Free Dead Moon: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller by Matthew James

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.
    “Damnit!” 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 secretly relieved when I told her to take Joan’s bed. Betty needs