Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) (13 page)

"Get back!" Tom cried, retreating himself.
 

The incoming beast advanced. It raised its claws to attack. Sherry swung the hammer, her arms shaking in anger.
 

"You son of a bitch! I'll kill you!" she shrieked, flailing at the thing.

The creature reared up and shook its head, oblivious to her threats. Tom tried to draw a bead on it, but Sherry's incessant movement obscured a clear shot. Sherry continued to shout, her voice increasing in volume, filling the room with her crazed words.

The beast cocked its head, stuck in an animal trance.
 

Then it broke free.

The creature snagged hold of Sherry, lifting her high in the air, dangling her by her throat. She gurgled, her legs kicked weakly beneath her.

"Holy fuck!" Sven screamed.

The creatures slashed her stomach. Tom took aim and fired, shooting the beast's leg, knowing it was too late. Sherry fell to the ground, a gnarled, screaming heap of blood. The creature fell backward, but another was already leaping through and taking its place, burying its snout into the fallen woman. Her last scream was cut short by the creature's opened maw. Tom fired again, striking the second beast in the head, sending it reeling to the side.

Those beasts were only the beginning.

There were more. Lots of them.

The open doorway was like a portal to hell, ushering the things inside. Dark, massive bodies lunged through the entrance. Tom saw only bits and pieces of their visages in the dim lighting. The room erupted in screams and movement. Tom backpedaled to join the others. The four remaining survivors readied their guns, their faces lit with terror. Together they fired at the approaching masses. The muzzle flashes of their guns provided brief bursts of illumination, like dance-club strobe lighting. Tom couldn't even tell what he was hitting. The primal shrieks of the beasts were the only clues he had that he was connecting with anything. His ears rang from gun blasts.

He stepped backward as he fired, wishing there were somewhere to run. But they'd already gone as far as they were able. The remaining barricade shook and rattled behind them. Once it crumbled, there'd be nowhere left to seek refuge.
 

The survivors were hopelessly pinned. Sven yelled something, but whatever he said was lost in the commotion. Tom gritted his teeth and fired round after round, knowing soon they'd be out of ammunition, swarmed by beasts, hardly in a position to reload. The beasts continued to raid the room.

Furred, vicious bodies howled and toppled over. The only thing delaying the inevitable was the limited width of the doorway. The beasts were forced to contend with their fallen brethren, climbing over them with thick, inhuman limbs. Each time one of them gained ground, either Tom, Rosemary, Sven, or Frederick knocked it back, increasing the size of the mound by the doorway. Tom could no longer see Sherry's body. It was covered in a carpet of beasts, as if the woman had grown fur and become one of them. Tom had the quick, shuddering thought that his earlier premonition had come true.
 

The room grew dark as more beasts filled the entrance. Tom could barely see his companions or the things he was shooting at. But soon that wouldn't matter.

It was almost over.

Rosemary was the first to run out of ammunition. Her terrified shriek was the first sign of the end. Tom saw her falter in his peripheral vision. The ear-splitting sound of gunfire went quieter. He squeezed the trigger. He tried to calculate the number of shots he might have left, but it was pointless. His brain was over-stimulated, addled by commotion and terror. Sven moved forward to take Rosemary's place, shouting for her to get behind him.
 

"Try reloading!" Sven screamed. His words were a combination of forced bravery and terror. "I'll hold them back!" He took a defiant step forward, protecting Rosemary.

One of the creatures scurried over the pile of bodies, growling. Tom fired, but missed. The beast raced across the room and lunged through the air.

Before anyone could do anything, it grabbed hold of Sven.
 

Too late, Rosemary shrieked a warning.
 

The thing pitched Sven to the ground. Sven rolled, but there was nowhere for him to maneuver. Tom heard crashing underneath the preparation table. Tom tried to aim but couldn't see well enough to assist.

The fat man's final, paralyzed scream pierced the air.

And then the last barricade caved.

