Savage (33 page)

And to take as many of these nasty sons of bitches with him as he could.

Dale Moore had always said that he'd want to die with his family and friends surrounding him, leaving the world with the knowledge that he'd done good and he was loved.

Two out of the three would have to do, he thought as his ragged and bloody fingers twitched upon the detonator, applying just enough pressure to—

The garage, and everything inside it, was consumed in fire.

Berthold's twisted face started to blur, obscured by blobs of writhing color that appeared before Sidney's oxygen-starved eyes.

She was trying to fight him, thrashing and bucking, but he easily outweighed her by forty pounds.

Sidney found herself transfixed, nearly hypnotized by the single glistening eye inside the right socket of his skull, the way it moved, dilating and contracting, reminding her strangely of a camera lens attempting to focus.

In and out, drawing her in, pulling her within the solid blackness of the strange eye's center as her strength began to ebb.

The blaring horn snapped her from her trance, sending an adrenaline surge shooting through her body like lightning. One last chance to survive—one last chance to live.

It took all she had left. She drew her legs up underneath her attacker while placing both hands upon his shoulders. Then she wrenched her body to the side, rolling the man from atop her. He grunted as he landed on his back.

Sidney gasped for breath as she scrambled away from the man. Her hand fell on her knife as she went, and she gripped it tightly.

Alfred had come to the man's side, the dog's face a mask of torn skin and blood. She watched the man rise to his feet even as she struggled to stand, the wound in her leg throbbing painfully.

She was barely to her feet, and Berthold and the dog were slowly stalking toward her, when the explosion came.

A roaring, fire-spewing dragon that picked her up and threw her across the yard.

“I'm going to look for her,” Rich said just as the house exploded.

The truck rocked, licked by tongues of flame before being pelted by burning pieces of vinyl siding and pink insulation.

Cody looked at him, the expression on his face probably very much like Rich's own.

The rottweiler was still outside the passenger-side door, surrounded by pieces of burning debris.

“It's still out there,” Rich said, slamming his hand against the closed window. “We have to . . .”

Cody turned the engine over and put the truck in drive.

“Hold on,” he said as he stepped on the gas.

And for perhaps one of the first times in his life, Rich did as he was told without question.

The peace of unconsciousness was calling to her in a soothing voice that she could hear just bellow the bells ringing in her ears. It was trying to tell her to give in, to come on down to Dark Town and rest a spell.

It wanted her to give up, to throw in the towel, to tap out.

But Sidney didn't feel like dying.

She forced her eyes open and looked at her childhood home in flames.

“Dad,” she croaked as she watched the burning remains, knowing he was gone.

Dazed, she climbed unsteadily to her feet and began to limp toward the driveway, where she hoped the truck, her friends, were still waiting. Something clamped around her ankle, and she fell to her knees in the grass, crying out in pain as the wound in her thigh reminded her it was there.

Berthold was still alive, his body blackened and burning. He was holding tightly to her ankle, attempting to pull her closer. Not too far away, she could see Alfred, flat on his stomach, the fur on his back smoldering as he dragged himself toward her.

Why can't they just die?
she thought, frantically trying to shake the man's hold on her leg. His face was a horrible mess now, a mass of lacerated flesh and weeping blisters. His left eye was swollen shut, but the right was still wide with life.

She stared at it as she struggled, the silvery orb growing larger and smaller. She hated that eye and what it represented: the end of the life she had known.

She'd had enough. It was time to end this. Sidney gripped the knife and surged toward that silvery eye, plunging the blade into its center, hearing an oddly satisfying pop. She twisted the knife for good measure, then pulled back.

Berthold froze, strange silver liquid—like mercury—running down his burned and blistered face before he pitched forward to the ground, dead. Sidney yanked her foot from his blackened grasp and turned, horrified to find Alfred almost upon her.

She pushed herself back, ready to fight if she had to, when the truck appeared with the roar of its engine, barreling across the grass, the front tires running over the French bulldog's head as the vehicle came to a stop.

All she could do was stare as the door to the truck swung open and Cody reached for her.

“You really do need to keep up,” Rich screamed from the passenger seat.

Sidney scrambled up and into the truck.

Before something else tried to kill her.

Doc Martin hissed and gritted her teeth as she cleaned her wound. She thought of the shots she would have to get, tetanus for sure, and probably rabies.

She thought about rabies for a moment but knew in her gut that it wasn't that at all.
Rabies would be easy,
she thought.

What they were dealing with here and now was something altogether different and quite terrible.

She got some gauze pads and tape and bandaged her leg, then sat back to check her work. Deeming it satisfactory, Doc Martin tugged the leg of her torn and bloodied slacks down and cautiously stood. There was some pain, but she felt like she could walk—and maybe even run—if she had to. She stomped her feet for good measure and winced from the pain, but it was manageable.

The sound of the storm outside, as well as the scratches and rustlings of animal life searching for a way inside, made her listen. Whatever it was going on out there was bad and people needed to be warned, but she wasn't doing anybody any good trapped in here.

Limping from the back area, Doc Martin went up to the front of the clinic. In the faint red glow of the emergency lights she approached the main entrance, peering through the glass at the darkness outside. It was as if they were drawn to her presence, a veritable menagerie of dogs, cats, and rodents flowing from around the parking lot toward the front door. A Labrador–pit bull mix that she recognized from the neighborhood ran at the door full tilt, slamming its face into the glass, leaving a bloody stain behind as it stumbled back.

The silvery covering on its eye was evident, as she suspected it would be.

The mob of angry animal life was increasing as she stood there, hurling their bodies unmercifully against the glass that separated them from their prey.

Doc Martin stepped back, retreating into the front lobby, and was surprised to see the assault upon the door stop, the animals ceasing their attack, now that she was no longer visible. They continued to peer inside though, their heads tilted in such a way that their right eyes were the ones doing the searching.

