Moon Mourning (Samantha Moon Origins Book 2) Page 8

  Ugh. Ignore it, Sam. You’re not losing your mind.

  Chad rings the bell.

  I jog over―okay, sprint―and stand beside him in the shade. “Remind me again what’s going on here? Sorry, I kinda zoned.”

  He smiles. “Nothing beyond a routine check.”

  “Oh, goodie.”

  “Goodie?”

  “That’s how I talk now. Got a problem with it?”

  He grins. “Not if you don’t.”

  A young guy, early twenties, with long straw-blond hair and buff pectorals answers the door wearing only a pair of cargo shorts. His chest muscles are puffy and perfect, almost like someone blew him up with an air pump. A deep tan and slightly-high expression make me think surfer. Within seconds of looking at him, my attention gravitates to his neck, and a visibly pulsating line where the carotid artery runs.

  “Uhh, hi,” says the resident.

  “Joseph Bell?” asks Chad.

  “No one calls me that but my mom when she’s pissed. I’m Joey.” The guy smiles. “You guys selling vacuum cleaners or Jesus?”

  An ache spreads across my face below my eyes, like a mild sinus infection, and also in my lower jaw. I pull my ID and forcibly shift my gaze from his neck to his eyes. “I’m Agent Moon, this is Agent Helling. We’re with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Just here to do a routine inspection of the property.”

  “Oh, right on.” Joey nods. “Come in, I guess. You guys want any tea or something? I sun brew.”

  Strange thoughts play out in my mind. Seeing this handsome, nearly perfect young man is filling me with an inexplicable hunger. For a brief moment, I want to consume him―carnally and literally. The literal part shocks me back to my senses, and I shake my head to clear it. Eager to keep him out of my direct vision, I dart into the hallway toward the back end of the house and kitchen.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Bell, err, Joey. This is just a routine inspection. We do them at least once for a new resident, but occasionally, more often,” says Chad. “That’s a rather nice TV you’ve got.”

  “Yeah.” Joey nods with a vapid smile.

  Well, I guess he can’t be perfect. All looks, not much between his ears. I stop halfway down the hall and return to the living room, keeping him in my peripheral vision to avoid any bizarre thoughts starting up again. Sure enough, he’s got a huge projection TV. Looks like about fifty inches. Probably cost him about four grand or so.

  “How’d you manage to swing a unit like that given your reported financial state?” I ask.

  “Oh, I didn’t.” Joey gestures at it. “My parents got it for me as a housewarming gift.”

  Yeah, right. Parents who’d throw four grand at a television for their son wouldn’t sleep well at night knowing their little angel had to rely on government assistance to swing a mortgage. My special tingly senses tell me he’s probably selling drugs, or at least has some undeclared income.

  I leave Chad talking with him about the parents and continue deeper into the house.

  A golden retriever bursts out of a doorway and growls at me.

  “Easy, boy.” I raise my hands. “Good dog. I’m only looking around.”

  Whimpers mix with growls. The dog’s tail goes between its legs, and it backs away.

  “Aww, it’s okay, boy,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The dog bolts back into what appears to be a spare bedroom with an unmade bed (which it crawls under) and single, small dresser. Hmm. Friend or acquaintance spent the night recently. Other than dog, the room has the scent of a man in it.

  Hmm. It’s not strange at all that I can smell that.

  Nope. Not one bit.

  I sigh, and head to the kitchen.

  The instant I’m through the archway, a yowling, screeching, furball scares the ever-loving crap out of me. By the time I realize it’s merely a housecat objecting to my presence, I’ve already drawn my gun. Oops. Unlike the dog, this calico isn’t retreating. She spits and hisses at me, raking her claws at the air from her perch atop the kitchen table. Since it’s only a cat, I put my weapon away before anyone notices.

  “Queenie!” yells Joey. “Be nice.”

  The cat hisses at me again.

  An odd temptation to hiss back at her strikes me, but I ignore it and settle for a quick glance around a messy, but non-suspicious kitchen. Queenie continues hissing, spitting, and growling even as I retreat back to the front of the house.

