Lucy sprinted across the street and ducked behind a parked blue Ford Fiesta. But her logic was flawed. Treating the car as if it were directed by a human driver who needed to see her to hit her made no sense. The Charger had appeared out of thin air behind her. It couldn’t see her. Didn’t need to see her. It knew where she was.
The engine roared again becoming unbearably loud.
Almost too late, she realized what was about to happen.
Rising from her crouch, she ran alongside the Fiesta a split second before the Charger rammed into the opposite side of it, shoving the smaller car onto the sidewalk as if it had been struck by a jet-powered bulldozer.
Reversing, the Charger spun out into the middle of the street, its grill crushed, both headlights shattered. Shifting into drive again, the Charger raced toward her, angling again for the curb. Lucy screamed and sprinted toward the diner, knowing she was too far away to make it before the Charger struck again.
A shadow darted past her, bright light bobbing at his side.
Agent DeYoung! she realized.
He heaved his arm forward, throwing something in a blur of golden, flickering light. Glass shattered against the windshield of the Charger, followed by a whoosh of sound, and the hood of the car was suddenly awash in flame.
DeYoung spun around, caught her hand and tugged her so hard she almost fell. But she caught her balance and together they raced toward the diner.
“What was that?” she breathed.
“Molotov cocktail,” he replied. “When I couldn’t find you, thought I should have something prepared.”
“Won’t help,” she said panting.
“What?”
“No driver,” she said. “Doesn’t need to see.”
He looked back and she followed his gaze.
The Charger was burning but continued its relentless pursuit. It veered toward the curb and the tires on the right side lurched over it. Lucy heard a crumpled wheel well rubbing against one of the front tires. Damage sustained from the powerful collision slowed the car’s acceleration, buying them a few extra seconds.
But the Charger was gaining fast.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sam closed the door softly behind him.
While feeding off the life energy of Olga Kucharski and generating living nightmares in town, the nocnitsa might not notice his approach, but that was no excuse for carelessness. He might have one chance to kill the night hag. Once it left Olga’s house, it could go anywhere and elude Dean and him until dawn, growing more powerful with each passing hour.
Pressed against the wall, he eased forward, the living room through the entranceway on his left. Olga sat on the opposite side of the wall, feeding the monster that was exacting the old woman’s revenge, while terrorizing the entire town. Raising his wrought-iron short-spear in a double overhand grip, Sam stepped away from the wall. Though he stood in relative darkness, he remembered the layout of the room, imagined the exact position of the ratty recliner, picturing the table and lamp beside it, the ivory-colored antimacassar on the headrest.
Taking a deep breath, he rushed through the entranceway and struck out with the short-spear, aiming the tip about a foot above the headrest. He overbalanced when the spear tip whistled through the air and took a divot out of the drywall.
Other than the ambient light coming through the edges of the blinds, the only illumination in the living room came from the glowing red eyes of the nocnitsa, from where the monster perched on the left armrest of the recliner, staring at him.
“Too late, hunter,” the nocnitsa rasped, like wind given voice.
The monster’s body was a deeper black than the darkness she inhabited, presenting a sinuous, three-dimensional silhouette Sam could track, her torso and limbs little more than muscle stretched over a narrow skeleton, with overly long fingers and toes. Though she had stopped feeding, she remained solid, at least for the moment.
“Feeding off a harmless old woman,” Sam said, subtly altering his stance to allow for a second quick strike with the iron rod. “Not impressed.”
“The choice was hers,” the night hag said. As she talked, she moved her hands, fingers hypnotically curling and uncurling like a magician preparing for a demonstration of sleight of hand. “She wanted revenge, prayed for it, dreamt about it. That’s why I was drawn to her. And what a feast of fearful images she provided!” A long sigh of pleasure escaped the nocnitsa’s elongated maw. “But she’s dead now.”
As if to punctuate those words, the TV remote control slipped from Olga Kucharski’s fingers and struck the floor. The twin burning embers of the nocnitsa’s eyes seemed to track the downward movement.
