Shadows on the Moon

By Brian Stoneking

On a moon outpost miles from earth an experiment is taking place. Bodies of the dead are being reanimated and made into soldiers for military warfare. A computer chip called Kronos 19 allows these bodies to be brought back to life. At first everything is operating smoothly, but now something has gone totally wrong. The main computer controlling these ghouls has malfunctioned, causing them to wreak destruction on the outpost. A small group of people and one small boy are stranded with nowhere to go. They are forced to face an army of the undead and there is no escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 23, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465330277

Brian Stoneking

Brian Stoneking enjoys reading science fiction and loves watching horror movies. He frequently reads Fangoria magazine. All of his life he had one dream to become a writer. He has attended nearly thirty sci-fi conventions. Stoneking admits that an idea for this novel came to him while sick one night, drinking whiskey. The idea came to him in a dream. Besides having a craving for warm flesh Stoneking has recovered from his illness and lives in Madison, where he is an avid bicycle rider.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Milwaukee, Wisconsin: Present Day

Chrissy Endreson looked out the window of the break room at her workplace, Milwaukee State Hospital. It was pouring rain, and lightening streaked across the dark, lurid heavens. She could see her dark-green Jeep Cherokee parked outside and thought about her deceased boyfriend. In a flashback Chrissy remembered: One night they were out together and he was driving drunk. It all happened about five years ago while she was still in medical school. Her boyfriend, Ron Harker, whom she was supposed to marry had Billy Idol’s Cradle of Love" turned up really loud on the radio. As they traveled down a long, dark country road, Chrissy began to feel a little scared.

Why don’t you take a sip? Ron said passing her the beer.

She refused. No thanks.

Damnit, bitch! Drink . . . the fucking beer!

When she again refused, Ron spoke. Damnit, woman! Sometimes I worry about you. I worry about you a lot. Why won’t you drink the goddamn beer?

I don’t like alcohol.

A deer suddenly appeared in the middle of the street. He slammed on the brakes, but too late—the car rammed into the deer. Ron, not wearing his seat belt, was ejected from the car, crashed through the windshield and hit the pavement, the impact killing him instantly.

When the paramedics arrived they had told Chrissy that Ron’s brain was splattered across the pavement and that his neck bone had snapped into dozens of pieces before letting her examine the body. She then looked at the body, thinking: Hey, I’m going to be a doctor, for heaven’s sake, and I’d better get used to this.

That’s Ron? she asked, with her hand over her mouth, crying and kneeling down on the ground next to his mangled body.

As Chrissy stared out the window, she thought: Perhaps it’s a good thing he died. If he’d lived and if we’d gotten hitched, I know now that he’d have been an overruling hubby who would’ve eventually talked me out of finishing medical school. She was now twenty eight-years of age, had curly brown hair and blue eyes and slender body, due to a daily two hour bike ride before going to work.

CHRISSY ENDRESON, REPORT TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, came over the intercom. In the emergency room a young man lay on the table—a young farmer who looked no older then thirty or so. The animal strapped to his back was the most grotesque thing she had ever seen.

What’s that?

It’s a mutation. This farmer says he found it near his house.

It looks like a spider.

Well, it’s not. We don’t know what the hell it is. All we know is that it’s on his back with its weird legs clinging to the poor guy’s skin.

The man clenched his teeth, as the mutation sank its two front fangs deeper into his back, Get it off of me! Get it off! It hurts.

Dr. Bergin entered the room. He had kind of a plain, pudgy look to him and his hair was thinning on top. Bergin was noted for being short on patience.

The doctor immediately noticed that the man was lying on his stomach, flopping around on the bed like a fish just out of the water. The poor young farmer kept yelling, Get it off . . . now!

For god sakes get him prepped for surgery so we can help this man!

It hurts! Oh sweet jesus . . . !

Damnit! Bergin yelled. Shut the fuck up!

You don’t know how much pain I feel.

You’re going to be feeling even more pain, if you don’t shut up!

The young farmer could feel The mutation’s two upper fangs dug even deeper into his neck bone.

Give him some anesthetic. I can see that thing’s connected to the Cervical vertebrae.

