Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) (14 page)

He drew in a breath, sucking in the unleashed odors of another unused room.
 

Then he descended into it.

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 slipping 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.

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 foolish 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.
 

Tom's winded gasps filled the air.

A voice rang through the cellar.

"Is anybody down there?"

The voice was gravelly. Deep. A voice Tom didn't recognize. A light bobbed at the top of the stairs. Tom lunged for the sword, pulling it free from the dead beast, and clambered for a hiding place. He peered out around the side of a box. A man was descending the staircase, holding a flashlight in his hand.

When the man had taken a few more steps, Tom recognized his outfit. It was a fireman. The fireman wielded an axe in one gloved hand, his mouth stuck open as he surveyed the gory scene. He shined the light around the cellar, illuminating the dead beast, and then caught sight of Tom's hiding place. Too late, Tom noticed a trail of the creature's blood that led right to him. Caught in the glare, Tom shielded his eyes and held up his sword.

"Are you all right, mister?" the fireman asked.

Tom froze. He looked down at himself. His jeans had been split in several places. His shirt was spattered with the creature's blood. But he was alive.
 

Somehow, he was alive.

"Sir?" the man asked. "Are you hurt?" He shined his light from the creature and back to Tom again. He held his axe in the air. It didn't take a genius to tell the man was afraid.

"I think I'm all right," Tom said, his voice wavering. "How'd you know I was down here?"

"I heard yelling. And then it stopped. I didn't think anyone was alive. I came to see if there were any survivors, but it looks like everyone else is dead."

"Are the things gone?"

The fireman swallowed. "They're gone. We watched them run off into the woods when the sun came up."

"We?"

"Me and a few other survivors I picked up down the road. Thankfully, the truck was high enough off the ground that we could ward them off. It's been a hell of a night. Enough talk. Let's get out of here. What's your name?"

"Tom."
 

"You look familiar, Tom. Let's get you out of here and get you bandaged up. It looks like your leg is hurt. My name's Al, by the way." Al took a tentative step toward him, holding out a large, gloved hand. He kept a wary eye on the dead creature, holding his axe as if he might have to use it. Tom stepped out from behind the boxes, walking over to the man, finally relaxing. He shook his hand.

"Don't worry, everything's going to be all right, Tom," Al reassured him. "It's morning. The rest of them are gone."

Tom glanced at the dead creature on the floor, furrowing his brow.

Noticing his stare, Al added, "This one must've slipped down here just in time."