"Should we tell Dad?" I ask, but I'm hoping he says no. I'm worried that our father will agree with the murderous side of my brain. He's no stranger to violence, and he certainly doesn't shy away from doing what's necessary.
But Brent is already walking back across the open floor to the sleeping area. "He needs to know, Lori. We have no idea what Bob—or Kelly, for that matter—would do. But whatever it is, I'm sure it's not good. And we still have a hospital to get to."
I know he's right, but a feeling of despair settles over my body, making my movements sluggish. I feel like anything we do right now will be the wrong move. I know we need to make a decision, any decision. No matter what we do, it has to be better than doing nothing, just standing here and waiting for Bob to come at us. He's been living here for years, and regardless of how unbalanced the guy is, he's also crazy smart. He no doubt has a back door into this place that we don't know about. He has booby traps that we may easily trigger.
This is all wrong.
I drag myself over to the stairwell where we have placed all our bags and supplies. Brent and our dad meet me shortly after. Dad's standing under his own power, which is a good sign, but he's still too flushed and his eyelids are sagging. He's clearly not feeling his best. I can see streaks of red coursing up and down his neck from under his bandage. The infection is spreading. We need to hurry.
Dad hauls a backpack onto his shoulders, grunting under the weight. "You're coming?" I gasp.
"I obviously can't stay here," he says, buckling the strap across his chest to help support the weight on his back.
He's right, of course he is. This whole building could go up in flames, if Bob decides to get frisky. The moment we walk out these doors, we have to be prepared to leave and never come back. It was nice to feel safe for a couple days, but this was never our home. No, we haven't had a real home since before the compound. Home is long gone.
Brent looks down at his watch, a gift from Bob before the whole multiple-personality skirmish. "It's time," he says. He pauses with his hand on the door handle, reluctant to head out into the unknown. We have our route memorized. We just have to push on. The longer we wait, the higher the sun will climb in the sky and the higher the risk of getting burned before we get to our destination.
"We need to move," I say.
Brent steels himself, squaring his shoulders, lowering his center of gravity in preparation to plow through anything that could be on the other side of that door. He pulls it open in a rush; nothing but an empty stairwell. We all release our collective breath. Step one complete. Next!
This narrow back stairwell is thankfully lit by the occasional bulb, and we creep down, hugging the walls. I peek over the railing, all the way to the bottom. The shadows are motionless, and the only sound is the muffled echo of grit beneath our feet. My muscles are aching by the slow progress, constantly tensed, ready to run. The adrenaline high is starting to wane. Sweat is trickling down the inside of my coveralls and my bandages are itching.
We reach the main floor without any tripwires or monsters. So far so good. We almost relax, having faith in our good fortune.
Almost.
We swing open the stairwell door, exiting onto the main floor. The electricity doesn't extend this far, and we are forced to enter the darkened space we had crossed when we first arrived. It feels darker than it once was, now that we know the bright lights that exist just a few floors above.
"Watch your step," Dad warns, leading the way.
How the hell am I supposed to watch my step? It's pitch black in here! And then a bright light cuts through the shadows and I jump. Brent has pulled out a flashlight. "Courtesy of Bob," he states with a shrug. Of course Bob had flashlights, they're essentially just portable lamps, and we know how much he loves those.
Brent sweeps the flashlight across the space, and it glints off the thin wire, taut between clothing racks. Following the wire with the flashlight’s beam, we can see it disappears into a hole in the wall, but nothing more. We exchange a glance and step carefully over it. I wonder if we should trip the wire, though. Maybe it would cause enough of a distraction to keep Bob busy. Then again, it would also take away his only home, all his supplies. I can't bring myself to do it. Maybe once we leave, Kelly will get out of his head and leave him alone, and he can go back to just being crazy Bob. He really did save our asses, he isn't all bad.
We make it all the way to the back room without running into any more booby traps. We push the swinging doors open, stepping into the charred back storage room. And come face to face with Bob.
A scream bursts from my lips, quickly cut off by Brent's hand.
