Werewolf Suspense (Book 2): Outage 2 (The Awakening) (5 page)

Billy started speaking again, but Tom silenced him. A noise had crept into earshot. Somewhere outside, an animal was whining.

The whining was shallow and high-pitched, coming from outside the passenger's side door. It sounded like the bray of something wounded, something in pain. The creature must be injured. Otherwise it'd be trying to get inside.
 

Right?

Tom scanned the vehicle, searching for a weapon he'd missed, but all he found was loose change, empty cans. There was nothing they could use. No way to defend themselves, other than an empty rifle and their bare hands. There was nothing except…a tire iron. He had one in back. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before.

"Billy," he hissed. ""Look over the seat behind you. There should be a tire iron back there."

The kid nodded and turned in his seat. Ashley lifted her head to allow him to slip free. The blood on her face—formerly dried—was wet with tears, smeared like a Halloween mask. Tom watched Billy slide over the seat, navigating his way in back. A few seconds later, he emerged with the tire iron and passed it to Tom.

With the weapon in hand, Tom felt a little more protected, but no less afraid. The beast's whining had stopped. He glared out the passenger's side window, but the pane was fogged.

Billy and Ashley watched him from the backseat.

Tom scooted over to the passenger's seat, took a deep breath, and slowly wiped away the condensation. As the window came clean, he imagined a bestial face on the other side, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes.
 

What he saw was a lump of black fur lying ten feet away in the snow.

He exhaled in relief. The creature was motionless. No whining. No movement. He gave a stiff nod at the window, then turned to face Billy and Ashley.

"I think it's dead," he pronounced, quietly.
 

In the distance, one of the beasts howled. The noise sent a surge of dread down Tom's spine.

"Are you sure?" Billy asked. "What if it's just knocked out?"
 

"I can't tell," Tom admitted. "But if we stay in here, we won't last the night. They'll get to us. It's not safe in here." He pointed to the cracked, bullet-scarred windshield, the smoking engine. The creatures would find them. "We need to get out of here."

"I'm not going out there," Ashley said, her teeth chattering. "No way. Not with that
thing
."

Tom furrowed his brow and looked up at the factory building. He recalled the light he'd seen before the crash. The SUV had ended up on the side of the road, parallel to the building. The rusted pickup and the green garage door were three hundred feet away. The building might be unlocked. Either that, or maybe they'd find the keys in the pickup. It was a long shot, but they didn't have many options.

"I thought I saw something in one of the windows before we crashed," Tom said, pointing to one of the dark windows. "A light. There might be someone inside. Maybe we can find help."

He stared at the building, but the light had vanished. They had to do
something
.
 

"Let's go," Tom whispered.

Neither of Tom's companions moved. It was obvious they weren't going to leave, not with the beast outside. For a moment, Tom considered locking them in the SUV and venturing out for help, bringing back the police, but the image of Lorena's eviscerated body made him swallow the idea.
 

He couldn't leave them behind.
 

He needed to convince them the beast was dead, as sickening and terrifying as the idea was. He swallowed his fear and reached for the door handle.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll make sure it's safe."

He opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

The bitter chill of the wind made Tom's eyes and nose water. His knit cap and coat were barely sufficient to brave the conditions. He wasn't even wearing gloves.

He shut the door. Somewhere behind him, Billy or Ashley engaged the locks with a click. Tom gripped the tire iron with numb hands and trudged forth, his boots like lead in the deep snow, working his way around the front of the SUV. Smoke billowed from the hood; the air reeked of engine fluids. The hood of the vehicle was melded around the telephone pole. Tom took only a cursory glance at the damage.

He had more pressing concerns.

He focused on the lump of black fur on the other side of the vehicle. It'd fallen about ten feet from the passenger's side. He peered around the hood, rabid fear gnawing his insides. He held up the tire iron, prepared to strike or to flee, whichever option seemed wiser.

The beast didn't move. The snow was stained with its blood.
 

