His eyes widened.
Mark hadn't been lying.
What he found wasn't what he'd expected, but it was more than he had hoped. The chest contained two pistols, another rifle, and numerous boxes of ammunition. He opened one of the boxes. Silver bullets glinted in the flashlight's gleam. He thanked whatever God had gotten him here safely. Tom removed each of the guns, imagining Colton's state of mind as he'd purchased them. He probably thought they'd benefit him and his brother, but Mark hadn't listened.
And now both Mark and Colton were dead. Tom swallowed.
He had just enough time to check that the weapons were loaded before a crash echoed from somewhere above him. The beasts were coming. Tom swiveled his rifle at the stairs, almost dropping the flashlight. He groped for the switch, found it, and clicked it off.
The basement suddenly felt colder, more closed off than before. Weapons or not, Tom was far from safe. The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but the door was flimsy protection. Once the creatures bashed into it—
The crash came again.
It was coming from the side of the house where he'd entered.
Tom pictured the beasts inhaling his smell, salivating with hunger. He tucked both pistols in his jacket, kept hold of his rifle, and felt his way along the wall to the stairs. Aside from a few small windows, the door was the only entrance and exit. The basement was hardly the stronghold he'd envisioned.
But it would work. He'd make it work.
The next crash was accompanied by the hungry panting of creatures and the sound of paws scratching the house's exterior. The kitchen door caved. Tom gritted his teeth as it slammed against the wall and the creatures entered the house.
Feet scampered through the upstairs. Nails dragged over hardwood; whines and growls filled the rooms. The creatures plowed their way through Colton's belongings. He listened as they searched room to room, performing the same ritual he'd carried out moments earlier. The creatures snarled as they tripped over one another, fighting for the first taste of flesh.
And then they were at the cellar door. Tom swallowed as one of them pressed against the wood, giving it a tentative swipe. They'd found him.
Just like they did at his house.
Just like they did at the machine shop.
The difference was, this time Tom wasn't going to wait for them to attack. Tom aimed the rifle at the door and fired.
Chapter Three
Tom squeezed off two shots, listening to a high-pitched yelp as one of the things fell on the other side of the door. Another took its place, tearing at the wood until the door crashed inwards.
Tom fired again, using his memory of the layout and the commotion of the creatures to guide him. Another wounded bray emanated from above him, and something tumbled down the stairs. Tom heard the irregular thump of a body bouncing off the wooden steps and coming to rest. Tom fired several more rounds into the darkness where it had landed, bent on destroying the thing. He backed against the wall. He flicked on the flashlight.
The creature was dead. Its mouth was agape in a last guttural growl, its chest open and gushing blood. He aimed the light up the stairs, following the path of its descent, and located its companion. The other beast lay dead at the top landing.
Holy shit.
Tom exhaled and lowered the gun. He listened. With the creatures disposed of, an eerie calm settled over the house. Soft snow pattered against the upstairs windows; from somewhere outside, he heard the station wagon purring gently. He studied the beast on the floor, trying to make sense of its existence. Its eyes were red, its snout long and curved. Its claws were opaque and stained with blood. Up until now, he'd barely gotten a look at one of the things.
The beast was as gruesome in death as it'd been in life.
He saw no reason for the beasts' existence, other than pain and suffering. No reason for remorse. After watching it for a minute, Tom treaded past it and up the stairs, intent on securing the house. He pointed the flashlight as he ascended, keeping his eye on the beast at the top of the stairs. The creature stared absently at the ceiling, its claws furled to its chest.
He stepped around it and glanced cautiously out the living room window. He aimed his flashlight at the floor. The street was empty. If any of the other creatures had heard the commotion, they weren't in close proximity. Grey smoke bled from the back of the station wagon. Tom had the sudden urge to go outside and shut the car off, fearing it would draw attention, but it wasn't safe to do so. Instead he verified that the front door was dead-bolted, and then stalked toward the kitchen.
He aimed his pistol in front of him, treading through the dining room, veering past the overturned dining room table and the scattered mail. The kitchen floor was slippery with tracked snow. A gaping hole remained where the kitchen door had been. The door had been bashed against the nearby wall, the glass panes broken out. He crept over and wedged it shut, fighting against a broken hinge. He'd need to reinforce the door. Tom trekked to the stove, the closest appliance, and tucked his pistol in his pants. He set down his flashlight. With effort, he was able to wrench the stove from place and skid it across the floor. He grunted and strained, finally managing to slide it in front of the door.
He listened. Heard nothing.
With the stove in place, he felt safer, but not safe enough. The windows were unprotected. So was the front door. Any of those could provide access for the creatures. With the right tools, Tom could carve up the dining room table and block the windows. But how long would the barricade last? He'd seen what the barricade had done for him at the factory building.
He settled for using the dining room table to block the front door. When he was finished, he headed for the basement.
It was the most defensible place he had—one entrance and exit, a small pile of weapons and ammunition. If his guess was correct, he only had a few more hours of moonlight. Only a few more hours to survive.
Tom shut the already-cracked basement door and headed downstairs to wait.
A half hour passed in silence.
