Patiently, he paced through the entire level, conscientiously checking behind every counter, inside every dressing room, beneath every display for intruders. He wielded his flashlight like a sword, piercing the dark shadows with its point. As expected, he found nothing out of place.
Taking the escalator down from floor to floor, he inspected each level from one end of the building to the other. The entire walk-through took a little over two hours.
Satisfied with his efforts, Otto settled down in the locker room for a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich. He made the rounds three times each night. It was one a.m. He had an hour free. Pulling out a well- creased crossword puzzle magazine, he turned his attention to the mysteries it contained.
Otto loved crosswords. A subscriber to a half-dozen puzzle magazines, he spent most of his free time hunting for obscure words to fit the proper clues. He relished a good pun or witty phrase. Oftentimes, he copied the best of them on small stick-it notes he posted on the refrigerator at home. He savored his favorite expressions like fine wine each time he entered the kitchen.
He was a simple man with simple pleasures. Television shows did nothing for him. On his off days, he listened to classical music on the radio while struggling with the New York Times crossword. Good music, a cold beer, and a challenging puzzle were all he asked from life.
Twenty minutes passed without. Then, suddenly restless, he looked up, sensing something was amiss. In the absolute quiet of the empty building, the slightest sound echoed like a church bell. Oftentimes, his subconscious mind picked up noises that his normal hearing missed.
Rising out of his chair, Otto walked over to the metal lockers and placed one ear against the cold steel. In seconds, the vibrations in the locker door confirmed his suspicions. There were intruders in the store.
Sighing, Otto returned to the table and cleaned off the remains of his lunch. The puzzle magazine and his thermos went to the rear of the locker. Picking up the flashlight, he pushed open the door to the main floor. The nightstick he left on the table, preferring not to carry it when trouble threatened. The heavy club only got in the way.
Moving silently, he checked the locks and alarms on each entrance. Nothing seemed amiss. Puzzled, he stepped back. Maybe he had been mistaken.
Angrily, he shook his head. Maybe he wasn't the best night watchman around, but he didn't hear imaginary noises. Eyes narrowed in concentration, Otto checked the doors again. This time, he found the telltale marks of a break-in. The third bolt showed definite signs of tampering. The door was still locked, but tiny scratches on the metal indicated that it had been forced opened, then closed.
Investigating further, he soon discovered that the photo-electric cells protecting the entrance no longer worked. The system appeared fine, but none of the alarms were working. Otto grimaced. The equipment was pretty old. He wasn't sure if the devices had ever worked. Professional thieves might have forced their way into the store. But it was equally likely that the intruders were of a different sort.
Most of his problems with break-ins focused on elderly street people looking for shelter from the harsh night winds. Otto oftentimes permitted them to stay in the locker room for the night. It was all too easy imagining himself in the same situation. In the morning, before the day crew arrived, he sent them on their way with a stern warning, a few dollars of his own money, and directions to the nearest shelter for the homeless. Otto hated admitting it, but he was a soft touch.
Teenagers presented a different sort of problem. Otto caught at least two or three a week trying to hide in the store after hours. Drug addicts, hoping for a big score, caused him the most trouble. To them, the world consisted of two camps—themselves and everyone else.
When apprehended, they fought, pleaded, threatened and screamed trying to escape. The girls, and sometimes the boys, usually offered their bodies in payment for Otto's cooperation. One and all he turned over to the police. He wanted no trouble with the authorities.
Not sure who had invaded his building or for what reason. Otto headed for the locker room. Located there were the main fuse boxes for the entire complex. He knew exactly which switches to throw. It only took a few seconds to cut the power to the elevators, escalators and police alarm system. By doing so, he completely isolated the store from the outside world. Only the pitch-dark emergency stairs provided escape from the upper floors. Now he could investigate without any fear of interruption.
He sat down and removed his boots. A naturally cautious man, Otto never took any chances. No reason to warn the criminals to his presence by a heel scuffing on the floor or a squeaky shoe. Besides, he liked the feel of his naked feet on the bare floor.
