Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (14 page)

It was furred all over, furred and clawed on each hand, each foot.

Its massive head sported an extended muzzle pulled back over a mouthful of razor teeth, bared at whatever had thrown it aside.

Flexing its massive hind legs, it launched back into the fray, and there was another round of snapping, snarling, whining.

Roland eased the door shut, took his hand off the knob.

He was sweating now, shaking. Drops of perspiration beaded on his head, trickled down his neck, his chest. His heart beat wildly.

It was a
––
a
––

No! There is no goddamn way that thing was a
––
a
––

Men in masks, that’s what they were
––
robbers wore masks, didn’t they?

He leaned against the door, not knowing what to do, when Roscoe’s face pushed into his limp hands, licked his palms.

Pull it together, pal,
he seemed to say.
You have to take care of me.

Roland took a deep, quiet breath, held it, exhaled slowly, shakily.

At that moment, he felt the building shudder through the door he leaned against, heard the sound of rending, splitting wood from the hallway on the other side.

They’d broken through the door of the adoption room.

They, whatever
they
were, weren’t interested in the exam room, in the drugs stored there.

They wanted
her
.

* * *

The trank gun
––

As he petted Roscoe to calm them both, his hand grazed his holster, and he fumbled it free.

There was only one dart left in the chamber––
not enough.

The supply of darts was locked in Exam Room 2, closest to the gas chamber, farthest from the door he was at.

Or he could leave, that way was clear. He could simply walk out the back door, get into his truck and go home. In the morning, he’d call in, quit, take that job with his shit head brother-in-law.

It sounded good for a second, sounded like a plan.

He knew he couldn’t do that; knew he couldn’t leave the other animals at the mercy of those––whatever they were.

He had to get to Exam Room 2, had to open this door, open it and walk the short distance––well, okay,
sprint
the short distance, hope he wasn’t seen.

If he was, he wouldn’t have much time to unlock the cabinet, load the gun, shoot them as they crashed through the door.

How many darts would that take? The female had taken three to put down, and these––well, from what he could see they were much, much larger.

Five? Seven? Ten?

The chamber only held four. He’d have to reload––three maybe four times.

And what would they be doing while he reloaded?

Tearing his throat out, most likely. Ripping his chest open, his abdomen, spilling his guts, shiny and gray-purple, across the linoleum.

He grimaced, shook his head.
Okay, that’s not helping
––

* * *

When he opened the door, his legs were rubbery, his breathing short and shallow.

He heard them,
in
the adoption room now. Scuffling, panting, whining,
whining
––

Now––he pushed through the doorway, tried to block Roscoe from following, but the dog was insistent. He stepped into the hall, which reeked of their funk, slowly, quietly closed the door.

Fast, he moved fast now, dashing for the left corridor, sliding into the wall as he tried to take the turn, his shoes squeaking on the worn linoleum.

They didn’t hear him; they were consumed by their own needs, their own lusts.

Gasping, he careened down the hall, stumbled before the door to the exam room.

It was locked––

Shit!

He fumbled with the key ring clipped to his belt, the keys jangling as loud as church bells.

The sounds from the adoption room quieted.

As he held the ring to his face, tried to find the right key, he could hear wet snuffling sounds, sniffing––sniffing the air for his scent.

That one!

He jammed it at the doorknob, and it skittered around the lock.

A howl came from the adoption room, chilling in the encompassing dark.

It echoed from the ceiling tiles, from the recesses of his frightened mind.

Every hair on every part of Roland’s body stood.

The key slid into the lock, and he turned it desperately.

As he did, he looked over his shoulder.

A tall, menacing shape peeled from the darkness, grew, expanded in the hall.

With hands that threatened to lose their strength, he turned the knob, opened the door.

He fell into the room on a blast of sound, a raging, vengeful howl that he was sure brought dust from the ceiling.

Pulling the heavy door shut, his fingers fumbled with the lock, just as he heard the thing’s claws on the floor, felt the weight of it strike the door, which bowed at the impact.

Slumped there for a moment, he heard the thing snuffling, trying to find him, how to get at him.

He thought it could smell his fear—
hell, he could almost smell it
—hear his heart.

Roscoe!

He suddenly remembered the dog, panicked that he’d left it out there.

Then the dog pushed against him, looked at him and smiled, despite everything, he smiled a doggie smile. For a moment, a brief moment, Roland smiled back.

“What now, boy?” he asked, ruffing the dog’s head, his smile fading. “What the fuck do we do now?”

He could hear one of them still outside the door, pacing, its nails raking the walls, scrabbling across the wood of the door. Every now and then, it paused, and Roland heard it drawing in the air of his scent, making sure he was still there.

Roland scanned the room, trying to find something that might help. Cabinets filled with medical supplies lined the walls; nothing in them more dangerous than a tongue depressor. Even the scalpels, which be briefly considered, would require close proximity to do any damage, and Roland doubted that he’d be able to get past those long, sharp claws.

Then he heard it, behind him, behind the other door, which he’d forgotten completely about.

Exam Room 2 opened into the gas chamber room through a second door, so bodies could be moved discretely without going into the corridor.

One of them was in there now, sniffing at this door.

The other one was still at the door into the hallway, growling softly.

They were cutting off his exits, trapping him.

They were pulling him
––
selecting him for death.

He would not be killed here, not like this, not by them.

The gas chamber
––
if he could lure them inside, if he could
––
pull them instead of allowing them to pull him...

That meant distracting them so he could get into the chamber room, open the door––

How to do that without letting the one in the hallway in?

As if the god of dogs listened to his prayers, he heard the female now, yipping from the adoption room.

