Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) (8 page)

The two survivors glared at each other. Tom studied his new companions. "I caught a few of your names. Who are all of you?"

"I'm Sven," the fat man said.

The black man said, "Frederick."

The woman with the frizzy hair peered out from below the counter. She glanced around the room, as if the walls might come alive and grab her. "Sherry," she said.

Paul motioned to his shirt, confirming the obvious. "I'm Paul, the co-owner of the hall."

"I'm Tom and this is Rosemary. Did you come together?" Tom asked.

"No. I was by myself," Paul explained. "When I got here an hour ago, I found the others hiding in the kitchen. Those things were prowling everywhere. Thankfully these people let me inside."

"What about the police?" Tom asked. "I saw a cruiser outside."

"That's the last of Officer Hoyt out there." Paul swallowed and motioned past the door. "At least, I think it is. He was supposed to keep watch over the shelter. That's what my partner John said when I talked to him on the phone. That was hours ago. John didn't make it, either. I saw his jacket in the other room."
 

"We tried calling for help, but we have no service." Sven coughed, his stomach rippling through his shirt. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and shook it. "It's this fucking storm. Now we're trapped."

"My cellphone has no service, either," Rosemary added.

Tom pointed at the door on the opposite side of the room. "Is that the only other exit?"

Paul nodded. "Yep. We blocked it off earlier."

"Well, that's a start," Tom said, pursing his lips.
   

"We have nothing to defend ourselves with. The others took the knives from the cabinets," Paul finally spoke up.
 

Tom frowned. "Others?"

"There were two more of us," Paul explained. "They tried to go for help an hour ago. We heard screaming down the street, and then the screaming stopped. They never came back."

"You gotta give us those guns, Tom," Frederick said, growing frantic. He eyed the spare pistols in Tom and Rosemary's jackets. "We need something to protect ourselves."

"Is that all you got?" Sven asked, furrowing his brow.

"Yep—just the rifle in my hand, and the pistol in my jacket. Same with Rosemary."

"That means you've got two extra," Frederick insisted.

"No shit, genius." Sven shook his head. "But who gets them?"

"I'm sure we can come up with a plan," Paul suggested. "We'll need to figure this out."

"Maybe those things are gone for good this time. Isn't that what you said before, Frederick?" Sven muttered. "Maybe you don't need one."

"Screw you, man." Frederick shook his head. "If it wasn't for you, they would've left. You're the loudest motherfucker in here. Every time they get close, you start screaming like a schoolgirl."

The survivors glared at each other. Hoping to defuse the situation, Tom offered, "It wouldn't have much mattered. They can smell us."

"How do you know that?" Frederick asked.

"Their senses are keener than ours."

"What makes you the expert?" Sven snorted.

"Because I've killed a few of them," Tom said. The others stared at him for a moment, respect building in their eyes.

"It sounds like you know what you're doing, Tom," Paul said. "I'm glad you're here."

"Hopefully you can help us," Sherry murmured from her hiding spot underneath the counter. "Hopefully you can get us out of here."

"We'll do our best to get through this." Tom shrugged gravely.

"I don't believe they can be killed," Sven spat. "One of my neighbors shot one and the thing didn't even stop. It kept coming, and then it killed him." Sven pointed at Tom and shook his head. "I think this man's a liar."

Tom bristled, but didn't respond.

"Why don't you let him explain?" Frederick shot back at Sven. "Shut your fat mouth for a change."

"Guys, settle down," Paul said. "None of this is helping."
 

Reluctantly, the people in the room quieted. Out of nowhere, Rosemary cleared her throat and stepped forward. She stood with her arms clasped to her chest, shaking. "Tom's telling the truth. He's killed them. We both have."

"How?" Sven demanded.

"The bullets inside these guns work against them," she said, tapping the side of her pistol. "They're special."

"What's so special about your bullets?" Sven demanded.
 

"It's a long story," Tom said exhaustedly.

"By the looks of it, we aren't getting out of here anytime soon, so you might as well tell it," Sven grunted.