Moving without a sound, he cautiously ascended the unmoving metal steps of the escalator. The flashlight dangled from his belt unused. He knew the layout of the entire store by memory.
Otto discovered the burglars in the jewelry department on the fourth floor. They clustered around the display counters housing the expensive watches and diamond bracelets: four men, dressed in black, each carrying a heavy-duty, high-intensity flashlight. They whispered softly among themselves. Otto strained to hear what they were saying.
"Alarm system ain't worth a damn," declared one man. "A ten-year- old kid could take it out with a toothpick."
"I told you so," replied another. "The Old Man never replaced any of the equipment the entire time I worked for the store."
Otto recognized that voice immediately. It belonged to Jim Patrick, the ex-manager for this very department, fired only a few weeks ago for drinking on the job. Otto sucked in a deep breath and shook his head in dismay. Company loyalty meant nothing anymore. Only old-timers like him felt an obligation to their employers, even long after they ceased working for the business.
"You almost done?" asked a third man. "We don't got all night."
"Keep your shirt on," said Patrick. "That old buzzard they use as a night watchman won't cause any trouble. He's slow and stupid and doesn't carry a gun."
"No gun?" said the first man, rummaging through a small black bag on the counter. After a few seconds, he pulled out a small glass cutter. "How can you be a night watchman without a gun?"
Otto didn't stay around to answer the question. Silently, he crept away to the men's department at the other end of the floor. None of the intruders ever realized the truth until much too late. He didn't use a gun because he didn't need one.
Carefully, he undressed, folding his clothes neatly into a stack by the door to the dressing rooms. Standing completely naked in the center of a sea of shirts, slacks, belts and socks, Otto recited the spell that called forth the monster that dwelt within his soul.
One after another, he repeated the mystic words of power taught to him many years ago by his father. His was an old family tradition, stretching back hundreds of years to the mountains of Transylvania. Moonlight and wolfbane had nothing to do with the change that turned man into beast. All that was necessary was the proper sorcery and the necessary will. Otto possessed both.
The instant he completed the chant, a powerful surge of energy slashed through his body. Otto sighed with relief. No matter how many times he used the formula, he still experienced a brief instant of doubt before it took effect. He was much too pragmatic for his own good.
Otto disliked television, but he made an effort to view the werewolf movies whenever possible. He found their treatment of the conversion from man into beast amusing. The growls and howls of agony, the twisting and turning of bones, the sudden growth spurts—all reflected Hollywood special effects, not reality.
In truth, the change only took a few seconds. It was not a realignment or rearrangement, but an actual replacement of one physical form by another. Where once stood Otto the man, now paced Otto the huge gray wolf. Otto, the very, very hungry wolf.
The alteration always left him starving. Years ago, roaming the city park late at night, he encountered a fellow werewolf with a degree in molecular biology. The professor, a friendly sort, tried to ex
plain the mechanism behind the magical transformation. Most of the physics went far over Otto's head, but he did grasp the fact that the change consumed vast amounts of bodily energy which needed to be replenished as soon as possible. Otto intended to handle that problem right away.
Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. Instantly, he scented his victims. They labored undisturbed a hundred feet away. A drop of slaver fell from his monstrous jaws, and his red eyes glowed in excitement. His prey smelled delicious.
With a howl of anticipation, he bounded down the corridor in their direction. Powerful legs propelled him forward with the speed of an express locomotive. The floor shook with his every step.
"What the hell was that?" yelled one of the thieves. Caught totally by surprise, they barely had time to look up before Otto slammed into their midst.
Massive teeth caught Jim Patrick's head directly below the ears. The man's shriek of agony ended abruptly as Otto's jaws clenched shut, crushing Patrick's skull like an egg. A mix of blood, bones and brains filled Otto's mouth. He growled deep in his throat. Traitors deserved no better death.
With a shake of his head, Otto sent the lifeless body skidding across the floor. He turned, to be greeted by a hail of bullets. The slugs tore into his body like molten nails. He roared with pain—then hurtled forward. Only silver, the bane of black magic, could injure a werewolf.