Sam lunged forward, roaring as he swept the point of the wrought-iron short-spear through the night hag’s torso. With a sharp hiss, the monster rose toward the ceiling, dissolving into loose shadows like dissipating coils of black smoke. For a moment, Sam thought he’d pierced its solid form, but the monster’s head and glowing eyes drifted away from him and it spoke once more.
“I will gorge on this town’s darkness. I will feed until no one is left. And there is nothing you or any hunter can do to stop me.”
Sam darted around the recliner and swung the short-spear over his head, as if striking a piñata, aiming for the spot between the two glowing red eyes, the last solid remnant of the night hag’s body. A desperation move. One he didn’t expect to succeed and in that he wasn’t surprised.
The burning eyes faded away before the wrought-iron got close.
Sam stumbled forward but caught himself before he crashed into the street-facing window. He turned around as the table lamp and the television came back on. Despite expecting the worst, he was startled by what he saw.
Olga Kucharski’s body had been reduced to a desiccated husk with papery, liver-spotted skin stretched taut over her arthritic bones, her head little more than a skull with wisps of gray hair clinging to the sides. Sam feared that if he touched her, she would crumble to dust.
He reached into his jacket for his cell phone.
* * *
Dean was running for his life.
Technically he was running for Lucy Quinn’s life, but he had his hand wrapped around hers and if the Charger caught them, it would run them both down. When his Impala had been possessed, it hadn’t ended well. Dean was determined to avoid a similar outcome. He looked up and smiled.
“Thank you!”
“What?” Lucy said.
“Get behind that monster,” Dean said. “But not too close—and watch out.”
Gleaming under a streetlight, a parked mustard-yellow Hummer H2 awaited them.
Lucy ran alongside the formidable SUV and ducked behind it. Dean leapt onto the hood, scrambling up onto the roof, dropping flat as he grabbed the luggage rack and spun himself around to face forward. He whipped out his automatic and fired several shots at the onrushing Charger. The second shot blew out the front passenger tire and the fifth ruptured the driver’s side tire.
The Charger’s windshield wipers continued to burn, but the flames on the white-striped hood and the windshield itself had burned themselves out. Fortunately, some of the gasoline from the Molotov cocktail had leaked through the gaps in the crumpled hood and smoke billowed out from both sides. The engine was burning.
The racing car chewed through its damaged wheels and surged forward on the rims, striking sparks from the asphalt. Dean braced for impact.
The Charger slammed into the frame-mounted bumper of the Hummer, rocking the much larger car backward but not by much. Nevertheless, the impact hurled Dean forward, wrenching his arm in its socket as he tumbled onto the Hummer’s windshield. His grip held and he stared down at the Charger as it reversed a short distance then rammed the Hummer a second time. Flames were spreading under the muscle car and Dean had a bad feeling about the next few seconds.
Pulling himself back to the roof of the Hummer, he raced toward the rear of the SUV and leapt into the darkness, spotting Lucy crouched below as he sailed over her.
He
hit the ground on his shoulder and rolled with the impact.
Behind him a concussive roar presaged a blast of openfurnace heat that washed over him as a fireball spread outward and lit the night sky. Metal debris rained down around him, rattling across the road, trailing smoke and—
—vanished in the blink of an eye.
The fiery light winked out and with it the heat was abruptly gone.
Dean’s cell phone rang.
Brushing himself off, Dean stood and massaged his sore neck with his free hand as he answered the call. “Sam?”
“Olga’s dead,” Sam said, his voice dejected.
“The nocnitsa? Tell me you got it.”
“Wish I could.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean said. “What now?”
“Dean, she’s going to kill them all.”
“Be there in five minutes,” Dean said. “We need a plan.”
As Dean and Lucy hurried back to the diner, thunder rumbled ominously and rain began to fall. Dean glanced upward as lightning speared the night sky, leaving stark afterimages on his retinas.