  We thank Chad for his time and head outside. I half-sprint to the car and dive in out of the inferno as fast as I can, gasping with relief as the roof shields me from the burning daystar. Ugh, this is cruel. I used to love the sun, now, it’s trying to kill me.

  “When did you start smoking?” asks Chad, as he climbs in.

  “I don’t.”

  He squints at me. “Oh, must’ve been dust or something. Thought I saw smoke. Heh. Maybe it’s the guy across the street cooking. Kinda smells like grilled meat.”

  I fidget. “Guess you’re hungry. Must be in your head.”

  “Mmm. Yeah, that aroma. Good idea.” He starts the car. “Lunch?”

  “Knock yourself out. I wish I could, but… special diet.”

  He nods. “Hope they let you off it soon.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Chad winds up driving to Nick’s Super Burger. Lovely. The last time we stopped here for lunch, it came with a side of .38 special bullets. My knuckles whiten as I grip the seat. Could this be the end of the dream? Maybe I did die there, and this circular path is bringing me back to the beginning. My brain runs away with the idea that everything since the shooting has existed only in the seconds between my taking a fatal bullet and being clinically dead. By the time the car stops, I’m terrified.

  As soon as we walk past the table, I’m going to realize I’m dead.

  “Want me to get it to go?” asks Chad.

  “Up to you. I’ll go in if you want to eat here, but can we sit inside, out of the sun?”

  He leans forward to look at my face. “You okay? You sound a little odd.”

  Great. He hears me being afraid. “I’d forgotten how early 7 a.m. arrives. I’m only tired.”

  “Welcome back, Sam.” Chad pats my leg in a purely buddy-cop platonic sort of way. “It’s good to see you’re okay.” His voice cracks a little. “Wasn’t looking good there for a while at first.”

  “So I hear. Guess I’m tougher than I look.”

  “The toughest.” He grins. “I’m going to eat, and possibly tempt you with the forbidden fruit of greasy perfection. If you should find your willpower slipping, I promise not to tell your doctor.”

  I laugh. “Glad to hear you’ve got me covered. Probably not going to happen, though. I’ve had enough intense vomiting for a lifetime, thanks.”

  “Ugh. Tragic.”

  My thoughts go to Starbucks. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had coffee. Maybe that’s why I’m going crazy. “Yeah, tragic.”

  I hop out and run across the lot, refusing to look at the table that’s still got a silvery gouge in the green paint where a bullet hit it. How many people have sat at that table, noticed the dent in the steel, and not had a clue what caused it?

  By the time I’m inside, I feel like I’ve been broiled. There’s a lot of shiny metal in here. The wall behind the counter area is covered with polished metal that functions like a crappy mirror, blurring everything. My makeup is more than adequate to keep my reflection from being too suspicious. The skin-toned blur of foundation above my shoulders appears no different from any of the other barely-recognizable blobs in the ‘mirror.’

  I grab a seat while Chad goes up to the counter and orders. It takes him only a moment before he thanks the clerk and hurries over to join me.

  “It’s the table outside, isn’t it?” asks Chad.

  “Huh?”

  “Wanting to go inside? You asked me to be honest with you, so… if you’ve got PTSD or something, it’s worth talking about.”

  “Oh
. No… it’s not the shooting. The guy missed, remember?” Evidently, he did, since my theoretical postmortem wild dream didn’t come to an abrupt halt once we got here. “I really have a nasty sunburn issue. I got some kind of infection in the hospital that’s made my skin overly sensitive to sunlight. It’s extremely uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, porphyria?”

  “No… Danny thinks it’s this thing called XP, but I’m not sure since that one’s genetic. I’ve never had any symptoms until recently, and I used to adore sunbathing.” I laugh. “Maybe I overdid it.”

  When his number is called, Chad retrieves his lunch, a bacon double-cheeseburger that looks bigger than Tammy’s head. His eyes sparkle with anticipation.

  “Speaking of overdoing things,” I say, “that’s a heart attack on a roll.”

