Bestial

by William D. Carl

  Alarmed, the lycanthropes beneath him scattered, yelping beneath their breath.

  The one that had reached the sixth step was crushed between the metal railings as they folded. They formed a rusted cage, trapping the beast inside. Part of the structure bent as it dropped, snapping the creature’s spine and its back legs. It howled, but didn’t die. It scrabbled against the iron with its front paws, its back legs paralyzed and useless.

  Christian rode the fire escape the final fifteen feet to the blacktop, falling away from it at the moment of impact. He curled himself into a ball and rolled away from it, toward the base of the structure, toward the broken, trapped monster that was struggling to free itself.

  It bled badly from a wound in its right haunch, and Christian knew the scent of blood would bring more of the lycanthropes.

  Limping slightly, he ran, trying to ignore the distress his right leg was causing. He was still alive. At least for now. He needed to find shelter. He needed to find someplace safe until morning.

  From the alley, he emerged onto the street and stopped in his tracks. The hotel had collapsed right down this road. Cars were crushed beneath it. Huge chunks of ravaged concrete and wires and plumbing stuck up from all angles. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of the London Blitz, and he was awed by the destruction.

  He remembered that there was a Brink’s truck somewhere amidst the rubble, and he began searching for it through the ever-settling, ever-present dust, the beast-men running after him.

  28

  SEPTEMBER 18, 12:06 A.M.

  “Hold on!” Rick shouted over the cacophony of the hotel toppling toward them. Wrapping his arms around Chesya, he felt hers curl around his waist as she pressed her face hard into his abdomen. He braced himself, shoving his back against one wall and thrusting his legs out so they met solidly with a steel support beam. The back of the truck, which had seemed so sturdy and impervious, now appeared to be little more than a tin coffin.

  As the noise grew louder outside, Rick noticed he could no longer see the moonlight through the back windows. The falling structure had blocked out the sky.

  Glancing down at Chesya, he wanted to say something to reassure her. She’d closed her eyes tightly, and he could feel her heart beating beneath his arms. He knew she was afraid. Hell, he was too, but it seemed wrong to remain silent when they both might die in a moment.

  Chesya was wondering how she had come to this. She was clinging wildly to a certified bank robber, a man who’d held a gun to her face thirty hours ago, a man who’d tried to protect her from the monsters that lurked in the night, a man who professed to being a “bad guy.” She almost laughed at the thought, as fleeting as it was. Her brothers had brought “bad guys” home with them, men who beat women, prostituted their wives and children; men who sold dope on street corners and in playgrounds; men who had killed, ruined lives, lashed out at the world as though their very souls depended upon it. In the hierarchy of so-called bad guys, Rick was probably on the lowest rung of the ladder. How many of her brothers’ friends would have remained at her side during the last day? Not a single one, she realized.

  This man, Rick, had stayed with her, had tried to comfort her. He had even started censoring his filthy language for her. Had any other man done more? She wasn’t falling in love with him. That would be ridiculous; there was much more to be worried about than romance. There just wasn’t time for it.

  Still, if there had been time … she wondered what might have happened.

  The darkness outside the windows seemed to increase. The noise was thunderous, and she felt the vibrations of the earth beneath the tires of the truck. She closed her eyes tighter, afraid that they’d be jarred right out of her head.

  When the impact came, it shook her so hard her fingers unclasped, and she was tossed to the opposite side of the truck, striking her head against the doors. The momentum of the hotel’s collapse sent the truck skidding on its side, sparks flying from the sudden friction against the blacktop. Chesya fell onto her back, her eyes rising to the windows.

  Bricks bumped against the bulletproof glass, and swirls of dust blocked most of her view. A large piece of concrete, metal support rods jutting from its sides, dropped and settled on the ground in front of the doors, effectively blocking her view of the outside.

  Rick shouted, “Chesya, are you all right?”

  Raising a hand to her head, she felt a wetness there. The back of the truck was dark, all moonlight eclipsed by the concrete slab. She didn’t need to see the sticky substance on her hand to know it was blood. Although her head rang from the impact against the doors, she yelled back at Rick, “I bumped my head. Again. But I think I’m okay. You?”

  “I’m all right,” he answered over the din.

  Pieces of bricks and mortar and steel came down like a vicious rain. The truck was taking a beating, but it was still in one piece, still protecting them from the destructive forces outside. Chesya wished she could see how deep the dents were, if there were any holes appearing in the Brink’s van, but she could see nothing.

  “Don’t try to move yet,” Rick warned.

  “I would have to go and slam my fool head against something, wouldn’t I?”

  “Is it bad?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. My ears are ringing.”

  “Mine are, too. I think it was the explosion.”

  “What explosion?”

  “You didn’t hear that? Sounded like a gas explosion. I’m going to move toward you. Keep talking, and I’ll find you.”

  “I must have blacked out for a while,” she said. “I don’t remember an explosion, just the hotel dropping on us, the bricks falling. I don’t know if we’ll be able to open the doors, because there are chunks of concrete blocking the way. I don’t know how big they are.”

