There's Blood on the Moon Tonight

by Bryn Roar

  The Rabids, unable to get more than a step or two from the ladder before Josie dispatched them, began to clog the only access into the Bunker. This is why Bud obsessed over this pitiless dungeon! It was the one place where the Rabids couldn’t immediately overrun them!

  The sodden stench of wet copper began to override the acrid gun smoke. Blood flowed like a rain-swollen stream on the alcove floor, where a drain, set in the middle, began to back up with the thick body fluids.

  The hammer on her shotgun clicked on an empty chamber, and Josie picked up the loaded gun Rusty had set aside. She started where she’d left off…numb with the hate and the death. The Mossberg, it began to roar…

  Rusty thought it a lost cause. After moving aside the cinderblocks, propping it open, he and Bud squeezed between the door and the wall, and began pushing, using the wall behind them as leverage. The big steel portal, however, refused to budge. Josie was doing her best, keeping the tide at bay, but Rusty knew she had to be running low on shells by now. “Bud!” he shouted above the clamorous din. “Maybe I should get some more shells from the back—Josie’s about out!”

  Bud gave the door a furious look. “One more time,” he said, gritting his teeth. They laid it all out, one last time, Bud’s face turning beet red, his arteries popping out like ropes along the surface of his temples and neck. Sweat poured from their faces in dust-filled rivulets. Just as Rusty felt he would expire, the great door jolted a foot ahead!

  He and Bud stopped in surprise, staring at each other. “Again!” Bud implored him. The mammoth hinges, securing the door to the shelter’s tubular steel structure, squealed grittily as it began to move, inch by inch.

  “It’s working!” Rusty laughed. Then a cloud passed over his face. He and Bud had moved the door to the halfway point, where they stopped to catch their breath. “What if it won’t open when we’re ready to leave?”

  Bud shouted over the righteous roar of Joe’s shotgun: “It will, don’t worry! But if you don’t latch that lock from inside, you’re all gonna die down here! I carved the combination on the bottom of the table! The TABLE, Rusty! No matter what happens, don’t let Joe open this door!”

  A hugely fat Rabid was stuck fast in the ladder-well, his chunky legs kicking ludicrously in the air. Josie took the opportunity to lower the gun from her throbbing shoulder. She had one shell left in her pocket, and with trembling fingers she slid it into the slot, praying there were still more in the chamber. She raised the shotgun to her weary shoulder again, and took aim between the fat man’s legs, pulling the trigger almost at once.

  A meaty explosion followed.

  The bottom half of the Rabid’s torso rained down into the alcove, leaving the top half still wedged tight. Buckets of blood flushed out of the ladder-well all at once, drenching everything directly underneath.

  Josie waited for the torso to drop free, for the Rabids to resume their death march, but the intestines dangling from the hole didn’t so much as twitch.

  They can’t get past the fat man!

  At least for the time being.

  She grinned at the sight of the steel door slowly swinging towards her. Finally! Something’s going our way!

  A furtive movement caught her eye, hurtling her heart to the depths of her gut. A pair of thrusting, searching hands had appeared at the dripping lip of the ladder-well, having shoved the corked torso out of the way.

  The gruesome object landed on the untidy hill of bodies and rolled to the bottom, coming to rest in front of Josie. The top of the fat man’s head rested between her sneakers. Cloudy eyes stared up at her.

  She kicked it apathetically out of the way.

  Josie aimed at the Rabid dropping out of the ladder-well and pulled the trigger.

  The impotent click was somehow deafening.

  “Hurry, Bud! I’m out of shells!!”

  Bud appeared from the other side of the door, shoving Rusty into Josie’s arms. He snatched the hurricane lantern off the table, and in one fell-motion threw it at the Rabid’s head. The heavy leaded glass shattered between its eyes, spraying the flammable contents all over the alcove.

  The Rabid, stunned by the blow, dropped to the floor, where it stumbled blindly about, trying to regain its feet. A dagger of glass protruded from one of its eyes. The other eye dangled free of its socket. It rolled to and fro on the Rabid’s swarthy cheek, held in place by the long optic nerve. Seeing it as hardly a threat, Bud turned to his friends. “As soon as I light that spill, y’all start pulling on the door! I’ll push from this side!”

