his Headmaster, Charles Frazier, collecting flies on Garfield’s pine wood floor; a rusty machete stuck halfway through his head, pinning the toupee there for all time.

  They skirted the sidewalk and walked alongside of the museum, facing the Pines. There were so many toppled trees it was like traversing an obstacle course. Ducking, climbing, and even crawling, they were halfway to the service lane in back of the building when Rusty heard what sounded like firecrackers popping off in the distance. He used it as an excuse to take a breather.

  “What do ya make of that, Bud?”

  Bud waited until another pop discharged near the harbor, deciding it must be the Betty Anne on fire. The smoke was indeed more pungent now.

  “Must be more downed power lines,” he said, hoping to distract his friend from the truth. “I guess that means the power’s back on, huh?”

  Rusty shrugged. They moved on, into a somewhat clear area, coming upon a collection of cinderblocks, half-buried in the dirt and mud. The blocks of concrete were scattered all over the place. Like pieces of the sky dropped from high above. As if to accentuate that atmospheric analogy, some of the blocks were painted pale blue on one side, others a fluffy white.

  Bud glanced up at the museum’s roofline. “The clubhouse,” he said, devoid of any emotion. Far worse things had happened that day.

  Something snapped under his Timberlake.

  Bud lifted his boot—it was the Mr. Hyde model he’d only recently put together. The gift from Ralph.

  Rusty pointed up at a nearby tree. Relatively intact, the live oak had withstood Jack’s gale force winds. Their clubhouse roof, crumbled up like a giant ball of tin foil, had not. It sat cradled in the sturdy limbs of the old tree. The clearing, it seemed, was ground zero for most of the clubhouse’s contents. An explosion of books and VCR tapes were strewn about the soggy forest floor. The fridge and TV landed six feet apart, flattening a stand of bamboo. The microwave was nowhere in sight. Nor was Bud’s old steamer trunk. His beloved monster magazines, however, were scattered everywhere, some up in the trees, hanging off the branches amid the stately Spanish moss, others soaking up the water and muck on the ground.

  The pulp going back from whence it came.

  About three thousand dollars worth of compost, Bud surmised with a sigh.

  Yeah, it was a damn shame, but compared to what his friends had lost that very day the obliteration of a few old monster magazines seemed a trivial thing at worst. Without so much as a glance or afterthought Bud stepped on the very first issue of Famous Monsters of Filmland, published way back in 1957, his boot pushing the once mint copy deep into the forest’s muddy floor.

  Climbing over one last pine tree, they finally made their way to the service road. The service bay at the rear of the museum angled steeply downwards, into a cement driveway, where the Jeep stood parked in four feet of standing water. The engine block was literally flooded.

  “Looks like Bilbo came out this way,” Rusty said, gesturing up at the back door, some six feet above the Jeep on the loading dock. The sandbags, Bud and Josie had so carefully interlocked in front of the doorsill, lay tossed about on the loading dock, revealing the open dark doorway. Reminded of the open cabin door on the Betty Anne, Bud shivered in the falling light.

  *******

  The Sheriff’s Office was empty. The two jail cells inside likewise uninhabited. The sheriff’s top-of-the-line radio had worked no better than the old Motorola had on the Betty Anne. Like Bidwell’s office, someone had ransacked Henderson’s desk. Except for some Juicy Fruit wrappers and an empty box of Polydent, the drawers were empty. Josie looked for some shells for the .38 but was out of luck. They were unable to get past the lock on the gun cabinet, either. There were several quarter-sized drops of blood on the floor. A day or so old, by the look of them. The blood trail led to-and-from the front door. If there had been any blood on the breezeway, Jack’s torrential rains had washed it away the day before.

  A door leading up to Rupert’s apartment was locked tight. Josie banged on it to no avail. Unless he’d died in there, Rupert Henderson, like Bidwell, was long gone.

  A circular metal stairway connected the Sheriff’s Office with the Firehouse down below. They shared the same dispatcher, too. Miss Purcell’s neat orderly desk directly abutted the sheriff’s. The JBL speakers, sitting catty-corner on her desk, emitted a ghostly hiss. No chatter at all going out over the wavelength. Josie tried again anyway. “Please! Can anybody hear me? Please respond!”

  Like before, nothing but that indifferent hiss.

  “Maybe it’s dead,” Tubby said, despite the static coming through the speakers.

  Josie gestured over at the backup batteries in the far corner. The green light blinking on the cabinet indicated the radio was running on emergency power. “No one can say we didn’t try. C’mon. Let’s see if the Chief is downstairs.”

  “But Bud said the Chief won’t listen—”

  “I know what Bud said,” Josie snapped. “Sure, Briarson might not listen to us, but he will listen to Bud’s old man! So let’s save ourselves a trip back here and tell him Bilbo needs to see him right away. How’s that sound?”

  “Gee, that’s a good idea, Joe. Maybe he’ll even drive us over there! That’ll save some time for sure.”

  They descended into the shadows, the stairs clanging loudly underneath their feet.

  Josie hadn’t paid the Firehouse much notice when they’d passed by it earlier; now she saw the two emergency vehicles still parked below in their stalls, and this bewildered her. Unless the volunteers had evacuated, which made no sense at all, they should have been out doing their jobs, helping those in need. At the very least, clearing the main roads of storm debris. Halfway down the stairs Josie came to a stop, one sneaker still poised in the air. The hairs on the back of her neck stood erect.

  Something is horribly wrong here, Tits…

  It was the same malefic vibe she’d felt at her home on Monday. Only stronger this time. Much stronger. As was the stink. “We’re in trouble, Ralphie,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he whimpered. He felt it too.

  “Blooooooood,”said a croaking voice, hidden in the dark.“Yessssssss! I smell blood! Blood on the pretty little bitch!”

  “Soooooo rich! Soooooo hot!” said another, coarsely sniffing at the air.

  “Lick it!”giggled yet another. “Lick that bloody pussy! Lick it allup! Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!”

  Josie groaned. She was, in fact, on her period.

  In the deep shadows below, the sound of someone climbing up the metal staircase echoed in the cavernous Firehouse. Steady and unhurried. As Evil almost always is.

  Tubby tugged at Josie from behind. “Come on, Joe! We gotta get outta here!”

  Josie’s paralysis was broken as the first of the things came into view. Lonnie Briarson. Chief of the Volunteer Fire department. Two of his volunteers, Jumbo Colt and Ted Tousant followed him up the stairs.

  Lonnie had on nothing but his blue work socks; they flapped filthily on his feet as he slowly ascended the stairs. His arousal was grossly evident. Jumbo and Ted were both naked as well, covered in blood and body waste. They, too, seemed to have only one thing on their minds.

  It had been a busy afternoon for the Moon Island Volunteer Fire Department, although it had nothing to do with the departing storm. Two days prior, the Firehouse’s Dalmatian, Pepperpot, had infected the entire crew with RS13. After returning from the Pines, where she’d picked up the virus on her daily run (in the same manner as Pop’s Mastiff), the two-year-old dog passed on the bug in a most slobbery manner, licking every human face she came int
o contact with. The rabid squirrel had bitten Pepperpot’s lip and tongue, ensuring that any saliva leaving the dog’s mouth would be twice as deadly.