The storm was coming.
As was his custom, Lou Santulli stayed after hours to file paperwork at Santulli Auto Sales, his used car dealership. When he was done, he walked through the place in the dim lighting and checked the desks of his salesman and receptionist, making sure they hadn’t left a mess for the morning. Anything to keep himself busy. The longer he stayed at work, the less time he had to listen to his wife’s grousing and her never-ending honey-do list. After hours, the dealership was a calm oasis for him to unwind.
Before heading home, he’d play online poker for an hour or two, mostly losing but he kept the losses manageable. The poker was another excuse to stay away from home. Hadn’t always been that way, but business had been slow the last couple of years as the economy tanked. When it came to cars, people wanted to squeeze blood from a stone. More of them accepted used car purchases but his margins kept getting shaved by the new frugality. But God forbid the Santullis had to tighten their belt. And yet that’s what it had come to and he had to listen to the complaining as if it was on a tape loop.
As he lost another hand of Texas Hold ’em, his third in a row, the intensity of the rain pounding the roof caught his attention. Second night in a row with bad storms. Torrential downpours and flash flooding made for a lousy commute. He read that power lines had been downed by the previous night’s storm, not too far from his home but, fortunately, not affecting the Santulli household or she would have had one more damn thing to complain about.
With a heavy sigh, he ran his palm over his balding pate and leaned back in his leather desk chair. He ended his gambling session and shut down his computer. If the dealership lost power or was hit by a power spike, the machines could suffer damage and the thought of replacing a bunch of computers set his ulcer percolating. He walked through the dim interior of the building and shook off the screensavers so he could power off each workstation. As extra precaution, he pulled the plugs from the outlets.
The wind roared outside the broad plate-glass windows, rain lashing against them almost horizontally. He walked to the locked door and looked out at the car lot. The multicolored pennant flags that outlined the perimeter near the top of the streetlights whipped crazily for a few seconds before the line snapped. Somebody’s screen door cartwheeled down the street before sailing off into the night. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath him. A wooden fence slat slammed into the window next to him causing him to jump backward, heart pounding.
Across the street, he saw the funnel shape forming, behind the squat white wooden building with “Jake’s Snack Shop” painted on the front wall. Lou often ran over to Jake’s for a quick lunch, a burger or hot dog, and some fries, when he couldn’t afford time away from his own business. Now, he watched in horror as the funnel cloud barreled through the center of the building, ripping it to shreds, as if it had been stuffed into the bottom of a massive blender. Wooden debris blasted away in all directions.
Lou stood mesmerized as the tornado swirled and pounded its way through the restaurant on a collision course with his parking lot. The funnel cloud expanded, so wide he could no longer see the telltale shape without looking up and then that was insufficient as it bore down on him. Belatedly, he realized he should seek cover. His business was housed in a split-level building, with the offices in back, up a few steps. No basement in which to seek shelter. His best bet was an interior office or closet with no windows.
The roar became so loud he couldn’t think straight.
As he watched in horror, the white-striped blue Mini Cooper at the corner of the lot lifted upward and flipped back toward the front windows. He ducked a second before it crashed through the plate-glass window and demolished a desk.
If he thought the roar of the tornado was loud before, nothing prepared him for the terrific noise that assailed his ears. The swirling winds reached into the building and whipped papers and mugs and desk planners into the maelstrom.
He backed away, his jaw dropping as a red Mustang blew past the window, its bumper scraping along the asphalt before it rammed a silver Kia Sportage. One after another, the cars on his lot flipped over, rolled past, or soared overhead. Fierce winds buffeted him through the gap in the window and almost swept him off his feet several times.
He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth began to ache.
When a black Toyota Corolla rolled through the broken window and smashed into the Mini Cooper, Lou scrambled backward, feeling his body become buoyant in the air, as if he had no more substance than a paper bag. In seconds the tornado would sweep him up into the vortex and hurl him into the night. He clawed his way along the wall, crawled up the steps to the upper level and pried open the door to the storage closet in the middle of the building. He squeezed into the small room and the door slammed shut behind him so hard it rattled against its hinges.