  Josie didn’t think to argue. Besides, the door was too heavy to pull all the way shut; someone needed to give it extra momentum from the other side. One thought but occupied her mind: We’re gonna make it! We’re gonna make it! By God, WE’RE GONNA MAKE IT!

  Bud reached into his coat pocket for his trusty Zippo, but it wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. It was on the floor of the alcove, where he’d dropped it earlier, along with the hatchet. Remember…Remember…Remember…

  Was this the Thing his mother had tried to impart upon him? His grandfather’s beat up old Zippo? Such a little detail and yet his whole future had hinged upon it!

  He spun around, scanning the floor, spying the ax where he’d dropped it last. His Zippo, however, lay buried beneath a tangled pile of dead and dying Rabids. You blew it, Buddy boy! You fucking blew it! The last reel was running out, the end now no longer in doubt.

  Her euphoria dashed on the cold, jagged rocks of reality, Josie at once understood what was happening. She looked around wildly for the pack of matches they always kept on the coffee table—There! On the floor by the sofa!

  “Get the matches, Joe!” Bud said, too stubborn to quit even now. Behind him, a fresh Rabid crawled over the pile of bodies…

  “Another one’s gotten through!” Rusty screeched. “Quick! Let’s close the damn door!”

  “Not enough time,” Bud said, wading in for the fight. He felt for the buck knife at his hip, but it too was gone. The Rabid was between him and the hatchet. Another Rabid dropped out of the ladder-well, making it three against one—if you counted the blind man.

  “We need to light that fire, Joe!”

  Another Rabid joined the others. A huge fellow, even bigger than Bud. The center was unraveling now like a ball of yarn in a tornado. Josie dove for the matches, knowing in her heart it was too late. A movement on the couch caught her eye as she lunged, knocking the box of Fire Chief Matches underneath the sofa and out of reach.

  Tubby was sitting up, looking at Bud—though from Josie’s perspective there didn’t seem to be any awareness behind his dull, flat eyes. Like the boy was in a dream.

  He lifted the flare gun, and Josie’s spirit once again soared. A small red sun left the gun. She didn’t see it hit the oil-soaked bodies behind her, but she heard and felt the ignitingWWWWWHHHHUUUUUMMMMPPPP!!!

  Three of the pursuing Rabids, covered in lamp oil, burst into blazing wicks, their intolerable screams cut short by the cleansing inferno. The second they sucked the fire into their spongy lungs they fell silent as moths to the flame. His dream at an end, Tubby fell back unconscious—unaware that he’d done his part. Paid full his club dues.

  “Come on, you loony bastard!” Josie cussed at her seemingly suicidal boyfriend. “Get your arse in here!”

  Bud was too busy to answer her. He had his hands full, keeping the lone Rabid—the huge fellow who’d managed the blaze unscathed—at bay with his bare fists.

  He hit it in the jaw with a left/right combination that would have flattened Ali in his prime. He heard and felt the jaw crack underneath his hammering hands.

  And still the rabid behemoth kept coming…

  Bud was too preoccupied to realize his long battle had come down to him and this one last determined Rabid. The ladder-well had become a chimney, sucking up the flames and smoke, killing anything that dared traverse it. This was the defining moment. In his mind, he was finally facing the boogeyman that had killed his mother; and its
destruction was more important to Bud than his very survival. For its part, the giant Rabid seemed strangely unconcerned with the fire, burning so bright and hot behind it. So hot, in fact, his hair began to crisp and smoke on his head. Bud connected with a looping right hand, catching the Rabid flush on its temple.

  It staggered back and fell into the pyre of burning bodies, where it too burst into flame. Its skin began to melt, as if it was one of the wax figures in the museum.

  Bud took the opportunity to bark out fresh instructions to Josie and Rusty. They were both staring at him, like deer caught in the headlights. “Pull on that fucking door, youCreeps! PULL!!!”

