But what could he do?
A terrified cry told him Rosemary had gotten to her feet. He heard the slap of her boots on the floor, then the fading sound of her shrieking. It sounded like she'd managed to get outside. She'd made it! He spun to look behind him, hoping to follow suit, but all he made out were masses of movement. Rosemary's terror-stricken voice faded into the night. He listened as several of the beasts gave chase, their snarls heightening. Several gunshots rang out in the night air.
And then the noises ceased.
No!
Rosemary…!
Tom had failed her. He'd failed them all. Choking on his emotion, he moved forward. Something was coming up behind him. He had to move. He sprang forward, bumping face-first into something warm and musky. He recoiled in terror. The object wasn't moving. It was one of the dead beasts.
He groped at the still-warm body, clutching its fur. Then he moved his hands down the side, frantically searching for a place to hide. The beast was higher off the ground than he was. It took him a second to determine why. Two dead beasts had fallen on top of each other. Something snorted behind him. Without thinking, Tom burrowed between the two bodies. The cloying odor of beasts threatened to smother him, but Tom kept wriggling, praying to God he could stay hidden.
What if one of the dead beasts sprang to life? What if they aren't dead?
There was no time to think about it.
Soon he was underneath them, gasping quietly for air. The dead weight of the creature on top of him compressed his lungs. He listened to the snarls of the creatures as they ravaged the room. Objects shattered against walls. Vicious claws tore through the cabinets. He heard the slurp of buried maws, feasting on what he presumed was Sven's body. Was Frederick dead, too? He hadn't heard the man in a while. Tom had a stabbing sense of loss that he didn't have time to digest.
Chances were, he wouldn't be alive long enough to feel it.
Tom quietly pulled his arms to his face, the instinct to protect himself still strong. He breathed in and out, focused on keeping alive. His heart beat into the body of the beast below him, and he feared he might hear a second heart beating back.
As long as I'm breathing, I'm alive.
He told himself that with each passing second, as the creatures sniffed and snorted around him. Tom stiffened. He recalled how the creatures seemed to detect human presence, no matter where they hid. He held his breath, certain they'd find him.
They're going to know I'm here, and they're going to rip the things off me, and then I'll be ripped open.
He waited for the bodies to be cast aside and for claws to grab him. His pulse pounded in his temples as he held his breath. His lungs begged for oxygen.
Don't breathe…don't breathe…
The weight on top of him got heavier. One of the things clambered over the dead beast on top of him. Tom grimaced in pain; his ribs felt like they were being crushed. His head pounded from lack of oxygen.
Once they found him, he'd—
A scream pierced the air. Footsteps pounded from the far end of the room. Someone else was alive. Tom heard pained, desperate curses spilling from a man's mouth as he fled the room and out into the night. Frederick!
The pressure on top of Tom receded, and suddenly the room erupted in roars and growls as the things chased after the fleeing man. Tom held his breath as the backdrop of noise moved further away. The room went preternaturally still. He let air slip from his mouth, relieving the pressure in his lungs, and tried to wriggle free. He needed freedom. He needed to move.
He needed to help Frederick.
Tom wormed sideways, fighting the fleshy folds of the beasts—skin that seemed like it was intent on trapping him—and found his way into the open. He spat the taste of matted, sticky fur from his mouth. Fresh air filled his lungs as he sucked in his first full breath. He looked around.
With the back door open and no bodies blocking the threshold, moonlight crept in, illuminating the lifeless bodies on the floor. Most were large and inhuman. One was Sven's. The man had been flayed open and half-eaten. Swallowing sickness and guilt, Tom ran for the back door, watching a pack of beasts chase down Frederick. The man screamed as he limped off into the night, the creatures almost on top of him.
I have to help him!
Tom scoured the room for a weapon, but all he saw were bodies and gore.
No guns.