Instantly, there was no sound at all.

Then, there was a terrific scrabbling of nails on the linoleum, and Roland almost laughed when he pictured them, like most dogs trying to gain purchase on that slick flooring, running in place for a moment.

One thumped hard against the wall, and for a second he was afraid that the sheetrock would give, and the thing would crash into the room with him. The wall held, and they were gone from the hall, from the gas chamber room.

Quietly, Roland opened the door, holding the trank gun before him as if it were a .45 and not––well, not a dart gun. Roscoe followed, sniffing cautiously at the air, staying within touch of him.

He went to the chamber hatch, drew it open, had a moment of nervousness as he worried that they might not fit through this opening, that it might be too small. Then he remembered their ability to run on all fours, as she had done, and he hoped that this held true.

Quietly, Roland took the key ring from his belt, inserted the key into the control panel that started the machine. He checked the dials, saw that it was ready to go.

Patting Roscoe’s head one more time, he flipped a switch that turned on a light inside the chamber, leaving the rest of the room dark.

Roland hoped that this light, this single light in the darkness, would be enough to arouse their curiosity, their ire.

Quietly, Roland drew the door open as far as he could, stepped behind it––

Roscoe squeezed beside him, peered into the hallway, growling softly.

His heart in his mouth, Roland jingled his keys as loud as he could.

In an instant, he heard the sounds across the hall stop, heard the distinct sounds of them sniffing.

Heard their claws clack on the linoleum, coming closer, cautious, oh, so cautious as they saw the light.

There was a sound then that made Roland think he might actually get out of this in one piece.

It was a huffing, plopping sound, weight falling to the floor.

The sound of them taking to all fours as they saw the small doorway through which the light shone.

They padded forward, still growling, still testing the air, still tasting him on it.

Then, it all fell apart––

Roscoe, with no warning, barked, an explosion of sound in the small room, darted from behind Roland’s legs, from behind the steel hatch, and stood before the lit entrance to the chamber.

“Roscoe!” Roland shouted, pushing his head from behind cover enough to see the dog, true to its pit bull blood, standing firmly, resolutely in front of the chamber, matching their growls with his own.

Snarling as if delivered something long denied, they bounded into the room, carrying their sounds, their smells with them.

Instead of holding his ground, Roscoe darted into the chamber, zigzagging as he ran, then circling inside, barking and barking.

The two creatures hit the small doorway, tried to squeeze through at the same time, rebounded, tumbling back. Snarling and snapping, they regained their feet, launched themselves one at a time through the narrow entrance.

Roland pushed the door from him, brought it around.

Inside, he saw them for the first time in the light, in the cold, indifferent reality of the 60-watt bulb set in a cage in the chamber’s ceiling.

And his heart froze, his blood froze—

No… that’s just not possible
—
it’s not
—

But it was, and they set on Roscoe, one grabbing him, him still biting and biting at them, flinging him across the small chamber. He struck the steel wall, yelped in pain, slid to the floor.

“No!” Roland saw great gashes across his side where one of their claws had laid him open.

At his cry, they spun to face him, parting their jaws in great, slavering smiles of their own.

“Roscoe!” Shaking its head, the dog leapt to its feet, whimpering, and ran to Roland.

Just as the creatures approached the entrance, Roscoe zipped through, slid between Roland’s legs, crashed into the door frame behind him.

With a resounding clang of steel, Roland threw the hatch shut, turned the lock.

Blows of fury and rage rang on the steel, dimpled it in places.

The hatch held.

Roland looked through the acrylic window, hoping they would not think to break it, and saw them racing around the room, baying, howling in frustration.

He pushed the red button near the door, heard the sound of gas hissing into the chamber.

For the first time, he was glad to hear that sound.

They rained blows on the walls, barked and yipped, and eventually fell on each other, biting and scratching in their impotent anger.

After a minute or two, they slowed, faltered.

Another minute, and they collapsed onto the floor, their sides rising and falling rapidly, foam frothing at their muzzles.

In another, they were still.

And then, in another, they changed, altered, their shapes twisting, collapsing in on themselves, fur disappearing into pink, pink skin.

Until they were—
but no
—
no
—

Roland backed away from the chamber, backed through the door.

No
—

* * *

She
faced him in the hallway, blocking any exit.

Roland turned the trank gun on her, Roscoe crouched and snarling at his side.

Pawing at the linoleum, she whined in frustration. She could see the shapes of her mates in the gas chamber behind them, see them dying.

Roland saw her looking at the gun he held. Saw her remember what it had done to her before.

Just then, the front door opened with a jangling of keys.

Roland heard Manny’s voice, “Jee-sus Kee-rist! What the hell happened—?”

She saw her chance.

Rearing on her hind legs as the males had, she leaned toward Roland, shook her head fiercely at him, every fang dripping saliva, and roared, roared in frustration, in maddened sorrow, roared in warning.

Then, she leapt across the hall, into the front office, bowling Manny over as she sprang through the door. Roland watched her lope into the gray dawn, turn a corner, disappear.

They went to help Manny, take him inside, explain what had happened.

* * *

After the explanations, Roland helped Manny carry the wounded dog to the Exam Room, acted as his assistant as he gave him a few shots of painkiller, cleaned his cuts, sewed up the worst of them.

“I’m not patching him up so that you can gas him later on, am I?” Manny asked, regarding Roland over the tops of his glasses as he worked.

“No. No more for me,” Roland smiled, holding Roscoe’s paw. “This one, I keep.”

As they finished, the sun was just beginning to come up over the buildings outside.

“Been a vet a long time,” Manny mused, pulling a suture tight. “Never thought I’d see a were—”