Tom told of their trip to the Knights of Columbus and the creatures they'd killed on the way. Paul, Frederick, and Sven listened intently, while Sherry clung to the underside of the counter. Rosemary was silent. She stared at the barricaded door, as if her kids might come walking through it at any moment.

"How many of these things have you killed?" Frederick asked.

Tom counted in his head. "At least a dozen," he said. "Maybe more." The men looked at him as if the number were a badge of honor.
 

"They can heal. But not from your bullets?"

"I told you, this ammunition was made to kill them." Tom held up a box from his pocket, displaying the silver slugs inside.
 

"This is unbelievable." Frederick slapped his forehead. "If I hadn't seen half the shit I've seen, I'd say you were hallucinating."

"So we wait until morning, and then we'll be safe." Sven pulled out his cellphone. He swore when he saw it had no service. "Dammit. This is the last phone between us, and I have no way to charge it. It's already four a.m. Sunrise should be in a few hours. Do you think we can ward them off until then?"

"I doubt it," Paul said grimly. "Those things are getting riled up out there."

In the time they'd been talking, the banging noises had resumed outside. The creatures tore up the parking lot. The shrill cry of a car alarm pierced the air. A window shattered. Tom heard the sound of a CD blaring over the car speakers. He recognized the song. It was Kenny Roger's "Lucille", a song his wife used to listen to. A few hours ago, the song might've provided happy nostalgia. Now it was a reminder of all he'd lost, and a portent of the bloodshed to come.

The music played in the background while the survivors talked.

"If they're so strong, why haven't they busted down the doors?" Frederick asked.

"They could've easily pushed through the barricade," Paul agreed. "You felt how strong they were. It seemed like they were holding back."

"I think you're right, Paul. They're fucking with us," Sven said. "Maybe we're the last people in town, and they're saving us until the end."

From underneath the counter, Sherry let out a frightened cry, hugging her knees. The others looked newly afraid.
 

"That's a possibility," Tom said. He reiterated how Billy and Ashley had traveled with him for several hours, biding their time before attacking. "This could be a sport to them."

"What if we're the last people alive in the whole world?" Sven asked. "What if they're going to savor every bite? I bet they'll like the taste of you, Frederick."

"Shut up, Sven," Frederick said.

"Right before daybreak, they'll pop in here and eat their fill," Sven said smugly.

"I said shut up!" Frederick yelled, louder.

"Guys! Pipe down!" Paul's face reddened with anger.
 

Sherry mumbled something under her breath, rocking back and forth. Rosemary left the group and went over to comfort the other woman.

"Is Sherry all right?" Tom asked.

"She's been like this all night," Paul explained quietly. "One minute she's with it, the next she's catatonic. Her family was killed on the way here."

"That's awful. I understand how she's feeling," Tom said.

"I've tried to comfort her, but it doesn't do much good. Damned if I know what to say. What
can
I say? The way this is going, we'll all be next."

They watched as Rosemary leaned farther under the table. "It's going to be all right," she said again, reaching out to the woman.

Sherry looked up, her eyes manic. "How can you say that? Your boys are dead in the other room. You saw what happened in there. What do you know?"

Rosemary's face wilted. She got to her feet and rejoined the others. It looked like she was barely holding it together. Sven and Frederick, quiet since their latest squabble, turned their attention back to the group.
 

"So what do you propose we do?" Frederick asked Tom. Tom noticed the man still eyeing his guns.
 

"We barricade the place the best we can. We wait. We ward them off until sunup. If we do that, we'll have a chance at surviving."

"But we've already barricaded the place with everything we have," Paul said, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm not sure what else we can do."

"How about the metal preparation table?" Tom pointed to the right side of the room, motioning to the long, empty table. "Can we use that?"

"It's bolted down," Paul said.
 

"Do you have tools?"

"No." Paul thought on it for a moment. "Actually, we might. I think there's an old tool kit in one of these cabinets. It might be kind of rusty, but I can check…"

"What about guns? Let's talk about those," Frederick said again. "We should talk about who gets the extra ones."

