Werewolf Suspense (Book 2): Outage 2 (The Awakening) (10 page)

He needed a course of action, a means to escape.

He couldn't battle all the beasts with the two shots in his gun.
 

He glanced around the room, taking in the silhouettes of the other machines, the windows on the far wall. Once again, he dismissed jumping. He peered around his hiding spot and caught a glimpse of the open storage room door, the flashlight still shining on the ground.
 

Maybe he could hide in there. It was a last, desperate attempt, but it was better than nothing.

Across the room, one of the beasts cried out in pain. Another howled. It sounded like one of them was wounded, perhaps in its death throes. The other two continued fighting, tumbling across the floor. Claws scraped against wood. Loud, throaty growls filled the air. Tom felt like he was in some devil's den, an arena encased with ice instead of fire. The winner of the battle didn't matter, because whoever was left would feast on Tom.

The machines against the door started to slide.

Tom peered out from his hiding place. The figures across the room were little more than a blur of movement. Tearing sounds emanating from in front of him—awful, horrific noises that reminded him of Desmond, of Lorena, of Abby. He stepped out of his hiding place, intent on running for the storage room.

And then the noise subsided.
 

Tom glared over the top of the machine. Two beasts turned to face him, eyes glowing. They were about fifty feet away. Tom raised his rifle at the larger silhouette, aiming for center mass. They stared at him, as if they knew what was coming.
 

Time slowed to a sludgy crawl.

Tom squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the center of the thing, inciting a blood-curdling shriek. It threw its claws in the air, giving a last baleful shriek, and then collapsed to the floor. He aimed at the other. Fired.

But the second creature had already sprung. The bullet struck it in the stomach; it howled in pain, but it didn't stop. It shook its head from side to side, casting the pain aside.

Then it sprang for Tom.

The second beast was Ashley. Tom could tell by its smaller size, though its demeanor was no less frightening. The other two beasts were on the ground, their moonlit forms lifeless.

Tom squeezed the trigger again, hoping he had a bullet left. He didn't.

The creature—Ashley—staggered toward him.

Tom turned on his heel and raced across the room. Ashley followed, her feet scraping the wood floor. He'd wounded her, but at the moment, that didn't matter. She was alive, and she was coming for him. He wove aimlessly through the room, narrowly avoiding tables and boxes, trying to get away. To his left, he heard the creak of weakening wood. The door shook with the fury of the beasts. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to avoid Ashley while they were locked in the same room. It was a battle of speed and energy.
 

The only thing keeping him alive was the beast's wounded condition.

He spotted the storage room door. It was still open. He saw the dim glow of the flashlight Ashley had dropped earlier, splashing over Colton's dead body.

He veered in that direction. It was hardly a place of safety, but it was
something
. He skirted past a small table filled with objects, making a grab for something—anything—that might help him, but succeeded only in knocking several tools from their perch. Ashley was almost on him. He felt her hot breath on the back of his neck, her guttural cries laced with pain.
 

He'd almost reached the storage room when Ashley batted him from behind, knocking him off his feet. Tom flew through the air, landing on his gun, the wind knocked from his stomach. He rolled to the side, terrified of being filleted. But Ashley had already descended. The world became a suffocating mass of fur and blood. Tom kicked and squirmed, clutching the gun, his face buried in the creature's stomach. He pushed upward, trying to move, trying to
breathe
. The smell of musk and blood—of stretched, transformed skin—made him gag. The creature slammed him into the ground. Pain burst in his shoulders.
 

He shoved again, but the beast had a firm grip, its resolve deepened by its impending kill. He felt himself slipping into a world devoid of hope, absent of everyone he knew. The beast slammed him to the ground again. He saw the glint of its teeth as it opened its jaws.
 

Instead of being afraid, Tom was consumed with anger.
 

He thought of Lorena. Not the gutted, disemboweled carcass in the woods, but the smiling woman he'd lost. These creatures had taken her. They'd taken everything. He gave another thrust, using the last of his strength, and this time, the creature budged. Its claws ripped free from his coat. He gritted his teeth, smashing the empty rifle into its stomach.
 

He must've hit its wound.
 

Whatever he hit, he wasn't sure, but it was enough to send Ashley reeling off him, howling in pain. He rolled and moved in a half-crawl across the floor, contending with dust and debris, heading for the opposite end of the room.
   

His only thought was to gain distance from the beast.

The creature grabbed hold of him, tossing him into the side of a table. He pulled himself upright and resumed crawling.
 

He heard the barricaded door crack, and the noise in the hall grew louder. Several boxes tumbled from the top of the machine.

He wheezed for breath. The smell of the creature invaded his lungs, as if it was still on top of him, smothering him. The beast was right behind him. Tom stood and staggered. He heard the ragged breath of the wounded creature, its claws clicking the floor as it loped after him. He picked up the pace, stumbling across the room. A thought hit him.
 

A goal.

He followed the thin light of the windows, scanning by the room. His hip collided with the corner of a table. He cried out in pain and kept going. Ten feet from the door, he saw a pile of Mark's ripped garments. Ashley was almost on top of him. He glanced in all directions. Finally, he spotted Mark's gun. It had landed at the base of one of the windows. The beasts must've knocked it away during the scuffle.
 

Ashley leapt at him. Tom dove.
 

