"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.
PART TWO: THE FALLEN
Chapter Six
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. Neit
her 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."
Chapter Seven
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.
"Thanks for letting us in," Ashley said, breaking the silence.
Mark nodded. He eyed each of them in the pale glow of the flashlight. His eyes were ringed and bloodshot; it looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"What's going on out there?" Tom asked.
Mark cleared his throat. "Damned if I know," he said.
He avoided their eyes as he walked toward an open window across the room. The room was square, about fifty feet wide and long. Tom, Billy, and Ashley followed him, dodging tables and machinery that adorned the floor space. A row of large windows lined the opposite wall, allowing moonlight to seep into the room's edges. The windowsills were only a few feet off the ground. Before Tom could get acquainted, Mark switched off the flashlight.
"We need to call the police," Tom said.
"Can't. Phone lines are dead," Mark said. "I tried."
"Do you have a cell phone?"
"A prepaid. I left it at home. I don't use it much, anyway. I mostly use the landline." Mark reached out, swung the window inwards, and latched it closed. Tom assumed it was where he'd fired at the beast.
"What do you think we should do?" Tom asked.
"Stay here and wait out the storm. Even if we got a hold of someone, no one would know what to do with these things."
"What are they?" Tom asked.
Mark hunkered by the window, but didn't answer. Did he know more than he let on?
Tom walked across the room, keeping his voice low. "I saw people changing into them," he said. "A man and a woman, they transformed. These things are human underneath."
"I know that already. Look." Mark crouched next to one of the windows and pointed. Tom hunkered beside him and followed his hand. Across the parking lot, Tom saw his crumpled SUV wrapped around the telephone pole, the headlights blazing. Next to it was the barely-clothed body of a human. It took him a second to realize it was the creature who'd attacked him earlier.
"You killed it."
"That wasn't the first one, either." Mark adjusted his rifle.
"I don't understand. I shot one of them an hour ago. I put six goddamn bullets in the thing, and it barely wounded it. In fact, I'm pretty sure it even—"
"Healed?" Mark asked, his eyes wide and manic.
"Yes. How'd you know that?"
"Because that's what happened when I shot one for the first time."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't use the ammunition my brother gave me, and the thing got back up and attacked me. But I've wizened up since then."
"I don't understand."
"I should've listened to my brother. I should've listened to Colton." Mark reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of bullets. He held them next to the window, allowing the glare to capture the silver surface. "If I'd used these the first time, I wouldn't have had a problem. I won't make that mistake again."
Tom felt an inkling of something he'd known before. Something he should've known. And yet he'd refused to believe it. Couldn't believe it. Things like this shouldn't be happening in the real world, not outside the realm of fantasy and television. For the second time that night, he entertained the idea that he was dreaming, that the entire night had been an elaborate hoax. But the chill in his bones and the cold fear in his stomach told him it was real. And so did the body outside, lying in the snow.
Mark replaced the ammunition in his pocket and stared out the window, his rifle tucked rigidly under his arm.
"Where's your brother now?" Tom asked.
"He's dead," Mark answered.
Tom's fear was replaced with pity. Up until now, Mark had seemed hard, calloused. Uncaring. But now he understood why. He recalled Lorena's gutted body in the forest, his guilt at leaving her behind. He lowered his eyes. "Did they get to him?"
"No. I did." Mark stared over at him, his eyes lit by the moonlight. "He was one of them. I had to kill my brother."
Chapter Eight
Tom, Billy, and Ashley drew back in shock. Mark watched out the window in silence for a minute, ensuring the landscape was quiet. Then he began speaking. His voice was eerily calm, despite the tale he told.
"My brother's name was Colton. For the past twenty years, we've owned this machine shop," Mark said. "It was passed down to us from our father. About a year ago, Colton started behaving strangely. He started telling me he was having strange dreams. Violent dreams. In these dreams, he did awful things to people, and he was unable to stop himself. He felt sick about it. I told him he shouldn't worry about it; plenty of people had nightmares."
Mark readjusted.
"After a while, I got the feeling Colton might've actually done these things. One day I asked him point blank. Colton started to cry. He told me he'd done all of it, but that it wasn't him. That something els
e had taken him over; had changed him."
"Like the things outside," Ashley whispered.
"Yes, but not quite. A year earlier, he explained, he'd met a woman at a bar. They'd hit it off and he'd taken her to a hotel. They were both drunk. He and the woman were on the bed together when the woman bit him. She ripped a chunk from his shoulder. Colton threatened to go to the police, but she pleaded with him not to. He kicked her out of the room."
"Later that night, Colton started feeling sick. He was lying in the motel room, unable to sleep, when he started convulsing. Colton managed to get to the bathroom, thinking he was dying. But he wasn't. His body started…changing. His limbs stretched. He tried to hold it back, but it felt like something was inside of him, trying to get out. When he looked in the mirror, he saw what he'd become, and he went into shock. He collapsed on the floor and blacked out."
"The next morning, Colton woke up covered in blood. It wasn't his. He knew he'd done something horrible, but at the same time, he knew he'd be locked up, whether he remembered it or not."
Mark cleared his throat quietly. He stared out the window while he talked.
"The change kept happening. Colton started handcuffing his wrist to the bed at night, thinking he could control himself, but when he woke up, the cuffs were on the floor and he was covered in remains. Eventually, he started remembering things. The memories made it impossible for him to focus. He started drinking nightly. One night, a few months after the first incident, he ran into the same woman at the bar."
"They got to talking; they ended up at the hotel again. Colton was so intoxicated he'd probably forgotten what she'd done. He told her everything. He confessed all the things he'd done, everything that had happened. Instead of being terrified, the woman smiled and told him that she was the one who'd changed him. That she'd seen something in him." Mark swallowed. "That's why she'd bitten him. That's why she'd turned him into what he was. She told him what he'd become. What they all are."
Werewolf Suspense (Book 2): Outage 2 (The Awakening) Page 4