Werewolf Suspense (Book 2): Outage 2 (The Awakening)
Page 8
He spun and aimed.
Ashley had recovered from hitting the wall. Her red eyes glowed in the dark. She let out a roar and pounced.
He fired.
The bullet hit its mark, striking her in the face, but Ashley kept coming, the gravity of her pounce setting her in motion. She slammed into Tom at full force, knocking them both over the windowsill and against the glass. The pane shattered.
All at once, they were falling.
Tom kicked his legs to find footing, but found none. The gun flew from his grasp. Cold air and snow whipped at his face, stinging his cheeks. Pain lanced his side. The creature had a hold of him, clutching him in a firm, final death grip. Even if he'd already killed it, it'd take him to the other side. He'd never survive the fall.
The ground sprang to meet them—a blurry mass of white.
Tom's last, panicked thought was to put the beast between him and the ground. He twisted and spun, clutching the thing's ratty fur, burying his face its stomach. And then he was hitting ground, the beast's body beneath him, sinking into the snow.
Both Tom and the creature's bodies shuddered from the impact. Tom heard the soft rain of shattered glass around him, and then everything went quiet and still.
Tom lay still for several seconds, listening to the whipping wind and the cries of the creatures inside the building. His pulse beat in his neck.
Am I alive?
He moved his arms and his legs, testing one limb at a time. Then he craned his head, inspecting the white world around him. He'd landed beneath the snowline. For a brief moment, he imagined he was buried beneath a drift, encased in a world of white. But the tips of trees and buildings in the distance proved otherwise.
Tom's body stung from the impact. His shoulders ached from where the creature had slammed him into the floor; his bare fingers were numb and caked with snow. His mouth was bitter with the taste of fur and fluids. He spat. The creature below him was still warm.
Warm, but limp.
The smell of its body sickened him, and he rolled to get away from it, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. But he couldn't. The creature had him in its claws. Shit, shit, shit! Tom kicked frantically before realizing its lifeless claw was still embedded in his coat. He pulled its arm free and fell flat on his back.
The wintry moon peered through the storm's glaze, mocking him.
His eyes roamed to the window. The height he'd fallen from was dizzying, even from the ground. He pulled himself to his knees, vying for footing. His head spun, and he held out his arms to steady himself.
He searched for the rifle.
He finally located it fifteen feet away, the barrel poking up from the ground.
He waded toward it, ignoring the burning pain in his body. Growls spit from the building, as if the structure itself might uproot and follow him. His only instinct was to retrieve the weapon and protect himself. He walked like a man possessed, his sights fixed on the handle. Snow cascaded in front of him, marring his vision, sticking to his face. His hands were cold and sticky with the creature's blood. When he reached the gun, he pulled it loose from the snow.
He spun. He aimed.
Movement flitted past the upper-floor windows. The things weren't outside. Not yet. He wasn't sure where they were, but he had no time to spare. He tore his eyes from the building and trudged in the opposite direction.
The snow tugged at his boots, like a white demon trying to pull him underground. He evaded its grasp and kept going. He eyed the rusted pickup truck. For a second, he considered running toward it, but Mark had the keys. Even if Tom could get inside, it would only provide temporary reprieve.
The SUV was equally useless.
His eyes darted to the building they'd been watching before—the one where the woman had been.
But they'd gotten her, too. The door was closed; the windows were broken.
Shit, shit, shit…
He considered making his way over, hunkering inside the building, but he'd find little safety inside.
He gazed up the street at the station wagon. The vehicle was still; the headlights were smashed.
But Tom noticed something he hadn't before.
There was something trailing from the back of it. Thin plumes of exhaust were wafting into the air.
The vehicle was still running. The surprised occupants had never shut it off.
He huffed cold breaths as he veered from the parking lot to the street. The air was freezing, any warmth from his body counteracted by the wind. He'd lost his knit cap. His fingers were frozen on the handle of the rifle. With each step, he expected to hear the crunch of footsteps on the snow, pursuing him. But all he heard was frantic commotion inside the building.
Get to the car…
Tom felt like a piece of game roaming blindly into a predator's landscape, a mouse dropped into a snake's cage. Each step brought him closer to the maws of death.
Mark's words echoed through his head. Driving is like sending a homing beacon to those things. But they'd already been detected inside the building. They'd been detected at his house with Lorena. Was any place better than another?
The car was a gamble. But so was everything else at this point.
Another crash echoed behind him; the things were thumping down the stairs. In a matter of moments they'd exit the building. Tom was halfway to the car. Maybe I should've headed for the building.
It was probably too late, either way he sliced it.