"Bob," Dad says, unbelievably calm in the face of uncertainty. "We were just wondering where you went. It's time to go... to the hospital..."
We're all just trying to get a read on him; is it Bob? Or Kelly? I reach into my pocket and grip the small steak knife concealed within. If he decides to choke me again, I'm not going down without a fight.
Bob's glazed eyes roam over us, unfocused. He finally comes to me and stops. I tense, ready for a fight. "Lori?" he says, a strange expression crossing his face. "You remind me of her, you know?"
"Of who?" I ask.
"Kelly, of course," he says, and gives a choked sob. "It's always been Kelly."
Dad nods and steps forward tentatively, placing a hand gently on Bob's shoulder. "It's okay, Bob. I understand." And he does, no doubt. He feels the same sense of protectiveness that Bob struggles with, but he has been successful in his attempts to protect us. So far. There is a very real possibility that he will fail at some point, and I have to hope that he won't fracture like Bob when it happens.
Brent takes a step towards the door, ready to dash out across the heated wasteland outside. Brent freezes. "What’s that sound?" he asks. And that's when we hear it. Like a soft scratching sound. We all turn our heads towards the door. The sun is getting higher in the sky every moment we wait, we don't have time to hesitate.
"Dad?" we hear. But it's not me who said it, and it’s not Brent. "Is that you?" There's something wrong with the voice. It's pitched low and there's a deep vibration to it. The hairs of my arm lift and a ripple of dread runs through me.
Bob's head jumps up, his eyes bright. "Kelly?"
"I don't think that's Kelly." I regret my words almost instantly as Bob turns his head to glare at me.
"You think I don't know my own baby girl?" he growls at me, which is instantly mirrored by a growl from outside. There's something all too familiar about that growl. Brent and I share a wide-eyed look. Bob turns back to the door and rushes forward. "The sun is coming up! I have to get her inside or she'll burn!"
"Bob, no!" Brent and Dad each grab an arm and pull him back, his feet squeaking against the tiles.
"Dad?" the voice comes again, more urgent now. "Dad, help me. The sun is so hot!"
"I'm coming, baby!" he shouts, flailing. My dad's grip fails, he's simply too weak. He stumbles back, and I run forward to take his place. Bob is pulling at Brent's hands, trying to loosen his grip on his other arm. I grab for Bob's free arm, but he whips it back and I take an elbow to the face. My lip splits and blood trickles down my chin. I clench my aching teeth together and make another grab for his arm. Success! I manage to slow his arm by latching onto his shirt sleeve, then hook my hand under his elbow. I hug my entire body around it, finally stopping his mad dash to the door outside.
"Why are you doing this?" Bob sobs, going limp between us. "I've been looking for her for so long, why would you stop me? She's going to die out there!"
"Think about it," Brent says. "Kelly's been gone for years! Suddenly, she's here, which doesn't seem at all suspicious to you?"
"Daddy?" we hear through the door, faint now. "Why won't you let me in?"
Bob seems to think about what Brent said, his brow furrowed. "You're right," he whispers. "My daughter is dead." The struggle leaves his body completely. He sags down onto his knees on the floor. "Kelly's dead," he says again, head
bowed.
I tentatively let go of Bob's arm to go check on Dad, still on the floor where he fell. "You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," he grunts, but I can see that he isn't okay. His body can't take much more. I help him to his feet, steadying him as he sways for a moment, and then he turns and heaves his stomach contents onto the floor. That can't be good.
I glare at Brent through the gloom. The outline of the door is becoming lighter with the rising sun. "What do we do, Brent? We need to go."
"Bob?" Brent gives Bob's crumpled heap a shake. "Bob, is there another way out?"
Bob raises his head, his eyes glassy. He gives his head a shake as though he’s trying to clear cobwebs from his face. "Y-yes," he stammers. "It's barricaded, but we can clear the front door onto the street."
"All right, let's go," I say. Brent comes over to help us, pulling Dad's backpack over top of his own bag. We each pull an arm across our shoulders, balancing our dad between us. "Come on, Bob. Lead the way."