"Let's barricade the door first. Then we can talk."

Tom followed Paul over to a cabinet above the counter, watching Paul push aside a few stacks of papers. After a bit of searching, he emerged with a small metal toolbox. Inside were a handful of dust-covered tools. Tom grabbed an adjustable wrench and took it to the nearest table. On the way, he noticed Rosemary wringing her hands.
 

"Rosemary, can you watch the door?" he asked, hoping to distract her. She agreed quietly and walked over to the hall entrance.
 

"There's another adjustable wrench in there," he told Paul. "Grab it and start working on the other end of the table." Noticing Sven and Frederick standing impatiently by the counter, he said, "Sven. Frederick. Can you move the refrigerator? Try to budge it in front of the door where Rosemary's standing. Maybe you can move the table and put the refrigerator by the door, then put the table behind it."

The men grunted and walked to the other side of the room. Tom bent to his knees and used the wrench to work on one of the bolts on the table. The bolt was orange and rusted; it barely moved. Tom gritted his teeth and tried harder while Paul worked on another one. Finally, it came free. He and Paul unbolted the table and took opposite ends, sliding it across the floor. The metal squeaked and protested as they butted it against the door leading outside.

Across the room, Frederick and Sven managed to move the appliance in front of the other door. They argued while they worked. The consistent drone of the generator and the blaring music drowned out their voices. The song had changed to an easy rock number. The music only deepened Tom's unease. He pictured a slew of beasts outside, ready to barge in and consume them.
 

The beasts raged and rioted.

Obviously the beasts knew they were here. Why hadn't they broken the doors down? He figured his earlier theory seemed plausible. Perhaps delaying the kills made their meals even more satisfying. Tom watched Sven and Frederick place the table behind the refrigerator.

"Do you think the barricades will hold?" Paul asked.

"It'll slow them down, at least. We need every advantage we can get."

Having finished with their tasks, Frederick and Sven walked over to join the others. "So what do you say, Tom? Are you going to hand out those extra pistols?" Frederick asked.

Tom dusted off his pants. He studied the others. "Have any of you fired a gun?"

Frederick and Sven shook their heads. Sherry didn't respond. After a pause, Paul spoke up, his voice surprisingly calm and even.
 

"I have," he said. "My cousins were in the service."

"Are you a good shot?"

"Yessir. But it's been a while. I was supposed to join the service, but I busted my knee in high school, and it hasn't been the same since."

Tom stared at the man, taking in his calm demeanor, trying not to envision him turning into one of the beasts. Then he glanced at Sven and Frederick, whose eyes still blazed with anger. What if the men turned on each other? Neither had fired a gun before. The prospect of arming any of them seemed not only dangerous, but irresponsible.
 

At the same time, Tom couldn't hoard the weapons. The survivors deserved to defend themselves. He needed help.

"Rosemary, give Paul your spare pistol."

Rosemary pulled it out and handed it over. She kept hold of her rifle. Paul nodded as he inspected the weapon. True to his word, he seemed comfortable with the piece.

"I have one extra," Tom said.

"I should get it," Sven said definitively.
 

"I don't think so," Frederick argued. "It should be me."

Tom looked the men up and down. Sven's eyes were red and bloodshot. Frederick seemed slightly more composed. Tom's gaze stopped on Frederick.
 

"I'm a quick learner," Frederick piped up. "I'll do whatever you say."

Sensing Tom's decision, Sven threw up his hands. "What the fuck? You're going to give that piece of shit a gun? Are you serious? He doesn't know anything."

"Whoever doesn't have a weapon can grab hammers, screwdrivers, whatever you want from the toolbox," Paul suggested. "We can rally together."

"Fuck this," Sven spat. "I don't need your tools. I don't need any of you."

"Why don't you calm down, man?" Frederick suggested. "You're not helping."

Sven barged over to Frederick, his eyes dark with rage, jabbing a finger in the black man's chest. Frederick puffed up and raised his fists. They bumped arms and stared at each other.

"You've been talking shit all night. I'm getting sick of it."

"Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do?" Frederick spat.