The young farmer slowly went under and had finally shut up. Chrissy had to admit that farmer was a pussy and looked like a man who had endured pain every day of his life Scalpel, Bergin commanded.

Chrissy handed it to him she was to afraid to even look at the creature.

Bergin carefully sliced away at the creature’s back. With every incision the fangs retracted into its gums, and much to the relief of everyone in the emergency room. Chrissy stared at the critter as Bergin removed its slithery grasp from the farmer’s back. He placed the creature in a dissection pan for the time being.

Christ, look at that! You’d think some time portal opened up in the space time, continuum sucking in this ugly vile creature from another dimension, Bergin said pushing up reading glasses.

Chrissy was reminded of an old high school chum. I knew someone in high school who used to talk about that stuff all the time.

Bergin smiled. Oh yeah? What happened to him? Did he end up in a looney bin?

No he drank himself to an early grave.

Good for him.

They both went to the break room, where doctors, nurses and the anesthesiologist were discussing the young farmer. Bergin interrupted them.

Anyone heard the news or read the paper today? No one answered. Well, I guess not, but anyway, the government, the head honcho of everything, has sent several scientists and a few other military people off to the moon. They’re building outposts out there.

His little speech caught everyone’s attention, When the hell did this happen? asked one of the nurses.

Well, this has been going on for a while. The government just didn’t want us or the people to know about it.

Chrissy chimed in, So why are they telling the people now?

Because they now know this thing’s going to be a success. They’re using old bodies of people who’d donated their bodies to science.

You mean they can reanimate them? Chrissy asked.

Bergin nodded. One of the other doctors said, Just as well. Cuts off hazard pay.

A tall, thin man entered the lounge—Dr. Howard, head of the emergency room. He overheard Bergin talking and added to the conversation.

They’re looking for more qualified people to go up there. All you have to do is send in a resume to the Aeronautics Administration and if they like what they read, then you’re in.

Chrissy was thinking: Maybe it’d be good to get away for a while. They’ll need another doctor to repair any walking stiffs, in case any of them get injured. Here on earth the only thing I can ever think about is Ron’s brains splattered on the pavement, and that happened six long years ago.

Maybe it’s time for a change. Chrissy left the hospital. It was still pouring rain, and she had made it half-way to her Jeep, when Bergin shouted to her.

Dr. Endreson! Chrissy wait.

Hey, Dr. Bergin. What’s up?

She smiled at him, although it was hard to believe that she could still be this nice to him after he had treated her like a complete asshole in the emergency room. He pulled out his umbrella and began apologizing. Look, I’m sorry about what happened in surgery. It’s just . . . you know how I lose my temper.

I really don’t care about that. I just want to know what the hell that thing was.

I don’t know. The main thing is the farmer’s recovering and that critter’s dead. But I took a little souvenir.

Bergin pulled out the tip of the creature’s leg that he had sliced off.

Gross! Is that part of it?

Yep. My hobby’s research science . . . love the subject. Hope I can figure out what this is.

Good luck. She unlocked her car, not mentioning to him about her decision to send her resume to the Aeronautics Administration. She had heard how these things go. They mail you a survey, a psych evaluation, that allows them to determine if you are stable enough to withstand enclosed corridors for a long period of time.

Chrissy heard the scraping of the windshield wipers. Every time she got into the car at night, she was always reminded of Ron’s spilt and splattered brains. One thing, however, comforted her: She was in the city now and not on some lonely country road.

At home the lights in the house had been automatically turned on, and Chrissy’s robot housekeeper rolled into the living room to greet her.

How was your day? the little five-foot robot asked in a computerized voice.

I’d rather not talk about it.

Alright then, would you like to listen to some music?

Sure. That’d be nice, put on some Guns N’Roses

The robot did what Chrissy asked. She gazed up at the moon through the open window, as the song, November Rain, came on. The images of her boyfriend were still etched in her mind. Even though the accident had happened six years ago, she thought about it like it had happened yesterday. One thought disturbed her: If I hadn’t been wearing my seat belt, there could’ve been two mangled bodies instead of one.