  He turned back to the Rabid, who, despite the flames that immersed it, was in full pursuit mode once more. Its flesh bubbled and popped. Bubbled and popped. Bud could hear the body fluids boiling and hissing away just underneath the blistered flesh. Like the Devil’s own teakettle. And still it came. “NOW! SHUT IT NOW!”

  Josie and Rusty jumped to, and the door began to move, swinging closer and closer to the point where momentum would soon take over. Rusty looked over at Josie as they pulled away at the thick steel shafts on their side of the door. Panic filled his big brown eyes.

  “Make him come in, Joe!” he begged her. “Please! Make Buddy boy come in!”

  Understanding finally came. Bud has no intention of saving himself! She stopped pulling and began pushing on the door. Rusty at once lent his shoulder to the effort. “BUD BROWN, YOU STUBBORN SONOFABITCH!” she screamed. “YOU GET IN HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

  The door, however, kept right on closing.

  Time for a new tact: “Rusty, get some more shells for the shotgun!” Josie could make out the sounds of a hand-to-hand battle going on, on the other side of the door.

  It sounded like Bud was hitting the Rabid with everything he had. Or the Rabid is beating Bud to death…

  At last, silence...

  Bud Brown suddenly appeared between the diminishing gap. He had a surprised look on his face. A crazy grin that said it all: I can’t believe it! I did it! I really did it! I’m actually going to survive this fucking night!

  “Buddy boy!” Josie cried happily. She reached out and grabbed his arm. At once the look on his face changed. His cheeks seemed to lose all blood flow in an instant.

  “No. Not now,” he said, his face a portrait of sorrow. A blossom of blood sprayed across his cheek in a fine mist. Josie gasped in horror.

  The left side of Bud’s body, which he’d managed to squeeze through the door, began to buck wildly. Something was pulling on him from the other side. Biting him. Pain stitched across his face, and then it was gone. In its place was a resigned but steely determination.

  He left the door, and Josie and Rusty, who’d just returned with a box of useless shells, listened helplessly as Bud Brown let free the demons inside him.

  His howls of rage and ruin chilled them to the bone, and broke their very hearts. A dozen Rabids wouldn’t have stood a chance against such an onslaught, much less the one. The battle was intense but brief, and by the sound of the liquid Splats! coming from the other side, there wasn’t much left of Bud’s opponent.

  Then he was back. The whites of his eyes bright in a soot-covered mask. Grief dimming those iridescent irises. Not for himself, of course. For Josie. He knew what despair awaited her, in the days, weeks, months, and possibly years to come. How hard this was going to be on her. At least she would live to see a new day! If he’d accomplished nothing else, he’d at least done that. Saved my precious Josie! Saved my friends! And when it got right down to it, wasn’t that the whole reason behind all this madness? Yes, I succeeded. Thank you, Mom…

  Without a word, he began to push on the door again. Josie and Rusty immediately countered his efforts, pushing on their side with every ounce of their beings, but it was Bud who would win this…his last fight.

  His right hand popped into view, as he tried to gain extra leverage. Missing two fingers, the bloody stumps were ringed with ragged teeth marks.

  “No, Bud. No,” Josie moaned. Tears coursed down her face. “Please don’t do this to me! You’re not supposed to die, damn you! Don’t you know I can’t live without you, you sonofabitch!? BUD! FOR GOD’S SAKE, BUD!!!”

  “Shhh, Joe! Shhh! Listen to me now! Listen to me! You can and you will survive! Otherwise all this…all this misery was for nothing. Don’t let that happen to me, Joe. Please don’t let it be for nothing.” Bud paused, and stared deep into Josie O’Hara’s eyes, as if making that his last vision before dying. Remember, Joe: Never say die.”

  Then he looked at Rusty and nodded, his sad eyes turning once more to blue steel, as the great door neared its airtight frame. “You take care of her and Tubby! You hear me, Rusty? Goodbye, my friend! Goodbye, Josie! I love you both! I’ll see youCreeps on the other si—

  And just like that, their Buddy boy was no more.