A sharp cry drew his attention. The creatures had encircled Frederick, and they batted him like cats with a ball of unrolled twine. Frederick's clothes hung off him, his skin dripped blood. He feinted in several directions, hoping to find an escape route, but each time, the creatures sliced his skin, keeping him in the middle. He doubled over, clutching his pistol.
He has a gun! Thank God, he has a gun…
Frederick pointed it at the creatures and attempted to fire, but the gun clicked empty.
"Get the fuck away from me!" he screamed through panicked breaths.
Before Tom could think about helping, Frederick was knocked to the snow and drowned by beasts. They tore into the man like animals sharing a trough, scratching and vying for bits of food. Frederick gurgled several times and went silent.
No…!
Tom blinked hard and backed away. He stared outside but couldn't find Rosemary. She was gone, too. And he'd be next. While the creatures were preoccupied with Frederick, he needed to hide. When they were finished, they'd come back.
Tom spun and ran across the bloodstained room. Where could he hide? The thought of being sandwiched between the beasts again made him sick. He couldn't do that. He'd rather die than be trapped. Keep going.
Snarls ripped through the air behind him. He envisioned the cluster of beasts outside in the snow, crunching over the white landscape to get to him. Tom stepped over massive, fur-covered bodies. In the semi-dark, he saw pairs of eyes and glistening teeth. He envisioned a claw reaching up and grabbing an ankle, ripping him back to the floor, but none did.
He clambered over the mini-mountain of several bodies, resorting to hands and feet to maneuver. His fingers slid through blood-greased fur.
He reached the main hall.
The pungent smell of blood and death was even worse. He recalled the words Paul had spoken earlier. It seemed like days ago instead of hours.
"There are four other doors out there. Across the room is the entrance. Then you have the supply closet. Nothing but mops and buckets in there. That's all the way to the left. Then you have a bathroom. Lastly, there's the door that leads to the basement."
Tom flew through the room, considering his options. He couldn't go back outside. He'd already ruled that out. Neither the supply closet nor the bathroom would keep him safe. That left the basement. Ironically, while the day grew brighter, Tom would wait for it in another dank, musty hole.
He ignored the carnage around him—Rosemary's children, John, the hall owner, the others he didn't know and would never know—and kept moving. His boots skidded through slick, gruesome remains. He slid into the door, groping with shaky fingers for the handle. Please don't be locked.
It wasn't.
The knob turned freely in his hand, and Tom pulled the door open. Nothing leapt out at him, but he made out the dim details of a staircase. He glanced over his shoulder. Feral sounds emanated from somewhere behind him, but nothing close.
He drew in a breath, sucking in the unleashed odors of another unused room.
Then he descended into it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Halfway down the staircase, Tom stopped and listened. It was unlikely any creatures were down here—the door had been closed, after all—but he couldn't be certain. He groped the wall, feeling his way down in the dark. Spider webs tickled his fingers and face, proof that the room had been closed off for a while. He felt a small tinge of relief, but not enough to settle his nerves.
He heard the beasts somewhere in the kitchen, but none seemed to have noticed him.
He placed one foot in front of the other, his shoes sl
ipping on the dusty stairs. The gloom was thick and impenetrable. Tom navigated with his other four senses, praying he could get somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere they couldn't smell him. Without weapons, his last hope was to hide. He'd wait out the final moments until daybreak in the quietude of the cellar.
Outside, the creatures scampered and howled, tearing through the snow and dragging out the last pieces of Frederick, Rosemary, and Sven. He swallowed his sickness. He couldn't think about that. Not now.
Instead, Tom pictured the moon succumbing to daylight.
Even an overcast day would be preferable to this.
He made his way down the stairs, fearing he'd feel something warm and furred in front of him, waiting in the darkness. But there was nothing, save the dewy air wrapping its cold arms around him.
The creatures brayed and roared, as if they sensed the finality of the night. He envisioned them holding the remains of their prey up to the heavens, enjoying the last of the moon's failing rays.