Tom stared, but couldn't determine the origin or the nature of its wounds. The thing was lying facedown. Maybe they'd killed it with the SUV, and if they had, there was a good chance they could all be killed. It meant he and his companions had a chance at defending themselves.

Something flashed in his peripheral vision, and Tom's gaze roamed upwards. The light had reappeared. It was coming from one of the upper floors. The light bobbed back and forth; after a few seconds,
someone shone it against the window.
Do they see us?
Tom waved his hands. His heart surged with hope.
 

He needed to get Billy and Ashley, and they needed to run to the building.
 

He gave a precautionary glance at the thing on the ground.
 

Only the thing wasn't there anymore. It was on its feet.

Suddenly the beast was standing fifteen feet away, glaring at Tom across the hood of the vehicle, a dark shadow in the glow of the headlights. Its eyes burned—red and rabid and full of aggression. He hadn't even heard it move. It raised its claws and opened its maw, letting out a guttural snarl.
 

Tom stumbled backward.
 

Any wounds the beast had were gone now. His mind flashed to the beast he had shot earlier that evening. How many gunshots had he fired? How many bullets had it seemed to absorb? Tom swallowed the acidic taste that crept into his throat. He took another tentative, terrified step toward the driver's door. His only hope was to get back in the car. The beast took a step of its own, matching his pace, advancing toward the hood.

Inside the vehicle, something creaked. Tom heard Ashley whimpering through the glass. Were his companions watching him? Would they unlock the door? In a way, he wouldn't blame them if they didn't. The beast snarled and leapt onto the vehicle.

Tom lunged for the door handle. He grabbed it and pulled upwards, but it thudded uselessly against the doorframe. He heard Billy or Ashley unlocking it, but not in time.

The beast was already off the car and on him.
 

Tom smelled the thing before he felt the pain. Its breath was rancid, rotten. The beast tackled him to the snow. He sank through the deep powder and to the asphalt, clenching the tire iron.

He swung the weapon in front of him, but missed. The area around him was dark and noxious. The beast hovered over him, tearing at the snow, its claws no more than flashes in the near-darkness. He heard his coat rip. The hiss of the creature's breath. Tom cried out, but his voice was drowned out by the crazed growls of the beast.

He swung again. His blow was weak and uncoordinated, but somehow he connected with the thing's jowl. He felt something crack—its teeth, perhaps—and the thing roared and backed away. Tom struggled to right himself.
 

He scrambled to his feet. The beast was standing several steps away. Tom took a defensive swing, hoping to drive it back, but it was already advancing, raising its arms. It let out a final, haunting bellow.
 

Tom pictured Lorena and raised the tire iron. If he were going to be killed, he'd do it on his own terms: on his feet and fighting, with the image of his wife on his mind.

A gunshot cracked across the night.

The wolf's head spattered crimson across the snow, and it dropped to the ground in front of him, coming to rest inches from his boots. Tom lowered the tire iron, terrified and confused, but
alive
. He stepped back and stared at the beast for several seconds, certain it would spring to life and resume its attack, but it remained still.
 

He glanced all around the snow-ridden street, trying to find the source of the explosion. Movement from the nearby building drew his eye. In one of the upper windows—the window he'd been looking at—a man was hanging out the window, a rifle tucked under his arm.
 

"Over here!" the man yelled, waving his arms. "Get to the garage and I'll open the door!"

The rear door of the SUV groaned and cracked open. Billy's face poked through.

"Are you all right, Tom?" Billy asked, his cheeks ashen.

"Grab Ashley! Let's go!" Tom hissed.

The door opened and Billy and Ashley spilled out onto the snow. Tom forged across the landscape, making a wide berth around the body of the fallen creature, working his way toward the building.

His pulse roared behind his ears. Just moments before, he'd been prepared to die, ready to rejoin his wife in whatever-came-after.
 

The fact that he was alive was a miracle.