  Chapter Twenty:

  Wasting Away in Margaritaville

  Josie O’Hara lay awake on the top bunk, gazing at the concrete ceiling above her head, counting the cracks zigzagging every which way like tiny rivers on a map. She desperately needed the healing properties of slumber to take her away, but her dreams of late had become too disturbing. Filled with graphic images of her brother and Bud. Sleep was the enemy now, and as she had for the past fourteen nights, Josie resisted its easy embrace. She was paying a terrible price, too. Her mind felt like a feather on a windy day—alighting here, settling there, only to find itself caught in another turbulent updraft, coming down only God knows where. She tried focusing her thoughts, but except for the chores she set before herself each day, it was becoming more and more a losing cause. After all that she’d been through—one narrow escape after another, managing to avoid mortal infection, the loss of so many loved ones—it seemed grossly unfair that she was now on the verge of losing her mind. If not for Bud’s final plea, she would have brought an end to this nonsense days ago. She had trouble remembering certain things leading up to the moment when Bud pushed the bomb shelter door closed, leaving himself on the wrong side, two weeks ago. Josie supposed it was her mind’s way of handling the grief; ironically enough, shutting doors in her head that led to places better left unvisited. She vaguely remembered screaming, all the while trying to push on the implacable steel fortress. To Josie’s incredulous shock, Rusty had slapped the hasp of the lock through both ends of the chain, snapping the Yale lock together with a terrible, final Click. With the heavy chain impeding its rotation, the wheel couldn’t retract the heavy bolts. She’d fumbled with the dial, screaming at Rusty to give her the damn combination—but Rusty had remained unmoved. What happened next was so ugly Josie assumed it had forever destroyed their friendship. She’d beaten her little muchacho with her fists and feet, pulling not a single punch or kick. Rusty simply stood there and took the abuse, his tears of grief the only sign of emotion on his face. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she might have even said some of the same vile things her mother used to say about Ham Huggins. Hateful things she didn’t mean at all!

  She could only hope that Rusty knew that.

  In her haste to get to Bud, she would have said anything, done anything, to get that fucking door open!

  But Rusty, keeping his promise to Bud, wouldn’t budge from the lock. Not even when Josie reloaded the shotgun and threatened to kill him.

  After that, it was all a blur.

  The days had bled away, one into another. Tubby marked each day’s passing, slash by slash, on the wall above the sofa. Other than his idle efforts, however, time had lost all meaning. When they were tired, they slept (Rusty and Tubby, anyway). When they were hungry, they ate. And if they did either of those things at the appointed times of their old lives it was purely by chance.

  A grim silence fell over the trio as they waited for the tragedy to play itself out.

  Josie wiped her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand, and tried once more to dislodge Bud Brown’s face from her mind. It was an unsettlin
g thing, wanting to both forget and remember someone at the same time. She had heard that Time took care of all wounds but didn’t believe it for a second. Her mother, her little brother Joel, and Bud were each one a separate, infected wound. Slowly poisoning her mind, and sapping her will to live. Ragged and raw holes that would never know closure, much less proper healing. She edged herself off the top bunk and landed softly on her bare feet beside Rusty, sound asleep on the bottom berth, sawing some serious timber. She envied his ability to snooze through anything. He had removed his glasses and placed them on a shelf over his head, which was otherwise chock full of books. George Pelecano’s King Suckerman lay open on Rusty’s skinny chest. Ever since the door had swung shut, Rusty had gotten through his grief and claustrophobia by reading and keeping Tubby company. She and her old pal hadn’t spoken since that awful day. She knew he’d been avoiding her because of his stand at the door. As much as one could in a space of 600 square feet. It was easy to see he felt guilty about the whole thing. She realized she would have to find a way to assuage that guilt. After all, he’d been right not to give in to her. Bud was a dead man the second that that Rabid bit his hand. Thanks to Rusty she didn't have to watch the virus steal him away from her. She wondered how it was for Bud in his final moments. Did he wait too long to go out on his own terms? Did he become his own worst nightmare? Was he scared? And worst of all, did he cry out to her; begging her to open the—