He heard Ashley hit the wall behind him, snarling and shrieking. He was almost at the weapon. Just a few more steps and he'd have it…

He claimed the man's gun and fumbled, trying to decipher which end was which. The light of the window behind him illuminated his hands, but in his panic, he wasn't sure of anything. His heart pounded uncontrollably.
 

He spun and aimed.

Ashley had recovered from hitting the wall. Her red eyes glowed in the dark. She let out a roar and pounced.

He fired.

The bullet hit its mark, striking her in the face, but Ashley kept coming, the gravity of her pounce setting her in motion. She slammed into Tom at full force, knocking them both over the windowsill and against the glass. The pane shattered.
 

All at once, they were falling.
 

Tom kicked his legs to find footing, but found none. The gun flew from his grasp. Cold air and snow whipped at his face, stinging his cheeks. Pain lanced his side. The creature had a hold of him, clutching him in a firm, final death grip. Even if he'd already killed it, it'd take him to the other side. He'd never survive the fall.

The ground sprang to meet them—a blurry mass of white.

Tom's last, panicked thought was to put the beast between him and the ground. He twisted and spun, clutching the thing's ratty fur, burying his face its stomach. And then he was hitting ground, the beast's body beneath him, sinking into the snow.

Both Tom and the creature's bodies shuddered from the impact. Tom heard the soft rain of shattered glass around him, and then everything went quiet and still.

Tom lay still for several seconds, listening to the whipping wind and the cries of the creatures inside the building. His pulse beat in his neck.
 

Am I alive?
 

He moved his arms and his legs, testing one limb at a time. Then he craned his head, inspecting the white world around him. He'd landed beneath the snowline. For a brief moment, he imagined he was buried beneath a drift, encased in a world of white. But the tips of trees and buildings in the distance proved otherwise.
 

Tom's body stung from the impact. His shoulders ached from where the creature had slammed him into the floor; his bare fingers were numb and caked with snow. His mouth was bitter with the taste of fur and fluids. He spat. The creature below him was still warm.
 

Warm, but limp.

The smell of its body sickened him, and he rolled to get away from it, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. But he couldn't. The creature had him in its claws.
Shit, shit, shit!
Tom kicked frantically before realizing its lifeless claw was still embedded in his coat. He pulled its arm free and fell flat on his back.
 

The wintry moon peered through the storm's glaze, mocking him.

His eyes roamed to the window. The height he'd fallen from was dizzying, even from the ground. He pulled himself to his knees, vying for footing. His head spun, and he held out his arms to steady himself.
 

He searched for the rifle.
 

He finally located it fifteen feet away, the barrel poking up from the ground.
 

He waded toward it, ignoring the burning pain in his body. Growls spit from the building, as if the structure itself might uproot and follow him. His only instinct was to retrieve the weapon and protect himself. He walked like a man possessed, his sights fixed on the handle. Snow cascaded in front of him, marring his vision, sticking to his face. His hands were cold and sticky with the creature's blood. When he reached the gun, he pulled it loose from the snow.
 

He spun. He aimed.
 

Movement flitted past the upper-floor windows. The things weren't outside. Not yet. He wasn't sure where they were, but he had no time to spare. He tore his eyes from the building and trudged in the opposite direction.
   

The snow tugged at his boots, like a white demon trying to pull him underground. He evaded its grasp and kept going. He eyed the rusted pickup truck. For a second, he considered running toward it, but Mark had the keys. Even if Tom could get inside, it would only provide temporary reprieve.

The SUV was equally useless.
 

His eyes darted to the building they'd been watching before—the one where the woman had been.
 

But they'd gotten her, too. The door was closed; the windows were broken.
 

Shit, shit, shit…

He considered making his way over, hunkering inside the building, but he'd find little safety inside.

He gazed up the street at the station wagon. The vehicle was still; the headlights were smashed.
 

But Tom noticed something he hadn't before.
 

There was something trailing from the back of it. Thin plumes of exhaust were wafting into the air.

The vehicle was still running. The surprised occupants had never shut it off.

He huffed cold breaths as he veered from the parking lot to the street. The air was freezing, any warmth from his body counteracted by the wind. He'd lost his knit cap. His fingers were frozen on the handle of the rifle. With each step, he expected to hear the crunch of footsteps on the snow, pursuing him. But all he heard was frantic commotion inside the building.
 

Get to the car…

Tom felt like a piece of game roaming blindly into a predator's landscape, a mouse dropped into a snake's cage. Each step brought him closer to the maws of death.

Mark's words echoed through his head.
Driving is like sending a homing beacon to those things
. But they'd already been detected inside the building. They'd been detected at his house with Lorena. Was any place better than another?
 

The car was a gamble. But so was everything else at this point.

Another crash echoed behind him; the things were thumping down the stairs. In a matter of moments they'd exit the building. Tom was halfway to the car.
Maybe I should've headed for the building
.

It was probably too late, either way he sliced it.
 

Tom pushed himself as fast as he was able. He ignored the images that wracked his mind and the noises behind him. He convinced himself the station wagon was the physical incarnate of safety, wrapped in a two-ton casing of metal and wires. He clomped across the snow, his mind repeating the steps he'd need to take to flee the scene.

Get in the car. Close the door. Reverse.

The station wagon had come to rest against one of the buildings. His guess was that it was stuck in drive, motionless without a foot to press the pedal. As he got closer, he repressed the idea that the car would be wedged in place, that he'd be as powerless as the people who'd been pulled from the interior.