  “Yeah.” Chad scoops the burger up in two hands. “But it’s a tasty heart attack. You sure you’re not tempted?”

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  I remember cheating on my old diet for this place every so often since the burgers are good. It would be a pity to waste one of these magnificent monstrosities by spewing it into a toilet. And, honestly, since the attack, food hasn’t tasted the same. Everything’s kinda bland. Then again, knowing that anything I eat is going to come flying out of me within fifteen minutes is quite the demotivator.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bargaining

  My first day back at work didn’t go too bad, all things considered. I’d expected boredom, and the job delivered and then some. However, the day went by much faster than I’d expected… probably since I kept blacking out.

  I remember Chad’s ‘see you tomorrow’ pat on the arm, a fleeting memory of Tammy and Anthony scrambling across Mary Lou’s living room to leap on me, but nothing about driving or even getting home. One moment I’m at the office, the next, I’m lying in my bed staring at the ceiling.

  Someone (Danny, I hope) traded my pantsuit for a nightgown. Hell, maybe I changed myself. Since I feel wide awake after a bout of restlessness, I’m sure the sun went down… but that still doesn’t make any sense. I sit up in bed, listening to voices from the other end of the house: Danny and the kids talking over dinner.

  More than ever, I feel like an outsider in my own home.

  I curl up, arms crossed over my knees, and sob as quietly as I can. What’s happening to me? Panic comes out of nowhere at not understanding anything. Am I alive or dead? Is this an awful dream or could any of it be real? Am I even now in a padded cell somewhere, mumbling incoherently to myself? Bits and pieces of the attack replay in my memory. I squeeze my legs tight to my chest, feeling like a little girl who sprang awake from a nightmare and desperately needs her parents, but they’re nowhere nearby.

  Then again, Mom and Dad weren’t exactly the nurturing type. It would’ve been Mary Lou comforting me. And she wouldn’t have needed to go far as we’d shared a bed.

  A sense that I’m trapped in an impossible nightmare closes in on me. My emotions swing back and forth from terrified to crying my eyes out. The extreme need to be normal again, to go back to the way things were, hurts almost as much as the sun.

  Storming emotions surge and ebb. Every clink of fork on plate from the kitchen rings like a cathedral bell in my mind, tolling to remind me that I am no longer part of this family or of this world.

  No!

  I scramble to my feet and start to rush out, but something makes me grab the doorjamb and catch myself. Shame and disgust roll over me. I recoil back into the bedroom, not wanting to let my family see this monster I’m turning into.

  “Okay, so what if you are real, God?” I ask the ceiling while pacing around the room. “I’m sorry for doubting you. Please help me get back to normal?”

  A moment or two of nothing happens.

  “Please,” I whine like a tween begging her father for a pony. “I promise I’ll do whatever you want, just let me be normal again. Please.”

  Scuffing shoes go by on the street outside, someone jogging. The crunch of their sneakers on paving hammers my brain, so loud it’s as though they’re running across the top of my skull. Again, I pace about my bedroom.

  This can’t possibly be real. People can’t be alive with such a sluggish heartbeat. People don’t disappear from mirrors or drink blood or stay up all night long feeling totally awake. I have got to be stuck in a nightmare.

  “God, fate, the universe, whatever is out there, please let me wake up.”

  I flop kneeling beside the bed, my upper half sprawled over the mattress, sobbing into the blankets.

  Pathetic… whispers a sinister voice at the back of my mind.

  “Yeah, well, fuck you too, schizo hallucination.”

  Another image of the attack flashes to the tip of my brain: a mostly human face of an older man in his late fifties, dark curly hair, pale. His lips part, revealing stark white teeth, and canines that grow out into fangs.

  I snap upright, shaking my head to throw away that ridiculous image. Insomnia and starvation are making me psychotic. Maybe I should call my father. He might be able to suggest some herbal remedy on the down low. Nothing that’ll show up in a report at work and get me dismissed for drug use.

  My eyes snap open wide.