The snow in the parking lot was deeper than the road. Tom lifted his legs above the ground, as if he were engaged in a workout. Progress was painfully slow. Several times he glanced over his shoulder at the beast, but it didn't move. Sweat slid from his knit cap and onto his brow.
 

The man watched them from the window. A few seconds later, he called out again.

"I'll be right down!"

Tom got a glimpse of the man in the flashlight's glow before he disappeared. He was wearing a baseball hat, and he appeared to be in his late fifties, several years older than Tom.

The window slid shut. For a second, Tom fought the dreadful feeling that they were alone, that the man would leave them stranded. But they had no other options.
 

They ran past the rusted pickup, the snow piled high in the bed. Tom stole a glance at the interior. He could barely see through the snow-covered windows. When they reached the green garage door, they stepped underneath an overhang, shielding their faces from the pelting snow.

Tom spun to face the parking lot. He surveyed the open landscape, expecting to see dots of black fur on the distance, chasing them, but all he saw was the fallen body of the dead beast and the smoking SUV they'd left behind.
 

He glanced at Billy and Ashley. Their cheeks were red from running, their breaths hard and heavy. Billy held the empty rifle. Neither spoke.
 

Footsteps sounded from inside the building. The three spun to face the bay door. Tom heard the sound of gears grinding on tracks, and suddenly there was a gaping hole before him, a man standing in view. The man lowered his rifle.

"I'm Mark," he said. "Hurry up and get inside."

The man ushered them through the garage door, casting nervous glances into the parking lot. Then he lowered the door. Before it closed, Tom caught a glimpse of several industrial machines in the moon's light. He recognized them as woodworking machines. In a former life, he'd been a cabinetmaker. Before he could study the rest of the room, the room went black.
 

Tom had a moment of anxiety.

He didn't know this man or what his intentions were. What if Mark attacked them—or worse? Tom reached out to confirm Billy and Ashley's whereabouts. The girl startled.

"It's all right. It's just me," Tom said. "I'm just making sure we're all here."

He clutched the tire iron, just in case.

A flashlight flicked on. Mark shined it on each of them, his eyes roving between them. His face was backlit in the glow, allowing Tom a better look at him. The man was sporting a
Titleist
baseball cap and a day's worth of stubble.

"I was watching out the window," he said. "I saw you guys crash back there."

"Thanks for shooting that thing," Tom replied. "I probably would've died if you hadn't. But how'd you—?"

"Not now. We need to get upstairs. There'll be more coming, after all the noise we've made. I hope they didn't see the light."

Mark gave them a hard stare and then changed direction, heading further into the building. Tom paused for a second, enough to verify Billy and Ashley were next to him, and then followed the bobbing light through the room. Mark moved fast. Tom struggled to keep up, skirting industrial machines and boxes, objects that were little more than silhouettes in the backlight of the flashlight. The air was dank and cold, but less frigid than outside. When they reached the edge of the room, Mark disappeared through a doorway and mounted a stairwell. Tom glanced over his shoulder, fearful that he'd find the garage door open and vicious, slavering beasts on their tail.
 

The room remained dark.

They forged up the stairs, Mark pointing the flashlight over his head, as if they were miners in a cavern, exploring the twists and turns of some long-forgotten ruins. The staircase was steep and wooden, and Tom concentrated on quieting his footsteps as they walked. No matter how many walls and doors they hid behind, he didn't feel safe.
 

He'd never feel safe again.

When they reached the third floor, Mark paused at a doorway, using a key to unlock a wide, wooden door. He opened it and stuck his gun through the entrance. He scrutinized the room before proceeding. Then he led Tom, Billy, and Ashley into a room that smelled of grease and sawdust.
 

Once they were inside, Mark locked the door.
 

"Help me barricade the door," he said to Tom, shining the flashlight on an industrial saw that looked like it'd been used for that purpose.

Tom set his tire iron on top of the machine, then unlocked the wheels and rolled the machine in place. When the door was secure, they paused to catch their breath. Mark wiped his face with his sleeve.