The lack of noise was as unbearable as listening to the beasts. With each passing second, Tom expected to hear growls and scrapes, clues that his hiding spot was compromised. Instead he heard the gust of wind and the light kiss of snow against the basement windows.
He glanced at the floor around him. He'd spread out and reloaded the weapons, keeping them in easy reach. Two rifles—the one he'd carried in, as well as the one he'd found. Two pistols. A stack of ammunition next to him on the floor. He shined his flashlight into the basement corner.
The body of the dead beast stared at him. By the time he'd returned from the kitchen, the thing in the basement had changed into human form. The creature had become an unassuming man with white hair and a stubble-covered chin. The man was naked, dripping blood from several gunshot wounds to his chest. Tom had gotten lucky in hitting him. The man's eyes, once red and feral, had returned to something near normal. Tom wasn't sure how long it took them to transform, but it seemed to happen a few minutes after they were killed. He considered dragging the man upstairs, but doing that would leave him too vulnerable, and would make too much noise. He settled for moving him into the corner.
The man's presence was unnerving.
Several times, Tom shined the flashlight on the body, certain the man was looking at him, but each time his fears were unfounded. After an hour of waiting, Tom's eyes fluttered. He pinched himself, using the pain to stay alert. He'd hardly gotten any sleep the night before. The sheer exertion of fighting, fleeing, and driving had sapped his strength. He knew he couldn't close his eyes. To do that would expose him to further danger.
So he sat upright against the wall and thought about Lorena.
For the past few hours, he'd known his wife was dead. But Tom hadn't processed it. Hadn't had a chance. The night had been a flurry of battles and interactions, with no quiet time to mourn. He recalled the gruesome, torn carcass that had been flung at him in the woods, trying to reconcile that image
with the loving memory of his wife.
He couldn't.
Unable to stifle his emotion, Tom started to cry. He buried his head in his hands, suppressing his sobs with the cold, stiff sleeves of his jacket. Tears stung his face. As painful as his memories were, they kept him focused and awake. He recalled his wedding to Lorena twenty-eight years ago. Her father had given her away. She'd been beautiful. Tom had paced their apartment that morning, excited, but apprehensive that something might go wrong. It hadn't. The day had been as perfect as they'd hoped. His memory was as clear today as the day it had happened, and so was his love for Lorena.
The beasts could never take that away.
When he'd finished crying, Tom resumed staring at the top of the stairs. The door was shut, but it was severely cracked. The little measure of security seemed pitiful compared to what he was up against.
Before he could conjure a fix, a thump emanated from outside, startling him. Tom looked around the room. It took him a second to recognize what the noise was. It was the branches falling outside, just like they'd done back at his house. The storm was snapping the weakest of the limbs, just like the beasts had snatched the weakest of the townsfolk.
Tom felt a small, burning pride that he was still alive.
Even if he died, he'd have lasted a hell of lot longer than the others. For all he knew, he was the last man in all of Plainfield. Hell, maybe the last man in the world. Tom let that thought comfort him as he kept his vigil. He shined the flashlight on the dead man-beast at the other end of the room, cursing its existence and blaming it for his loneliness.
He shut off the light.
Chapter Four
Tom didn't realize he'd been dozing until he was awoken by a scratching noise. He jolted upright and aimed his gun into the darkness. The flashlight rolled on the floor next to him, gently. He must've bumped it when he'd awoken.
He hoped he had.
His body surged with fear. What if one of the things was in the room? Any comfort level he'd had was extinguished by closing his eyes. He grabbed hold of the flashlight and felt for the switch. Before turning it on, he paused, wondering if something was already watching him. If it were one of the creatures, it would've attacked me already. Wouldn't it have?
Tom flicked on the flashlight. He shone the beam back and forth over the basement, adrenaline coursing through his body. The stairs were vacant, the door shut. He swung the light over to the other side of the room, expecting to find the dead man-beast missing or skulking in the shadows, but the body was in the same position it had been before. He sighed with relief. Perhaps a mouse had paid him a visit. He shuddered to think of the rodent running over him while he slept, but it was better than the alternative.
The flashlight flickered.
The batteries were dying.
He'd have to keep it off. The flashlight was his only source of illumination. His lifeline. Even if there were another one in the kitchen, he wouldn't go back up there now. He'd stay where he was, even if it meant hiding in the dark.
No sooner had he shut off the light than the scratching noise came again. He cranked his head toward one of the windows across the basement. This time he couldn't convince himself it was a rodent. The noise was coming from the other side of the pane. Tom scrambled to his feet and padded toward the window. Pale moonlight crept in through the glass, illuminating the corners of the basement. Half of the window was covered in snow. His heart hammered. If one of the creatures were trying to get inside, he'd kill it, just like he'd done the others.
He aimed his rifle at the small, rectangular window.
He got within five feet, stopped, listened. The noise had ceased. He peered out into the night, catching a glimpse of moonlight through the trees overhead. There was nothing there. And then there was.
A human hand swiped at the glass.
Tom leapt back in surprise, so taken aback that he almost lost his balance. He pointed the gun at the window and watched. A woman's face appeared. She pressed her nose against the glass, her face streaked with blood and tears, her hair covered in snow. She crouched on her hands and knees and mouthed words at him. Could she see him?