  He reached her, held her, and she felt the reassuring touch of his hands. They fluttered like hummingbirds around her head.

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of blood. Head injuries bleed a lot, though.”

  “You’re always so full of interesting facts,” she said.

  He sighed, leaned away from her, and she immediately missed the close contact with him. “You’re all right if you can make jokes. …”

  “I told you I was fine. Don’t believe me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.”

  They were silent for a few seconds, then each of them burst into laughter. “You asshole,” she said between giggles.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “I can’t believe we just survived that. I mean, a fucking … Um, sorry. A really big building just fell on us. We should be dead.”

  “Luck of the Irish,” she said.

  “But you’re not Irish.”

  “No, but you are—at least in part.”

  “So you have been listening to what I’ve been saying.”

  “Of course. What else do I have to do?”

  She felt him move away from her a bit, heard him testing the doors. Cursing, he moved back to her side.

  “I don’t think we’re going anywhere,” he said. “There’s a lot of rubble blocking the door. It doesn’t feel very heavy, but someone’ll have to clear it away in the morning to let us out.”

  “I hate being trapped like this.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s better than allowing any of those things to get in here. I doubt they’ll bother us again tonight.”

  “Even the windows are intact? They aren’t broken?”

  “I didn’t feel any sharp edges.”

  “It’s a miracle.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

  “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I don’t think we need to worry about anything until morning. Then we’ll need to find someone to get us out of here.”

  “I don’t know if I can sleep. My pulse is racing like crazy.”

  “Close your eyes. You’ll be surprised how quick it’ll happen.”

  Shutting her eyelids, she marveled at
the lack of difference in the darkness. It was how a blind person must feel.

  She snuggled back into Rick’s arm. He jerked for a second, alarmed by her movement, and then he melted down into her, forming a protective barrier around her body.

  “I think some sleep will do both of us a lot of good,” he said.

  They rested for a moment, and Chesya was shocked to find herself on the verge of nodding off, when she heard something muffled and definitely human.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked Rick. She placed one of her ears against the doors of the truck, the better to listen.

  “Hear what?”

  “That, that,” she said. “It sounded like … a voice. A kid’s voice.”

  He listened along with her, and he heard it too. It was muted, but it was definitely a young person shouting.

  “Are you still in there?” came the voice. Then the sound of debris being moved. “Tell me you’re still in there.”

  “It’s human,” Chesya said. “Do we answer?”

  “Please tell me I can get in there. Anyone still there?” The voice was growing louder.

  “I don’t know,” Rick answered her.

  “Oh, Jesus,” the young man screamed. “They’re almost here. Let me in!”

  29

  SEPTEMBER 18, 12:20 A.M.

  Chesya and Rick dashed for the back doors of the Brink’s truck, practically knocking each other aside in their haste to reach the handles. The boy outside continued to shout.

  “Jesus, I’m human like you. Let me in!”

  They could see his face through the windows as he pushed away the rubble blocking the door. His eyes pleaded for help, and his clothes were dirty and torn. Several bruises and bleeding cuts ran along his arms and throat, testimonials to what he had endured.

  Rick said, “You get the handles, I’ll get the bars.”

  He pulled back on the sliding bars that acted as locks, and she popped the ones in the door. She gave them a shove, and the doors opened, slamming into the boy’s chest.

  He stumbled back, stunned by the impact. Behind him, hordes of creatures rushed the truck. There were dozens of them.

  Christian, regaining his balance, leaped inside the Brink’s van, and Chesya slammed the door behind him.

  Rick shoved the bars back into place while she locked the doors. Then she turned to the boy as Rick finished with the last of the locks.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Christian had pushed himself to the back of the van, and he was nearly hidden in the darkness. “I think so—”

  The first of the beasts slammed into the truck. Then another, and another. They leaped up on the side, growling and sniffing for an entrance. Some of them shoved at the sides of the vehicle, but, as before, they couldn’t get in.

  While the creatures pounded on the walls in frustration, Chesya crawled over to where the boy sat. Rick moved behind her, placing an assured hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re … normal. Like us,” Chesya said.

  “Yeah. I think so. I haven’t changed into one of them. Not yet, at least.”

  “I’m Chesya, and this here’s Rick. We thought we were the only humans left. What’s your name?”

  “Christian,” he said. “Christian Wright. And it’s good to see you too. Nice to know there’s … someone else left out there. And thanks for opening those doors. You could’ve left me outside. It would have been the smart thing to do.”

  “No.” Rick grinned at the kid. “I don’t think we could have done that. What about your family, Christian? They change too?”

  “I don’t know. I … I left them a while back … sorta ran away. It’s a long story.”

  “Well,” Chesya laughed over the angry howling outside the truck. “We have a long night ahead of us. Those things aren’t going away until morning. . . . Well, I’m not really sure how they work yet, but it seems like they only change at night.”

  “I think it’s the moon,” Rick said. “Like werewolves.”

  “You’re part right,” Christian said. “It is like a werewolf.”

  He gave them an edited account of his life as a runaway, telling them he’d met an old Frenchman who’d helped him through some rough times, who’d given him meals and a warm place to stay.