Chrissy then pulled out her photo album with pictures of that night from the newspapers and autopsy photos. One thing was for sure: She did not feel one bit sorry for Ron Harker. He should have known what was coming. Fate struck him like a fist. He was drunk and the motherfucker had to pay the price, no questions asked.

Chrissy, would you like something to drink?

Yes. How about ice tea? She paused for a moment, How about a beer? I think there’s some left in the refrigerator.

The little robot then went off to get the beer. Chrissy sat down to put together her resume while looking at the photos of Ron Harker’s brain. She had not noticed before, but in the pictures his teeth had shattered like dentures that had fallen off a shelf. The broken teeth were spread across the street in all directions. Chrissy tossed aside the photos and took a swig of the beer, then noticed a picture in the current newspaper.

Bring me a glass of water! she yelled to her robot helper.

The photo actually made her jump; it was a picture of a non-living human being wearing a space suit. It seemed to her that the thing in the newspaper photo would leap out to strike at her and nibble at her brain. The close up of its skeletal face sent chills down her spine. Above the picture headlines read: MAKING DEAD PEOPLE WORK FOR A LIVING.

The article reported on the colonies on the moon and the job position she was trying to get. She had read a part in the article where it said that these walking corpses had computer chips implanted through out their bodies. Inside each of their heads was the main chip, called Kronos 19, that sent energy waves throughout their cold, stiff and brittle bodies.

That’s charming, she said to herself, thinking: At least the photographer could’ve taken a better picture. The corpses’ decaying eyeballs were almost ready to leap from their undead sockets.

As a girl she had seen horror movies about zombies being brought back to life. But she never thought that modern science would actually fuck around with dead people, especially to help build an outpost on the moon. Of course, there was a drawback with using walking corpses for slave labor.

The moon base was heavily guarded by artillery, and the only way to kill one of the ghouls was through the cranium, where the main computer chip was implanted. The article stated that at night, they place the corpses in a hangar, each in a separate sleeping department to recharge its computer chip.

The robot then interrupted her reading, Chrissy, would you like another beer?

No, I think I’m fine, she responded. She began to think about all the things that could go wrong up there. The corpses could go berserk for some reason or perhaps there could be a hole through the airlock in one of the main buildings; that was an astronaut’s biggest fear: Being sucked through an airlock and blasted out into the cold reaches of space.

Chrissy tried blocking those worries out of her mind, placed the resume in an envelope and promptly passed out on the couch. A vision popped into her mind. She found herself in a dark room surrounded by thousands of hospital beds. She could hear the beeping sounds of the heart-rate monitors.

Lying on the hospital beds were dozens of corpses with cords dangling from their flesh and muscles. The monitors were at a steady beat, but every time the corpses moved, the monitors beat even faster.

As one by one they began to awaken, the monitors began to beat really fast. The corpses now went in pursuit of some nice warm human flesh. Walking zombies such as these did not exactly eat human brains but savagely tore apart human bodies.

Each corpse tried to grab at her body parts but there was not enough to go around. Chrissy was screaming at the top of her lungs, unable to breath and a feeling of claustrophobia creeping up all around her. The faces of the undead surrounded her and all seemed to chuckle like little children playing in a schoolyard. The only difference was these were not the faces of cute little children, but these ghouls had dismembered faces. It all seemed clear to Chrissy that these were more like the offsprings of the devil.

Whoever thought of zombies building an outpost on the moon was seriously screwed in the head. But how else would they do it?—not robotic robots which malfunctioned quite frequently.

But she was in conflict with the so-called offsprings of Satan, and they were hungry for real food. Her ears were ringing from the rapid beeping noises of the heart monitors. One of the corpses said in a slow, slurred voice, Food, food, food. Then the other corpses began to repeat after him, Food, Food, Food.

Her life had slipped away when two corpses grabbed her eyeballs and began splitting her face apart. Her hands stopped quivering and her body remained still.

Chrissy awakened to a loud clap of thunder that made her windows tremble.

She stared at her finished resume and awaited the dawn. Chrissy looked out the window at the moon and thought: They’re up there somewhere . . . the walking dead taking orders from moon base personnel. But I don’t care. Hell, there’d be a slim chance that an incident would even happen in the first place.

