Dead Moon: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Read Free Page A

intention of actually using the weapon. Before I make my way further into the dapperly appointed living area, I turn and close the window. Next is the lock and the curtains. I want anything and everything to think this place is undisturbed and vacant.
    Once I’m done covering my tracks, I turn to the home and listen. Not a peep. Quiet as a church on Tuesday.
    Not trusting the silence, I quickly check the place and confirm I’m alone. The kitchen is the last place I go, after double-checking that the front door is, indeed, deadbolted.
    Feeling a little better about my situation, but not my body, I dive into a closet off the main hall and grab the first towel I see. I rip off my jacket and jam the thing down as hard as I can, doing my best to stymie the blood flow. Stitches aren’t something I’m going to be getting anytime soon, so I’ll need to take care of this anyway I can.
    Between the stress of everything going on and the lack of sleep—not to mention the blood loss, my head starts to swim again and I go to the kitchen, opening whatever cabinet I can. Finally, I find a bottle of ibuprofen and pop three pills into my mouth and dry swallow them. The pills are nasty and get stuck in my throat, making me gag. I reach for the fridge door and pull, not noticing that I did that with my bad arm.
    I cringe, using the last of my energy, and fall to the floor. I don’t remember landing.
     
    *  *  *  *  *
     
    I awake a few hours later, lying in a heap on the kitchen floor. Groaning, I stand, pushing off the counter with my good hand.
    I stumble and lean against something that clinks—a wine rack. Atop the serving area is a variety of whiskeys and rums. I don’t hesitate, feeling the aching in my shoulder worsen as I awaken further. I unscrew a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and take a long and greedy chug.
    My throat is on fire when I stop, but the pain in my shoulder has subsided enough to function. Then…the alcohol takes over. I stumble again, but catch myself on the countertop. I shake my head like a dog, trying to force the room to stop spinning. It works—slightly.
    Gotta’ get some water in my system or I’ll dehydrate.
    Between what happened yesterday and the shit I just went through now, I’m done. I need to find a proper place to rest for a while and would really much enjoy it not being the unforgiving tiled kitchen floor again.
    I limp over to the modest-sized living room and plop down into the comfiest recliner I’ve ever felt. It probably isn’t as comfortable as my brain is telling me, but whatever, I’m not complaining. I need rest and it beats where I slept last night.
    Glock in hand, I picture my wife in the same see-through number I just saw downstairs. Only it’s without the blood and gore and I’m the one in the bed, waiting for her to pounce. She fills out the nighty much better too.
    Damn, I miss her.
    I refuse to think the next part though. My brain is trying to make me think something about hoping she’s still alive . She’s the only reason I haven’t tried to leave the island yet. Manhattan holds nothing sacred to me, except my wife.
    But as my mind settles in for the night, my subconscious reverts back to its current state. I dream of chaos and death. I dream of bloodstained bedrooms and nurseries. The latter of which hasn’t happened yet, but it would move to number one on my nightmare list if it did.
    I’m sure it’ll get replaced with another as the hours pass. If I can’t find Jill… that will top any list anyone could have. Her death will be the end of me for sure.
    I mumble, “I’m coming...” and then pass out for good.

3
     
    Last Night
     
    So, why am I running for my life through someone else’s apartment building? Let me explain. It’s something straight out of a seriously screwed up science fiction movie.
    First off, let me properly introduce myself. My name is Frank Moon, and I used to be a detective with the NYPD. I say, used to, because ever since Abaddon