She remembered the odd sensation she'd experienced when examining the right eyes of the animals from the kennel, like she was being watched—observed.

Returning to the back area, she was even more resolute that she needed to get out of there and get to a person of authority to explain what she had discovered. But in order to do that she needed to escape the building and get to her car without getting killed.

She had to somehow keep the animals away from her.

Remembering the number of beasts that she'd encountered out in the parking lot earlier, she wasn't feeling optimistic about her chances.

But she had to try something.

Walking around the back room, her eyes looked to every surface, every item. Her objective was to get to her car, but she had to keep the critters at bay.

On one of the shelves she saw a few plastic bottles of isopropyl alcohol. The liquid was extremely flammable and maybe just what the doctor ordered. She grabbed a bottle from the shelf, giving it a casual shake as she thought about how to use it.

“A torch,” she said out loud, the sound of her own voice in the empty office actually startling her. “I'll make a torch.”

She turned from the shelf, looking for what she could use to pull this off. In the far corner of the room there was a bucket and mop, and she set the alcohol bottle down on the counter as she went to it. As it was, the mop handle was too long, and she leaned it against the counter, lifted her good leg, and brought it down upon the wooden body with a loud snap.

“This should do it,” she muttered beneath her breath, the mop handle now half the length. From the bottom drawer of a cabinet she found a stack of towels and pulled them out. Going for her scissors, she brought them back and proceeded to cut the towels into strips, and when she felt there were enough, started to wrap the end of the mop handle, layering the thickness. When she was satisfied with what would be the torch head, she grabbed the bottles of alcohol and proceeded to fill the mop bucket, placing the rag-covered head down into the strong-smelling liquid. The fumes were nearly overwhelming, and she stepped back from the bucket. She wanted to be sure that the torch head was completely saturated, so she left it soaking as she scoured the area for other items to help her.

In the corner was a pair of heavy work boots that had been left from the particularly rough winter. She kicked off her sneakers and slipped into the boots, tucking her pants legs into the tops before tightly lacing them.

She then retrieved a pair of thick work gloves that they'd sometimes used when dealing with uncooperative cats and slipped them on over her hands. It wasn't much, but at least there would be some parts of her that would be protected.

It was now or never, and Doc Martin decided that now was the only option. She thought about the best way to leave the building, deciding that the back would be closest to her vehicle.

The gears inside her head were clicking again, and they locked into place as she went to retrieve her torch. The wheeled plastic bucket was still partially filled with isopropyl alcohol and still incredibly flammable. Resting the torch against the counter, she found a roll of gauze and made sure that she had her lighter and proceeded to roll the mop bucket to the front lobby, being sure to stay out of sight the best she could. From what she could observe through the windows, the lot appeared partially empty. She was sure that the beasts were waiting just beyond the periphery of light, waiting for her to try and escape.

They would be right about her plans, but not from where.

Stealthily, or at least as stealthily as a sixty-one-year-old woman could be, Doc Martin made her way toward the front door, pushing the alcohol-filled bucket in front of her.

Standing at the door, she reached up to the lock and clicked it open. Looking out over the front lot, she was amazed to see that the sound had actually drawn the attention of some of the beasts. A flood of muskrats—
or were they possums?
—swarmed from the darkness toward the door.

Quickly she fished the roll of gauze from her pocket and lit it with her lighter. Then she opened the door to the howling wind, and before anything could make its way in, she dropped the burning gauze into the bucket with explosive results. The alcohol immediately caught fire with a burst of blue flame, and she kicked the wheeled bucket out the door, where it rolled, burning, into the lot.

As she quickly shut the door, she saw that the animals were drawn to the still-moving bucket. Without another look, she raced to the back of the clinic, where she retrieved her torch. She stood at the back door, lifted her lighter to the head of the torch, lighting it with a rush of high flame. She tensed, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. The lot seemed to be clear, and she rushed out into the rain, eyes searching for signs of animals. It had been quite some time since Doc Martin had gotten this much exercise, but she gave it her best shot, legs pumping as she held the torch out in front of her, eyes fixed on her car. The bite wounds on her leg hurt like hell, but she ignored them.

She had crossed half of the lot when she chanced a quick look over her shoulder. She could see the front of the building, where the bucket had stopped burning, and the crowd of beasts surrounding it was beginning to disperse . . .

Beginning to notice her.

“Shit,” she hissed as her heart thumped wildly in her chest. Wouldn't it be her luck to have a heart attack right then? She continued to push herself toward her car at the far end of the lot. She was close, but so were the sounds of animal claws clicking on the pavement behind her.

Doc Martin spun around, waving the torch at the pack of dogs that had just about reached her. “Yaaah!” she screamed at the beasts as she continued to back toward her car. The flame of the torch seemed to slow them, but it was raining heavily and she knew the torch wouldn't last much longer.

She backed right into the side of her car, nearly dropping the torch. Sliding along the side, she made her way to the driver's-side door. She shoved her free hand into her pocket, fumbling for her keys, only to have them fall from her gloved hand as she pulled them free.

“Son of a bitch,” she snarled. Keys just weren't her thing today. Still holding the torch in front of her, seeing its flame in the glint of silvery right eyes, she bent to retrieve the keys. And just as her fingers closed around them, the animals surged.

It was an odd sight, and Doc Martin found herself pausing for a moment to watch. They seemed to move as one, flowing toward her very much like an ocean wave. Then she shoved the torch into the body of the mass, hoping that it would give her enough time to get into the car. The single, writhing mass broke apart as the flame touched them, but Doc Martin was already turning, pressing the button to unlock the Subaru wagon. She opened the car door and dove into the front seat, managing to pull the door closed again just as the first animal slammed into it.