The man who'd carried the glass-cutter loomed in front of him. In his hands, he grasped a massive gun that bellowed fire and lead. He pumped shot after shot into Otto's massive frame. It wasn't until the werewolf was nearly upon him that he finally realized his efforts meant nothing. By then it was much too late.
Rearing up on his hind legs, Otto lashed out with his right paw. Two- inch long claws ripped through the man's neck and chest like paper. Blood spurted onto the glass cabinets.
Mentally, Otto grimaced in annoyance. Claw wounds always left a mess. It took hours to clean blood stains off furniture. He needed to be more careful in the future.
Screaming, his victim staggered back, trying desperately to escape. Angry with his own sloppiness, Otto followed. Using his huge head as a battering ram, he knocked the man to the floor. Pouncing on him like a cat with a mouse, Otto sent the man to oblivion with a bite that ripped out most of his chest.
For a second, the taste of warm flesh overwhelmed him and he forgot there were two more victims to be slaughtered. Hungrily, he crunched the man's ribs, seeking out his heart and liver. Only afterwards did he remember the others. By then, there was no sign of either man in the department.
Otto howled in annoyance. He was getting old and was too easily distracted.
Trying to ignore the lure of fresh blood, he anxiously hunted for a scent. It only took a moment to latch onto the trail of one of the missing men. Hurriedly, he raced across the floor, following the smell.
He found the crook huffing and puffing his way down the unmoving escalator. "Damned attack dog," the man moaned to himself. "Never saw a dog so big. Must be some damned freak breed they raise just for guarding stores. Hell of a big dog, hell of a big one."
Otto waited patiently until the man made it to the landing. He knew better than to try the grooved metal stairs with his claws. Wolves were not constructed for escalators.
Gathering his legs beneath him, Otto leaped through the darkness. On the floor below, the muttering crook never realized his peril. Otto dropped onto his back with devastating force. Ribs and backbone crushed, the man collapsed to the floor without a sound. One swipe from a giant paw took off most of his skull.
There was no sign of the fourth man. Nor could Otto pick up the least trace of his smell. Unable to curse, Otto growled instead. If the criminal escaped, it meant an end to these nocturnal hunts. Even the dumbest thieves were not foolish enough to venture into a store guarded by a werewolf.
Despondent, Otto paced along the floor, hunting some clue to the man's whereabouts. The thief had somehow managed to hide his scent. But the perfume department was located on the first floor. It was impossible for the man to have made there in so short a time. He had to be hiding elsewhere in the building.
Otto concentrated, mentally visualizing all of the store's many departments. None of them offered sanctuary from his powers, yet the crook was nowhere to be found. Then, suddenly, Otto knew where the man was hiding.
Playing his hunch, he hurried over to the Christmas section located at the rear of the floor. The scented wax candles and fragrant pine wreaths that decorated the area effectively shielded any other scent from his nostrils. And the displays offered a seemingly safe haven from the forces of darkness.
He found the last man, huddled at the center of a stack of holiday ornaments and religious statues. White-faced and trembling, the man clutched a small jeweled crucifix with both hands. As Otto approached, the crook started babbling a confused mixture of prayers and Hollywood werewolf lore.
"Get behind me, Satan," the man declared when Otto was only a few feet away. He held the cross straight out in front of his chest, pointing it like a spear. "Get behind me."
Otto stopped moving. Immediately sensing the werewolf's hesitation, the crook repeated the phrase, this time much louder. "Get behind me, Satan. Get behind me."
The words rang in Otto's ears. Whining loudly, he took a step back. Then another. And yet another.
"Get behind me, Satan!" bellowed the crook, waving his crucifix back and forth as if banishing spirits. His voice trembled with emotion.
Slowly, he moved forward, abandoning his position amidst the toys and ornaments.
Eyes half-closed, Otto watched his enemy draw closer. Snarling in impotent rage, he retreated further, until he was far removed from the Christmas display. His nemesis followed, brandishing the ornate crucifix like a sword.
Looking around, Otto decided they were far enough away from the delicate ornaments for his purposes. Tired of the charade, he rose to his feet and waited for his unsuspecting prey.