Tom gritted his teeth—both to stop them from chattering, and to dispel thoughts that he'd survived. He had the sudden, irrational notion that the beasts might detect his hope. Tom hunkered in the cold and tried to clear his mind of everything.
I've almost made it.
After a while, the noises abated. Tom heard the sound of objects being dragged. Thumps and bangs moved across the room above, from the interior to the outside.
He recalled the way the beasts had hidden the body of the beast Mark had killed outside the machine shop. They must be doing the same thing now. Cleaning up after themselves, taking care of their own.
The process was as sickening as it was logical.
The noises made Tom ill. But they gave him a surge of satisfaction. That's right, you fuckers. You might've killed most of us, but we got some of you, too.
The noises carried on endlessly, filling Tom with a mixture of fear and hope. The dragging sounds were so close it sounded like he could reach up and touch the dead beasts. Finally the floor above him settled into silence. Tom kept his head cocked at the ceiling, as if his ears might've stopped working, as if the beasts were playing some trick, but he heard nothing save the fading din of the creatures.
With the beasts gone, Tom exhaled. He relaxed his grip on the flashlight and rubbed his hands together for warmth. He couldn't see the sky outside. He resigned himself to waiting another hour before he surfaced.
He'd keep an ear out for the creatures in that time.
The night felt like one terrified, held breath, fighting to get out.
Tom battled a swell of emotions—the urge to rejoice as strong as the urge to cry. The sensation of loss was like a pill he'd swallowed hours ago, slowly taking effect. Whether he'd made it or not, Lorena was gone. So were the others. Tom leaned back against one of the cardboard boxes and drank in relief and regret.
Chapter Twenty-Two
He was snapped to attention by a creaking floorboard.
Tom sprang upright, scraping against one of the opened boxes behind him. He grabbed hold of it, terrified he'd make more noise. The wind quaked outside, slamming drifts of snow against the building. He heard the release of pressure on the wood above him, the groan of another footstep. The noise was so subtle he had to replay it in his head to believe it.
Who—or what—was up there?
Tom couldn't be sure. He remained stock-still. He refrained from moving. Any motion he made, no matter how subtle, could give up his presence.
Was it a survivor, looking for help? Was it someone else who had made it to the shelter? Even if it were someone with good intent, Tom couldn't risk going upstairs. No way in hell. He'd risked enough over the course of the night, and announcing his presence could be the death of both of them.
He resigned to wait and listen.
Another minute passed in silence. Tom chewed his lip, the pain keeping him awake and alert. He imagined the world outside filling with light. He hadn't heard any indication the creatures were nearby, certainly no signs they were coming back.
The floorboard creaked again. This time the noise was coming from midway across the room above him. The wood groaned and complained as something traveled across it. The steps were faster, louder, more persistent. Something was moving across the hall, coming in the direction of the cellar.
It couldn't be another survivor.
Nobody would know he was here.
Not unless they smelled him.
Tom raised himself to a crouch. He grabbed the top of one of the boxes for support, reaching inside. He was defenseless. He needed a weapon. Something. His hand slid across picture frames, crinkled newspapers, and hats. He flicked on the flashlight, cupping the end to dampen the beam. He tilted it and shined it into the box. A young, clean-shaven soldier stared back at him from a picture frame. Paul's words reverberated in his head.
"John's war memorabilia."
A sliver of hope battled the fear of adrenaline. The footsteps were almost at the door. Tom brushed aside the items in the box, frantic. He turned his attention to another box—a bigger one—and opened the lid. He cast aside more pictures and papers, heart thrumming. Then he saw something. A long, thin object buried beneath a stack of picture frames. He yanked the thing loose, pulling it out and hoisting it in the air.
Holy shit.
He swallowed.
The antique sword was still in its sheath, the engraved handle poking out from the other end. Tom tucked the flashlight under his arm, pulling the weapon free. He cast the sheath aside, exposing two feet of still-sharp blade.
Tom grabbed the flashlight and snapped it off. He stood.