Chapter Seventeen
Tom pushed himself as fast as he was able. He ignored the images that wracked his mind and the noises behind him. He convinced himself the station wagon was the physical incarnate of safety, wrapped in a two-ton casing of metal and wires. He clomped across the snow, his mind repeating the steps he'd need to take to flee the scene.
Get in the car. Close the door. Reverse.
The station wagon had come to rest against one of the buildings. His guess was that it was stuck in drive, motionless without a foot to press the pedal. As he got closer, he repressed the idea that the car would be wedged in place, that he'd be as powerless as the people who'd been pulled from the interior.
There was no time for doubt.
Somewhere behind him, the creatures crashed through one of the doors. The noise escalated from a contained din to a full-fledged roar. Footsteps and snarls escaped from the building's interior, filling the air.
Tom refused to look back. He forced himself onward, knowing a second's hesitation would cost him his life.
His boots slid on hidden ice. Tom grabbed the air, nearly falling, but kept his balance. He kept going. The station wagon was thirty yards away. Twenty. He skirted around the half-buried remains of the vehicle's occupants, holding back vomit. He saw an arm. A torso. Body parts so mangled and caked with snow and blood that he could barely identify them.
Keep going!
He closed in on the vehicle, changing direction enough that he saw dots of movement in his peripheral vision. The beasts had surpassed the parking lot in half the time it'd taken him to traverse it. But it didn't matter.
He was at the car.
Tom banged into the rear bumper, following the outline of the vehicle until he'd reached the driver's side door. He flung it open. The window was smashed out, the interior riddled with glass. He heard the crunch of snow somewhere behind him. He leapt inside.
Revved the engine. Reversed.
The car whirred and groaned for several seconds before it started moving. His eyes instinctively flicked to the rearview. A mob of beasts canvassed the landscape, striding toward him. He cried out and hit the accelerator. The car flew backward, crunching over the tracks it'd made, spinning out in the snow. He changed gears and hit the gas.
All at once Tom was cruising forward, the station wagon gliding back and forth over the snow, the all-wheel-drive proving true to its namesake. A legion of creatures ran in pursuit, flooding the landscape, but he was several hundred yards ahead of them.
You pieces of shit. He rounded the cor
ner and hit the gas, pushing the vehicle faster than was safe to drive. If he were to escape, he'd have to gain distance, no matter what the cost.
He'd rather die than let them have him.
He took another turn at the end of the block, the engine grinding, gaining more of a buffer zone. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror, watching the creatures disappear. He kept staring, even after they were gone.
The vehicle swerved and the tires spit snow. He flexed numb, stiff fingers. His body felt like it was coming apart at the seams—beaten and sore and exhausted. His mind was plagued with the things he'd seen, the people he'd lost. Lorena. Abby. His neighbors.
In spite of that, Tom felt more focused than he had in hours.
He clutched the steering wheel and took another turn, approaching West Main Street. His body was rigid in the driver's seat.
For the first time all night, Tom Sotheby knew exactly where he was going.
Outage 3: Vengeance coming soon!
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If you have a question or comment about OUTAGE or the CONTAMINATION series, feel free to drop me a line at twpiperbrook@gmail.com. I love hearing from readers!
-Tyler Piperbrook
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About The Author
T.W. Piperbrook was born and raised in Connecticut, where he can still be found today. He is the best-selling author of the CONTAMINATION series, OUTAGE, and the co-author of THE LAST SURVIVORS. In addition to writing, the author has spent time as a full-time touring musician, touring across the US, Canada, and Europe.
He now lives with his wife, a son, and the spirit of his Boston Terrier.
Have a question or comment? Connect with me below!
Email: twpiperbrook@gmail.com
FACEBOOK: T.W. Piperbrook
Website: www.twpiperbrook.com
Blog: www.twpiperbrook.blogspot.com
OTHER WORKS BY T.W. PIPERBROOK:
CONTAMINATION ZOMBIE SERIES:
CONTAMINATION PREQUEL - FREE!
CONTAMINATION BOXED SET (BOOKS 0-3)
CONTAMINATION 4: ESCAPE
CONTAMINATION 5: SURVIVAL
CONTAMINATION 6: SANCTUARY
POST- APOCALYPTIC:
THE LAST SURVIVORS (co-written with Bobby Adair)
WEREWOLF SUSPENSE SERIES:
OUTAGE
OUTAGE 2: THE AWAKENING
OUTAGE 2: THE AWAKENING
Copyright © 2015 by T. W. Piperbrook. All rights reserved.
Edited by Cathy Moeschet.
Proofread by Linda Tooch.
Cover by Keri Knutson.
Special thanks to Casey Skelton and Andy Brown for your feedback and critique!
For more information on the author's work, visit: http://twpiperbrook.blogspot.com/
Dedicated to Jennifer, who helps me through my own storms.
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.