"Get behind me Satan," roared the crook, thrusting the cross directly at Otto's jaws. Without hesitation, Otto opened his mouth and bit off the man's hand, crucifix and all. Crosses might annoy vampires, but they had no affect on werewolves.
The thief screeched out the phrase one last time before Otto silenced him for all eternity. Then, only the gnashing of the werewolf's razor- sharp teeth disturbed the descending curtain of silence.
Chomping on the criminal's skull, Otto felt slightly better. In luring the man away from the display, he had protected the fragile ornaments from damage. His quick thinking had saved the store a good deal of money. Satisfied with his actions, he settled down to feast. It had been nearly a month since the last batch of intruders. During that time, he had worked up quite an appetite.
Several hours later, back in his human form, he surveyed the scene of his final confrontation. Everything appeared in perfect order. He had diligently cleaned the cabinets and floors until not a trace of blood remained. The department store kept a goodly supply of the new miracle cleaners that made such jobs a breeze. They removed the toughest stains without a bit of trouble.
The grisly remains of his four victims went into body bags he kept hidden behind the lockers. A quick call to several ghouls working the late shift at the sanitation department resulted in an unannounced early morning pickup. Otto believed in sharing his good fortune with others. The ghouls cheerfully accepted Otto's gift of the criminals' flashlights and tools as well. By the time the morning crew arrived at 7:00 a.m., all evidence of the break-in had disappeared.
A beaming Carl arrived only a few minutes after the hour. Accompanying him, dressed in an expensive charcoal gray suit, was a short stocky man whom Otto immediately recognized as Mr. Galliano. Red- faced from the wind and cold, the owner grinned when he spotted Otto.
"You must be Otto Stark," he said in a gravelly voice, coming over and extending a hand. "I'm Julius Galliano."
'Pleased to meet you, sir," said Otto, a thin line of sweat trickling down his back. Nervously, he sh
ook hands with his boss.
"My pleasure," said Galliano, jovially. Despite his age, he had a firm, steady grip.
He peered closely at Otto, his eyes twinkling. "My coming here this morning had you worried about your job a little, didn't it?"
"Yes sir," replied Otto truthfully.
"The best workers always worry about their performance," said Galliano, chuckling. "That's what makes them the best. The lazy ones never give a damn." He paused to emphasis the fact. "I'm here to give you a raise, Otto."
Otto blinked in astonishment. "A raise?" he asked, cautiously.
"You heard me right," said Galliano. "A hefty one at that. You deserve it. Since you took over the late watch, thefts have dropped off to nothing. I'm impressed. And I back up my appreciation with cold, hard cash."
"I just do my job, sir," said Otto.
"Damned if I could handle it," said Galliano, yawning. "It's tough work, keeping alert from dusk till dawn. The graveyard shift, right?"
"Yes sir," said Otto. Night patrol had lots of nicknames—the graveyard shift, the tombstone patrol, the wolf watch. "It's tough, but I'm happy."
"Really?" asked Galliano, sounding a bit surprised. "Wouldn't you prefer working during the day?"
"Not at all," replied Otto. "I like my job. The pay is good. The hours suit me fine. And," he grinned wolfishly, "the fringe benefits are terrific."
THE WEREWOLF GAMBIT
Robert SilverbeRG
▼▼▼
SOME time after the fifth martini, when the barkeep was mixing them eight or nine to one and the little heap of discarded olives in the ashtray was beginning to look untidy and Keller felt his nerves starting to fray in frustration, he said: "You should see what happens when the moon is full."
The bored girl across the table yawned delicately. "What happens to the moon or to you, darling?"
"To me. I turn into a wolf."
"Of course," she said. "You don't even need a full moon for that."
Keller frowned, flicked ashes from his cigaret, fitfully sipped his drink. This evening had long since begun to look like a blank—a dead, useless, wasted blank evening. He hadn't communicated his purposes at all. Lora, sitting at the other end of the table as if there were a wall between them, was all glitter and polish, and had a marvelous way of consuming a man's money during the course of an evening—but Keller was having serious regrets about having offered to take her out. The evening's investment promised to have no returns whatsoever.
The Ultimate Werewolf Page 31