I turn back to see Bob on his feet. While we were pulling Dad up, Bob was making his way over to the alley door. He's leaning against it, almost a loving caress of the metal door. "Kelly was everything I had. She was my life. My hope."
"Bob? What are you going?" I can't go to him without letting go of Dad. Brent seems likewise anchored here. "Why don't you come with us, Bob. You said I reminded you of her. Maybe I could be your hope."
Bob looks up at me, and though it's too dim to read his expression, I'd like to think it was apologetic. "You should go," he says.
And then he opens the door.
21
Lori
We stand frozen, still poised to flee but enthralled by what is standing on the other side of the door. I can't look away. It blocks out nearly all of the light, leaving its hulking form in shadows, filling the entire doorway. I can tell right away that it's not human, not really. It stands on two legs, but it's too tall, too bulky. And it's holding itself at a crooked angle, hunched forward with stretched limbs splayed wide. Bob likewise stretches his arms to his sides, inviting the monster into his embrace. "Kelly!" he cries out in glee. "You've come back to me!"
The creature steps forward, crossing the threshold into the storage room, and the space suddenly feels too confined. I hold my breath, completely unsure of what I'm feeling, or of what I'm supposed to be feeling. Terror is the obvious choice. But there’s also a curiosity that makes me think of Kenzo. He would be so fascinated by this creature.
"I've missed you, Dad," the beast says. And just like when we heard the voice through the door, this voice is clearly not human. There's an undercurrent of vibration, like a cat's purr, though nowhere near as comforting. There's nothing cuddly about this... monstrosity. As it clears the doorway, light filters in behind it; it's enough to see its texture; its skin is scaly, but not at all like a snake, not smooth or in an orderly pattern. More like it's covered in scabs, bumpy, rough and irregular. With its entrance, it also brings a smell like burned and rotten flesh. I wish I didn't know what that smelled like, but it's one I won't soon forget.
Bob doesn't even flinch as the monster wraps its beastly arms around him in a grotesque parody of a hug. It towers over him, and he simply rests his head against its chest, a look of bliss on his face. "Where have you been? I kept waiting for you to come home."
The monster that must be Kelly—has she always looked this way?—brushes her claws over her father's head, lovingly smoothing back his frizzy curls. "I've always been here, Dad. I never left. I just haven't been able to come to you. Not until now." Her eyes seem to glow in the dim lighting as she turns towards us. "I had to protect you. I had to have something else to offer the others, or they would have torn you apart."
Wait, did she say others?
I find myself inching back, away from the monster and towards the street exit. More shadows are moving in the alley behind Kelly. Yep, time to go. I give a tug on Dad's arm, and he in turn pulls on Brent. Together, locked in our chain, our father wobbling between us, we push back through the swinging doors and hold our breaths that they don't turn their attention to us.
The problem is that their attention was already on us.
Three more pairs of shining eyes are now following our movement, and I feel like they're toying with us. The way that they move, lithe and graceful, I know they could snatch us without even breaking a sweat. "What are they waiting for?" I hiss at Brent as we pass through the doors and they close behind us with a dull swish.
"It's a game," he says back, not even trying to whisper. There's no point. "How the hell are we going to get out of here?"
"Do you think you can make it to the door with Dad? I have a feeling I can make their game a little more exciting." I can barely see Brent's outline as he nods. I stand tall as Brent takes on my share of Dad's weight. For what it's worth, Dad's trying his best to stand on his own two feet, but he's clearly struggling. The skin of his arm as I pull it from my shoulders is cold and clammy. I wish that were a good sign, but I suspect his body is losing the battle against the infection. I just hope it's not too late for us to get to the hospital, after everything we're going through to get there.
As Dad and Brent stumble off in the general direction of the street, I do my best to pump myself up. I can do this. I don't have any other choice, and entertaining the idea of failure will only be the death of me. I am not dying today. "Okay, let's do this," I say out loud, but I'm not sure if I'm telling myself, or the beasts beyond the door.