  Chesya raised her eyebrows. She could read between the lines. The boy had sold himself; he possessed as little self-esteem as any prostitute.

  She could tell by the sad, knowing look in Rick’s eyes that he wasn’t buying the “kindly old gentleman” bit, either. It confirmed her idea that Rick’s “bad boy” status was mostly just an act, covering up hidden layers. In fact, he displayed a rather surprising amount of empathy.

  Christian wrapped up his PG-13 account of his NC-17 story, and he told them about the leather-bound journal he had dropped. “I think all the answers are in that book. Jean kept a detailed record about what he called lycanthropes, and he had hunted one down in Siberia.”

  “Hunted down a werewolf?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ll need to get the journal in the morning so I can finish it, but there’s a naked man in a cell up there on the third floor of the Bio-Gen building, and he changed into one of those monsters while I watched. He started to tell me a story, but then he began mutating, so I only got the beginning.”

  “He’s still there?” Chesya asked.

  “As far as I know. I think Jean captured him and brought him here for experiments. Jean believed that lycanthropy was a genetic disease. I kinda deciphered that much. They were probably testing him, observing him, trying to cure him. I think something backfired. They created something in the lab, and I think it started all of this. Maybe released it into the air somehow, like an airborne virus.”

  “See?” Rick said. “I told you it was some kind of virus.”

  “Yes, you did,” Chesya acknowledged.

  “So what happened to you guys?” Christian asked. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

  Rick and Chesya related their own story, and Christian listened attentively as they interrupted each other, sparring with their words while making the whole thing sound like some wonderful adventure. Rick cleaned it up for the boy, but turnabout was fair play. Chesya watched the kid, saw him yawn in a huge, theatrical manner, and something stirred within her, something protective and (she hated to even think the word) maternal. The boy had been through so much, ever since he had entered adolescence. The release of the Lycanthrope Syndrome was merely the icing on a spoiled and rotten cake.

  By the time Rick and Chesya had completed their tale, all but a few beasts had deserted the Brink’s van, loping off in search of some other form of dinner. The truck had stopped rocking, and the sounds from outside had dulled down to a few yips and growls here and there.

  With a yawn, Chesya accepted the fact that they were safe for the night. She hadn’t realized she was so sleepy, but now that her adrenaline had stopped pumping, she could feel her muscles aching and her eyelids drooping.

  “I think we should all get some rest,” she suggested.

  “Sounds like a damned good idea,” Rick said.

  The boy nodded, although he could still feel his heart racing in his chest. He knew he was secure inside the impenetrable Brink’s truck with these people. The chase that evening had taken almost everything out of him. He rested his back against the side of the truck, wondering if he could ever sleep again.

  He was snoring within two minutes

  30

  SEPTEMBER 18, 2:40 A.M.

  Cathy had assembled a makeshift bed (more of a nest, really) out of several old blankets and curtains she’d discovered in the attic. She still occasionally overheard the beasts outside her house, but she was so exhausted that she couldn’t pay attention to them. They were reminders on the fringe of her tired mind, grace notes to the evening’s debacle.

  Lying down in her pile of blankets, she mashed a few into the semblance of a pillow and dropped her head upon them. She pulled a dusty vel
vet curtain over herself to keep out the chill, luxuriating in the softness of the fabric. She couldn’t remember when she had banished these curtains to the faraway kingdom of the attic, but she was glad she had. The material was warm against her skin.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and the bizarre concerto of animal sounds that surrounded her began to fade, a decrescendo of the horrors that lurked outside.

  And she felt the familiar breath of Karl against the back of her neck.

  Karl, the betrayer, the pervert, the husband.

  “Hello, Cathy,” he whispered. The puffs of air disturbed the downy hairs that trailed down her neck to her spine. A chill swept through her.

  Turning over, she snapped her eyes open. Karl’s eyes were white, occluded by mysterious cataracts. He was nude, but he was tucked beneath her covers with her, his cold body pressed against hers.

  Backing away from him, she said, “You’re dead.” Her voice was quiet, overwhelmed by a fatigue that pressed down on her like a heavy weight. She knew she should leap from her nest and run for the nearest exit, but she was too tired to even consider such a move.

  This was her dead husband next to her.

  She had killed him hours earlier. She’d smeared the entire bathroom with his blood.

  She refused to believe he was here, cozying up to her.

  Then again, the world was full of such conundrums now. What was one more?

  He smiled at her, the familiar, self-effacing, charming grin he reserved for his happiest moments. “Come on, Cathy. You have to concede that I’m here. Look …” He shook his hands free of the covers, exposing pale, white skin. “Nothing up my sleeve. No wires. No tricks. Just me and you.”

  “I killed you,” she hissed.

  “And a damn fine job you did of it, too.” He shrugged. “Something less messy would have been preferable, but you work with what you’re given. I’ve always loved that about you.”

  “Have you, really?” The sarcasm dripped from her lips like poison.

  “You’re a good woman, Cathy. I know I never appreciated you very much during our marriage, but I always respected you.”