  Wait a sec. In order to complete a drug test, I’d have to pee in a flask, and it’s been two weeks since I’ve peed. In a panic, I run to the bathroom, barely able to get a grip on the cup, and choke down water, filling and chugging five or six glasses’ worth before leaping onto the toilet.

  “Come on. Pee. Damn you…”

  I stare down at my non-working plumbing, trying by sheer force of will to make things happen. Churning in my gut sends a warning.

  No!

  I clench my jaw. No way, water. You’re not coming up. Take the usual route. Be normal.

  Moments later, a convulsion rocks me, water streaming out between my teeth. Instinct takes over and I lurch forward, thrusting my head past the edge of the tub in time for the torrent to blast out.

  Once the eruption stops, I drape there, neck against cold porcelain, head dangling into the tub, staring at the trails of water running off toward the drain. What do I have to do to wake up from this?

  “I swear I’ll quit my job if that’s what it takes.” I push myself up and wipe my mouth on the back of my arm. “Anything… what do I have to do?” Sniffle. “Not my kids. Anything but hurt or leave my family.”

  Water gurgles in the drain for a few minutes, then intermittent drips; a hollow echo from the pipe fills the air.

  “What do I have to do to get back to normal? It’s not like I ever wanted much. I never asked to be rich or famous or powerful… I only wanted a normal life and family.” Tingles along the bottoms of my eyes announce an imminent explosion of tears, but I’m too fried to let them out.

  Minutes pass, and it becomes painfully obvious that the universe, God, or fate are ignoring me. I pick myself up off the floor and stop by the mirror to make sure I don’t look too much like I’ve been crying my eyes out―and stare at a hollow nightgown.

  Head hung in defeat, I trudge out to the kitchen to be with my family.

  At least I still have them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Qwerty Sandwich

  With the kids in bed and Danny snoring lightly, I spend another night roaming my house like the lost soul that I am, wishing like hell that I had more of that cow blood, which I had long since consumed. As the hours pass, I oscillate from wanting to hunt for my own blood―it should be that hard to find, right?―and cursing God, which, oddly, feels good.

  Since I’ve got nothing better to do, I decide to get into a battle of wills with an inanimate object. Or in this case, water. When a pro athlete gets into a serious car accident, they don’t leap out of their hospital bed and get back on the field. No, they take baby steps. My baby step is going to be water. This food thing has got to be in my head. So I sidle up to the kitchen sink, fill a cup and take a few sips.

  The war starts off as usu
al, but this time, I refuse to listen to the cramping and churning.

  It’s only water, I chant in my head. A little burbles up into the back of my mouth, but I hold it down.

  Another sip.

  And another.

  At one point, I’m nearly in tears from the cramping, but I am determined to get my life back to something at least an inch closer to normal than things have been going lately.

  I take a gulp, the icy liquid sliding down my throat. It’s not what my body wants, but it’s what I’m giving it right now. Both hands clutching the edge of the counter, I concentrate on thoughts of water going through me.

  By 1:44 a.m., I’ve downed two cups and I’m holding it. Power of will for the win.

  I’m proud of myself for all of six minutes before I notice a small problem―I’m standing in a puddle. It’s not pee though―it’s plain water, having run through me like I’m a walking, talking Brita filter.

  Damn. I can’t figure out if I should be happy for my small victory (I didn’t puke) or worried that it’s still apparently ordinary water. The next time the job wants a sample to prove I’m not on drugs, there are going to be some intensely awkward questions.

  Still. I beat the water. And, like an athlete re-learning how to walk, apparently, I need to re-learn how to hold things in.

  Well, I made some progress.

  In the early hours of the morning, I wind up standing at the living window, suddenly curious that I seem to intrinsically know where the sun is at all times… hyper-aware of its approach with or without the use of a window or a clock.

  The sun. What is the deal with the sun?

  One minute, I’m watching the sky turn from deep purple to pale blue, the next, I’ve gotten a face full of living room carpet.

  “Sam?” asks Danny, shaking my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh?” I blearily blink at the beige blur in front of my eyes. My limbs feel like lead. Not wanting to move, I close my eyes again.

  “Sam?” Again, Danny jostles me.