Tom lost his balance as something struck him in the back. He fell to the floor hard, losing his wind and his grip on the gun. His rifle skittered into the darkness. Gunfire, rife in the air just moments before, had ceased, giving way to the montage of beasts. The area filled with replacement noises—growls and screams, the clatter of falling, displaced objects.
 

Something else hit Tom in the back of the leg. Pain rippled through his body, and he crawled on hands and knees, moving away from whatever he'd collided with. The floor was sticky with blood. He kept crawling, weaving around the things he could only vaguely discern. He listened for the others.
 

Frederick and Rosemary screamed unintelligibly. Between the ringing in his ears and the commotion, the room was a wall of noise, and Tom couldn't decipher anything.

"Rosemary? Frederick?" he screamed.

Straining to listen, he picked out a few phrases.
 

"Over here!" Rosemary hollered.

From across the room, Frederick screamed, "I can't see nothin'!"

Their words were a small, hopeless lifeline in a turbid sea. Tom knew they'd be overtaken at any moment. He needed his weapon.
 

Where the hell was it?

He scooted forward on hands and knees. The beasts had taken over the room. Their claws clicked the floor both in front of him and behind, sending pricks of terror through his body. Their moving bodies blocked off the majority of the light from both ends of the room. Tom's breath came in jagged gasps. He resisted the urge to get up, to
run
, fearing his proximity to the ground was the only thing keeping him alive. His hope was that he could shrink low to the ground, making him a smaller target. He desperately wanted to help the others.

But what could he do?

A terrified cry told him Rosemary had gotten to her feet. He heard the slap of her boots on the floor, then the fading sound of her shrieking. It sounded like she'd managed to get outside. She'd made it! He spun to look behind him, hoping to follow suit, but all he made out were masses of movement. Rosemary's terror-stricken voice faded into the night. He listened as several of the beasts gave chase, their snarls heightening. Several gunshots rang out in the night air.
 

And then the noises ceased.
   

No!

Rosemary…!

Tom had failed her. He'd failed them all. Choking on his emotion, he moved forward. Something was coming up behind him. He had to move. He sprang forward, bumping face-first into something warm and musky. He recoiled in terror. The object wasn't moving. It was one of the dead beasts.
 

He groped at the still-warm body, clutching its fur. Then he moved his hands down the side, frantically searching for a place to hide. The beast was higher off the ground than he was. It took him a second to determine why. Two dead beasts had fallen on top of each other. Something snorted behind him. Without thinking, Tom burrowed between the two bodies. The cloying odor of beasts threatened to smother him, but Tom kept wriggling, praying to God he could stay hidden.
 

What if one of the dead beasts sprang to life?
What if they aren't dead?

There was no time to think about it.

Soon he was underneath them, gasping quietly for air. The dead weight of the creature on top of him compressed his lungs. He listened to the snarls of the creatures as they ravaged the room. Objects shattered against walls. Vicious claws tore through the cabinets. He heard the slurp of buried maws, feasting on what he presumed was Sven's body. Was Frederick dead, too? He hadn't heard the man in a while. Tom had a stabbing sense of loss that he didn't have time to digest.

Chances were, he wouldn't be alive long enough to feel it.

Tom quietly pulled his arms to his face, the instinct to protect himself still strong. He breathed in and out, focused on keeping alive. His heart beat into the body of the beast below him, and he feared he might hear a second heart beating back.
 

As long as I'm breathing, I'm alive.
 

He told himself that with each passing second, as the creatures sniffed and snorted around him. Tom stiffened. He recalled how the creatures seemed to detect human presence, no matter where they hid. He held his breath, certain they'd find him.

They're going to know I'm here, and they're going to rip the things off me, and then I'll be ripped open.
 

He waited for the bodies to be cast aside and for claws to grab him. His pulse pounded in his temples as he held his breath. His lungs begged for oxygen.

Don't breathe…don't breathe…

The weight on top of him got heavier. One of the things clambered over the dead beast on top of him. Tom grimaced in pain; his ribs felt like they were being crushed. His head pounded from lack of oxygen.
 