When I hear the swinging door squeak open, I turn and dash headlong into the dark interior of the department store. I hear the scrabbling of claws on tile and I know the chase is on. I try to keep my feet on carpet, needing the grip to keep up my speed, but it's impossible to direct my movement through the shadows. I smash against a rack of shelves and stumble, pain lancing through my shoulder. I cry out, and it seems to rile the creatures behind me. Their answering call sounds excited. It's halfway between a whoop and a yip, reminiscent of some sports game from years gone by. I can just barely imagine the fans cheering from the crowd. I guess that makes this the run for the touchdown.
I put on a burst of speed. I can hear them behind me, feet pounding, breath panting. I have to be close, I feel like I've been running forever, but nothing seems the same at this speed. I feel something catch at my coveralls, fingers—claws!—grasping at me. "No!" I shout. I throw myself forward and feel the denim tear. My feet trip and I cartwheel through the dark. My body hits the ground hard. My breath is pushed from my lungs in a rush, but as my arms come down to catch my fall, I feel the best kind of pain imaginable.
The trip wire cuts into my palm.
In case just falling on it isn't enough, I grab the wire in my fist and pull.
Paws land on either side of me, caging me against the floor. The monster's breath is hot against my neck, and I swear it's drooling on me. It takes a deep breath, its muzzle pushed into my hair, taking in my scent. With the weight of a beast hovering over me, I wonder if the booby trap was a dud this time. This is where I die, splayed across the floor of a department store.
I don't want to give up, I don't want to admit defeat. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait to be torn apart.
But then the beast freezes. It lifts its head from my neck, and I can feel a new kind of tension ripple through its body. Suddenly, it's gone. Just one second passes before I hear the ticking.
The explosion is fierce, engulfing the space above me in flames. It's a good thing I'm lying on the floor, or I would be seriously charred right about now. It's not my intention to cook the monsters' meal for them. They're gonna have to work harder than that to eat me!
When the flames die back for a brief second, having expended their initial fuel, and before they get a hold of the ceiling tiles or carpet, I jump to my feet and take off running once more, hurdling over fallen clothing racks. At least now I can see. Dad and Brent are at the front of the building, already pulling the boards from the windows. The light outside is nearly blinding. I pi
ck up a metal pole, once used to hang glamorous clothes, and I throw it like a spear, straight at the window. The glass shatters, but I can barely hear it through the pounding of my heart in my ears and the roaring of the flames at my back.
I don't even slow down. I throw myself through the window, Dad and Brent hot on my heels. We push ourselves to our limit, Dad gripped between us, hoping we don't trip over our own feet. The air is tolerable but getting brighter by the second. I would be dripping with sweat if it weren't evaporating as fast as I produce it. My breathing is loud, a rasping pant, and I'm terrified of all the sounds that may be masked by its volume. Are the monsters' claws digging grooves in the pavement, their low growls moving ever closer? Or even worse, are they issuing attack strategies in their vibrating speech? Because it's obvious now. Those creatures, as inhuman as they are, must have once been just like us.
With each step, we put distance between us and the department store. Don't look back, I tell myself. Don't you dare look back, because it'll only slow you down, and you already know exactly what you'll see. What do I do? I look back. Obviously.
I expect to see the monsters just steps from getting us, their hunched loping forms gaining ground. Instead, I see nothing but an empty street behind us. I whip my head back and forth, trying to get a good point of view of the surrounding buildings and streets. Maybe they looped around? Are we going to run right into their waiting arms?
But when I scan ahead of us, I see no signs of danger. I slow my steps, which throws Brent's stride off. "What are you doing?" he gasps. "Keep going!"
"Wait, stop," I tell him.
He looks over at me like I'm crazy. I sound too calm right now, how could I possibly be calm? But something about the look on my face must put him at ease. He slows to a stop, panning his eyes around us just as I did. Dad is practically dangling between us, his head lolling on his chest. "What's going on?" he asks us, his voice barely above a groan.
Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1) Page 18