Besides the paper said that President Kennedy had thought of this. So why shouldn’t it be all right? This conclusion had come from the mind of a brilliant man.

When the sun rose, she walked to the nearest mailbox and slipped in the envelope. Now all she could do was wait for a reply and, of course, the results of their famous psych test.

CHAPTER 2

Leon Bishop came crashing through the gates of someone’s private property. He and a few other Swat members were trying to catch a cocaine dealer, who was faster then a roadrunner high on marijuana. Bishop made sure no one was in the way and fired his pistol; the shot missed, and this made Leon very angry. He had better things to do than chase a criminal in some ghetto neighborhood in broad daylight.

The two other swat members, Carl Jamison and Harry Malone, were nearly out of breath, and Bishop realized that he might have to catch this guy alone. Leon could feel his heart beating against his chest and hoped his kneecaps would not give out on him like the last time. The drug dealer hopped another fence and with all his remaining effort, Bishop climbed, but lost his grip and tumbled to the ground on the other side of the gate. Bishop quickly got back up in order to catch this fucker who was now running with a limp. Once Bishop saw the opportunity, he again shot at the man, this time hitting him in the leg. The drug dealer fell to the pavement scaring his elbows and parts of his face.

Bishop donated more bruises as he plunged his fist into the drug dealer’s face. The dealer’s head crashed into the pavement, leaving a streak of blood.

Yo’ dawg! Please don’t be punchin’ me no more, the dealer pleaded.

Shut up! Because of you, I’ll have to get my kneecap repaired, Bishop said pinning him down.

Dawg, sorry about the kneecap. Please, dawg, don’t hit me.

Where is it? Where are the drugs?

Dawg, they be back at the warehouse, dawg.

Damnit! Bishop said as he forcefully yanked the dealer up off the ground, You’re coming with me and by the way, learn to communicate better. You’re a human fucking being, Bishop said. Bishop limped back to the scene and handcuffed the dealer.

Bishop was a six-foot-two man, thirty-two years of age, with thick blond hair. On a good day Leon had a wonderful boyish charm which made him a real ladies, man. But today he was one pissed-off, raging bull.

Bishop put on a respirator mask before entering the warehouse, followed by several other SWAT team members, inculding Jamison and Malone. Bishop held a semiautomatic at the back of the drug dealer.

Bishop knew the guy was scared shitless, and this sight was the enjoyment of watching his arrested prisoner tremble at the sight of a gun.

The dealer felt himself become light-headed from the smell of burning marijuana. For no reason he began to laugh and knew he was risking a bullet in the back. Bishop nudged the tip of the semi-automatic into the felon’s rib cage.

Damn dawg, not so hard. The dealer began to laugh, baring his tobacco-infested gums and a mouth with half of his teeth missing.

Don’t ever grin at me, Bishop said raising the gun up to the drug dealer’s face.

O.K. dawg. They’re over in the corner, pointing to a closed cabinet.

Bishop opened the cabinet and sure enough, the stash was inside. Bishop could not control the anger that he felt toward the drug dealer.

Jamison, secure that stash. I’m going to feed this guy to the boys in blue, Bishop said, giving the drug dealer a good shove.

Dawg, please. I told you where the stash is, Bishop chuckled, Do you think I’m just going to let you go?

Um-mm, yeah.

Bishop sighed and as soon as they got outside he shoved the drug dealer up against the police car. He began spitting up blood and turned toward Bishop attempting to spit at him. With his aggressive anger he popped another punch into the face of the ghetto drug dealer, ‘You fuck!" Bishop said as he slammed the man’s face down on the hood of the police car.

Damn dawg, no more.

Hey officer, take care of this guy.

Will do.

Bishop noticed a car pull up. Getting out of the car were two army men with military police patches on their upper arms which simply read M.P. got out. Bishop thought they were probably here to punch him out or at least lecture him for being too abusive to the drug dealer.

Bishop knew it was shit like this that had gotten America screwed up.

It all started in the early nineties, and in 1998 this country had a taste of