Once they found him, he'd—

A scream pierced the air. Footsteps pounded from the far end of the room. Someone else was alive. Tom heard pained, desperate curses spilling from a man's mouth as he fled the room and out into the night.
Frederick!

The pressure on top of Tom receded, and suddenly the room erupted in roars and growls as the things chased after the fleeing man. Tom held his breath as the backdrop of noise moved further away. The room went preternaturally still. He let air slip from his mouth, relieving the pressure in his lungs, and tried to wriggle free. He needed freedom. He needed to move.

He needed to help Frederick.
 

Tom wormed sideways, fighting the fleshy folds of the beasts—skin that seemed like it was intent on trapping him—and found his way into the open. He spat the taste of matted, sticky fur from his mouth. Fresh air filled his lungs as he sucked in his first full breath. He looked around.
 

With the back door open and no bodies blocking the threshold, moonlight crept in, illuminating the lifeless bodies on the floor. Most were large and inhuman. One was Sven's. The man had been flayed open and half-eaten. Swallowing sickness and guilt, Tom ran for the back door, watching a pack of beasts chase down Frederick. The man screamed as he limped off into the night, the creatures almost on top of him.
 

I have to help him!

Tom scoured the room for a weapon, but all he saw were bodies and gore.
 

No guns.

A sharp cry drew his attention. The creatures had encircled Frederick, and they batted him like cats with a ball of unrolled twine. Frederick's clothes hung off him, his skin dripped blood. He feinted in several directions, hoping to find an escape route, but each time, the creatures sliced his skin, keeping him in the middle. He doubled over, clutching his pistol.
 

He has a gun! Thank God, he has a gun…

Frederick pointed it at the creatures and attempted to fire, but the gun clicked empty.
 

"Get the fuck away from me!" he screamed through panicked breaths.

Before Tom could think about helping, Frederick was knocked to the snow and drowned by beasts. They tore into the man like animals sharing a trough, scratching and vying for bits of food. Frederick gurgled several times and went silent.
 

No…!

Tom blinked hard and backed away. He stared outside but couldn't find Rosemary. She was gone, too. And he'd be next. While the creatures were preoccupied with Frederick, he needed to hide. When they were finished, they'd come back.

Tom spun and ran across the bloodstained room. Where could he hide? The thought of being sandwiched between the beasts again made him sick. He couldn't do that. He'd rather die than be trapped.
Keep going.
 

Snarls ripped through the air behind him. He envisioned the cluster of beasts outside in the snow, crunching over the white landscape to get to him. Tom stepped over massive, fur-covered bodies. In the semi-dark, he saw pairs of eyes and glistening teeth. He envisioned a claw reaching up and grabbing an ankle, ripping him back to the floor, but none did.
 

He clambered over the mini-mountain of several bodies, resorting to hands and feet to maneuver. His fingers slid through blood-greased fur.
 

He reached the main hall.

The pungent smell of blood and death was even worse. He recalled the words Paul had spoken earlier. It seemed like days ago instead of hours.

"There are four other doors out there. Across the room is the entrance. Then you have the supply closet. Nothing but mops and buckets in there. That's all the way to the left. Then you have a bathroom. Lastly, there's the door that leads to the basement."

Tom flew through the room, considering his options. He couldn't go back outside. He'd already ruled that out. Neither the supply closet nor the bathroom would keep him safe. That left the basement. Ironically, while the day grew brighter, Tom would wait for it in another dank, musty hole.
 

He ignored the carnage around him—Rosemary's children, John, the hall owner, the others he didn't know and would
never
know—and kept moving. His boots skidded through slick, gruesome remains. He slid into the door, groping with shaky fingers for the handle.
Please don't be locked.
 

It wasn't.
 

The knob turned freely in his hand, and Tom pulled the door open. Nothing leapt out at him, but he made out the dim details of a staircase. He glanced over his shoulder. Feral sounds emanated from somewhere behind him, but nothing close.