It felt like she was looking right at him. Tom shuddered.
"Help…" the woman groaned.
The word was so quiet it was barely audible. Tom froze. He stared at the woman, still in disbelief that she was real, still in shock that she was talking to him. For a minute, he entertained the idea that he was still asleep, that the woman was a dream. At any moment, he'd wake up amidst a pile of weapons, alone. As if to prove her existence, the woman raked the pane harder, her hand trembling from the cold. Somewhere outside, Tom heard the sound of footsteps crunching the snow.
Something was after her.
The woman looked behind her in terror, then frantically clawed the window. She mouthed, "help" again, her eyes so wide they looked like they'd burst. Tom kept his gun rigid. He recalled the faces of Billy and Ashley when he'd first picked them up—their faces had been frightened, too. But that had been a trap. Was this? Was the woman trying to lure him out?
Tears slid down her cheeks. It looked like she was on the verge of a meltdown.
If she was deceiving him, her act was convincing.
Tom lowered his gun. Even if he smashed the basement window, he wouldn't be able to fit her through. The only way to get to her would be to go outside, jeopardizing his safety. He peered around the dark room. As ill suited for a stand as the basement was, it was the only security he had.
Before he could devise a plan, the woman disappeared from the glass and ran from the window, her footsteps fading in the other direction. From the opposite side of the house came a second set of footsteps.
Two creatures were after her. Maybe more.
Tom scrambled for his weapons. The image of the station wagon's occupants was still fresh in his mind. He hadn't been able to help them. But he could help this woman, if he could get to her in time.
He stuffed the pistols in his jacket, then raced up the stairs, aiming his rifle. Each step he took produced a new spark of fear, a looming sense that he was making a mistake. But Tom cast aside his doubts. To ignore this woman would make him complicit in her death. How could he live with himself if he didn't try to help?
He reached the door and fumbled for the thin latch, unlocking it. He kept his flashlight low. He ripped open the door, hand shaking, and aimed his gun. The foyer was lifeless. The body of the beast he'd killed earlier had turned into a disheveled, bloodied man. With only a cursory glance at the man, Tom sprang for the dining room table and removed it. He glanced out the window on the side of the door, but saw no sign of the woman. She'd run into the woods behind the house. He'd have to go back there to find her.
He opened the front door. The cold slithered inside like a dying, stray animal.
He raced out into the night.
The station wagon no longer trailed smoke. Either the vehicle had died or it'd run out of gas. The woman must have come from another direction. She must not have seen it.
Tom raced to the left of the house—the place where he'd last seen the woman—pointing his rifle and flashlight in front of him. The snow yanked at his feet; the wind tugged at his jacket. He saw nothing but shadows and broken tree limbs in the vicinity.
He stepped over fallen branches, running until he could see the woman's impressions by the window where she'd been crouching. Her footsteps led in the other direction. He chased after them, fighting the feeling that he was walking into a trap. He heard movement through the forest ahead of him. His footsteps felt obnoxiously loud. If he made too much noise, if the things detected him, he'd—
Out of nowhere, a dark mass raced at him from the trees. Snarling.
Tom steadied his rifle and fired. The bullet tore into the creature's leg, sending it to one knee, jaws biting the air. He fired again, striking it in the chest, knocking it facedown into the snow. There was no time to regroup. Another beast ran at him from the same direction, faster than th
e other had been.
Tom took aim, his pulse climbing. He fired at the looming shape. To his dismay, the bullet ricocheted off a nearby tree. He adjusted his aim and fired again, but he was too late. The beast crashed into him, knocking him backward into the snow. The flashlight fell. Tom rolled. Snow caked his mouth and nose, suffocating him. He tore free and clambered to his feet, staggering through the moonlight to get a bead his attacker, clutching his rifle. The shadowed form of the beast lunged again. Tom swung his gun, knocking it in the face. But the beast kept coming. It snarled and threshed, tearing the fabric of Tom's jacket. Tom cried out, anticipating pain. The sleeve of his jacket tore.
He attempted to raise his rifle, but the thing was faster, knocking the weapon from his hands. Real terror coursed through his body—not the fear of being wounded, but the fear of being seconds from death. Tom took a tentative step back. The creature's hot breath filled the air between them. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. He grabbed for one of the pistols. He could feel the handle, but his fingers were stiff, numb, uncoordinated. Come on! Get it out! Before the beast made a final lunge, he wrenched it loose and fired a bullet into the creature's midsection. He shot the thing several more times, watching the beast writhe, falter, and fall backward on the snow.
And then it was over.
Or so he thought.
Before Tom could recover, a woman's scream erupted from the trees.
Chapter Five
Tom raced toward the commotion. He'd lost his flashlight and his rifle, but there was no time to search for them. He'd use his pistols. The woman needed his help.
She's alive, he thought frantically. She's alive.
The need for survival had been replaced by the urge to help. He followed the direction of the noise, listening to the woman's shrill cry, punctuated by the snarls of the creatures. The commotion was coming from a patch of forest in front of him.
Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) Page 2