Squatting on the floor, hands wrapped around his knees, Lou Santulli prayed softly, almost incoherently, a rambling jumble of sibilant words. If only he’d skipped the online poker and driven home at the start of the storm. If only he’d waited until morning to tidy the office...
More thunderous crashes and jarring bangs shook the walls of the building. The light in the closet winked out, plunging him in darkness. The roaring filled his ears, became his world. As the walls around him creaked and groaned, he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, to call his wife, to apologize for avoiding her, to tell her he still loved her, despite all the pointless bickering.
The phone display seemed unnaturally bright in the closet, revealing the shelves of notepads, folders and cleaning supplies—and the blood dripping from his forehead. He must have been struck by debris and, in his panic, hadn’t even noticed. Unfortunately, the cell phone had no signal. He held down the speed dial key for home to no effect, pressed disconnect, speed-dialed again, pressed disconnect, speed-dialed...
Something massive burst through the closet wall.
Before his brain could register what the object was, it struck the front of his head with the force of a sledgehammer, pulping his eyes, smashing the bone and cartilage of his nose into his brain and crushing his skull—
In the second or two before his cell phone shattered against an exposed two-by-four, a woman’s voice spoke through its tiny speaker, “Hello? Lou...?”
Roman Messerly woke up with someone shaking his shoulder.
“Dude, wake up!”
“What...?”
“You gotta go to work, man!”
Roman sat up and looked around the basement room. He was sprawled on a sofa facing a wide flat-screen TV. A game controller fell from his lap and clunked on the floor. Took him a few seconds to remember he’d stopped at his friend’s house to pass some time before his shift. In Gavin’s man cave.
“Gavin, weren’t we...?”
“Dude, you fell asleep in the middle of Halo,” Gavin said. “Ever hear of an energy drink? What’s up with you? Forget your multivi
tamins? You look like shit, man.”
“Trouble sleeping lately.”
“I left for a Coke, but we lost power down here, so I figured I’d let you sleep until you had to leave—which is now, dude.”
“Thanks, man, don’t want to be late.”
Roman pushed himself up from the sofa. Lately, he’d been wiped out. Kept thinking he was on the verge of a nasty virus, but so far exhaustion was his only symptom. As he lumbered up the stairs and through the front door, he fought another jaw-cracking yawn and ran into a torrential downpour.
His old black-and-tan Subaru Outback seemed a mile away. By the time he ran to the curb and fumbled his key into the lock, he was thoroughly soaked. As he started the engine, water dripping off his face and hands, he thought about putting in for a week’s vacation. He’d sleep for five of the seven days. Make that six. He’d save the seventh for a day trip somewhere.
Pulling away from the curb, he felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him and he became hypnotized by the fierce metronome of the windshield wipers on their highest setting. For a moment, he thought his vision had dimmed, but darkness had come inside the car and swelled around him. The dashboard lights faded away and a raspy woman’s voice seemed to whisper in his ear.
“Not done with you yet.”
When the engine died and the Outback’s momentum carried it down the side of the road, along a grassy embankment, Roman was already unconscious, his breathing labored.
“That’s a freakin’ tornado,” Dean said moments after Sam climbed into the Impala, dripping wet.
Biting her nails nervously, Lucy Quinn leaned forward from the backseat.
“This is totally crazy,” she whispered.
“Crazy’s coming,” Dean said. “But it hasn’t reached the station yet.”
“I had it, Dean,” Sam said, furious with himself. “Close enough to hurt it. Just not bad enough.”
“We’ll gank it, Sam,” Dean said with more confidence than he felt.
Through the frenetic slashing arc of the wipers clearing the windshield in split-second intervals, they watched the massive funnel cloud—a wedge of darkness against the evening sky—churn its way across the western edge of town.
Supernatural: Night Terror Page 22