Before he could prepare for what was on the other side, the door burst open, revealing the massive, snarling visage of one of the beasts at the threshold. The creature's body filled the doorway. The backlight of the moon revealed its unfurled claws, its opened mouth. It roared, feral and enraged. There was no mistaking its intention.
Not all of the beasts were gone.
This one was here.
Tom's breath caught in his throat.
He backpedaled and the flashlight clattered to the ground. He raised the sword in the air, realizing at once how unprepared he was for fighting with a blade. With a gun, he could've fired from a distance, but with a sword—
The beast leapt.
Tom was immediately knocked backward, landing on his butt and sliding across the floor. Instead of attacking, he rolled, dodging a swipe from the creature's claws. Its nails screamed against the cement. He cried out and staggered to his feet. The creature was little more than a hulking shadow in the darkness, a final, hellish demon that had come to finish him off.
Tom smelled the musk of its skin and the rancid odor of its breath, tainting the air with blood and meat. The beast lunged. Tom swung the sword. The blade cleaved the thing's stomach, and it roared and stepped back. Tom recalled the way the things had fallen from the bullets in the gun.
But they had been from silver.
What was this made of?
He had no idea, but he'd find out.
Gritting his teeth, Tom swung the sword. This time the beast was ready, and it leapt to the side, avoiding the blow. Before Tom could recover, the creature batted his leg, sending him reeling backward. He hit the floor hard. Tom knocked against the boxes, toppling them over and rolling among their contents. He scrambled among picture frames, medals, and souvenirs, trying to find purchase.
The beast advanced. Tom gave up trying to stand, scrabbling backward and trying to keep hold of his sword. The blade dragged against the ground. His jeans snagged on something and ripped. The creature hovered over him. Tom raised his sword, but before he could fight, the beast grabbed his arms and launched him sideways into the wall. Tom bashed into the concrete, sharp pain filling his shoulder, the breath ripped out of him.
He sagged to the ground.
Tom ducked as the creature's claw came at him, scraping the wall where his face had been. He staggered to his feet, realizing how foolis
h he'd been to think he could fight the thing off. Tom swung the blade without aim, his intent to drive the thing back, to give himself some room. The tip sliced the creature's skin; hot blood splattered his face. Tom recoiled.
The sword was working.
I wounded it.
Stay back, you piece of shit!
If he had the will or the breath, Tom might've yelled the words. Instead he slashed the air, encouraged. The beast faltered. Its eyes blazed with vicious intent, but Tom thought he detected a reflex of fear.
He recalled television shows he'd seen of predators in the wild, hunting with cold calculation. In most cases, the creature's prey was swallowed before it knew what happened. But in a few cases, the prey turned around and surprised its attacker.
Tom hoped for that same success.
He advanced through the dank, damp cellar, swinging his blade. Somehow, Tom found the strength to yell. His voice was high-pitched and manic, filled with the horrors of everything he'd seen. It didn't even sound like his own. His hope was to force the thing backward, to gain some leverage or advantage.
Tom raised the sword high in the air. The beast charged, shaking off its wound and clamoring for his flesh. He prayed he wasn't living his final moments.
With a final yell, he stabbed with all his strength.
The blade embedded in the creature's chest, turning the creature's roar into a yelp. The force of its charge sent Tom smashing into the concrete wall, connecting them like a single unit.
The creature writhed, frantically trying to free itself from the stuck blade, but Tom held fast to the sword, grinding the blade deeper and gritting his teeth. The stuck sword had become his last recourse, payback for the pain he'd endured, and he channeled the last of his energy into it. The beast squirmed and howled, fighting frantically to get free.
And then it stopped.
Tom kept his hands on the blade, listening to the beast's last breath disintegrate. The thing snapped its maw one final time, a gruesome, startled gasp lodged in its opened mouth. Its body went slack. Tom followed the thing to the ground, struggling against the weight of its body, keeping the sword in place. It landed with a thud on the ground.
Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) Page 10