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

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  "What are they?" Tom asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  "They're wolves, Tom. Lycans." The light of the window illuminated enough of Mark's face to tell he was serious.

  "How did your brother react?"

  "He went into a fit of rage, screaming at the woman to fix what she'd done. But there was no going back. She told him he was a coward, that she'd made a mistake in turning him. And then she left and he never saw her again."

  Tom gazed outside the window, as if speaking about the creatures would somehow call them to the building. He shook his head in disbelief. The story confirmed everything that had happened. For the past few hours, the rational part of his brain had been in constant battle with his senses, trying to disprove what he was seeing. But Mark's story gave it a layer of truth.

  "So… You said you killed him?" Billy asked after a moment, breaking the quiet. The young man leaned forward, listening attentively.

  "After he confessed, he wanted me to. He said there were more like him. He'd seen them in the night; he'd even talked to a few of them. He told me he'd already tried to kill himself, but couldn't. It was like the beast inside him wouldn't allow it." Mark patted his coat pocket. "He gave me the bullets I showed you, but I wouldn't hear of doing that to him. He said he had a whole stash of bullets at home, and that I should use them to protect myself. I told him he was crazy. I still didn't believe him, you understand. I didn't want to feed his delusions."

  "What happened?" Tom asked.

  Mark shook his head sadly. "We tried to move past it. Colton stopped talking about it as much. But he continued drinking. A few days ago, he warned me that I wouldn't be able to ignore it much longer. He said a storm was coming, that all the beasts were waiting for it. A bunch of them had migrated to the northeast in preparation, he said. It was one of the few times they could kill without fear, without repercussion. They all knew it was coming, like they sensed it in the air or something. While man was preoccupied, they'd feast, he said. They called it The Great Storm."

  A cold terror gripped hold of Tom. He turned to look in the darkness behind him, as if the machines themselves would spring to life, but the room stayed silent and still.

  "What happened to Colton?" Billy asked.

  Mark shook his head. "Earlier today, while Colton and I were working, he made me promise to keep an eye on him. He said we should lock ourselves in here tonight. He was crying. I promised to do it. I still didn't believe him, you understand. I thought this whole thing was a hallucination, and after tonight he'd have no choice but to get help. So I locked all the doors. And then the storm hit. Everything was fine, at first, and then he…he turned. His whole body, his whole face…"

  "Where is he now?" Billy whispered.

  Mark raised his arm and pointed across the room. His eyes glistened with tears in the pale light of the window. "He's in that storage room. I killed him. And when this is over, I'm going to bury him where he'll never be found."

  Chapter Nine

  Tom stared across the room at the door. Billy and Ashley inched backward.

  "Don't worry," Mark assured them. "He's dead. I made sure of it. Colton's finally at peace."

  The door was little more than an outline in the dark. Tom fought the fear that the man-beast would come bursting from inside, rending them to pieces. Mark had already confessed to killing his brother, but Tom had never considered the dead man might be so close.

  Mark patted the rifle in his lap. "Colton was right about everything. After he turned, he came at me like I was nothing, like we weren't even blood. I shot him several times, but he kept coming. I finally locked myself in that storage room. That's where I'd stashed the bullets he gave me. If I hadn't found them, I'd be dead right now." Mark swallowed.

  The group peered through the window, watching wind kick up the snow outside.

  "So what do we do?" Ashley whispered.

  Mark sighed. "I have a feeling if we wait out this storm, we'll be all right. That's what Colton said. According to my brother, the beasts only hunt by the light of the moon. This storm has significance. They knew it was coming; they've been waiting for it. They knew most of us wouldn't be prepared." He pointed to the sky outside, where the outline of the moon hung behind the storm clouds. "I think it's something in their blood that tells them what's coming, kind of like animals sensing a change in barometric pressure. They've detected the storm for a while. Their senses are like animals, only much more heightened."

  Tom thought back to a few hours earlier, when he'd stared at the moon through his basement window. If only he'd understood what it meant. If he had, maybe Lorena would still be alive.

  But how could he have?

  Tom gripped the tire iron and glanced back at Billy, who was still carrying the empty rifle. If they were going to survive the storm, they'd need to be prepared.

  "Are there any other weapons in here?" he asked Mark.

  Mark shook his head. "I have some tools. But they won't be much defense against the things. The only thing I'm sure of is this." He held up his rifle. "Why don't we load yours with the ammunition I have left? Is that a .22?"

  Tom nodded. "Yes, it's an older one. With a tubular magazine."

  Billy handed over the rifle, and Mark loaded it with the remaining bullets he'd gotten from Colton. He handed the weapon to Tom. When Mark was finished, there were six rounds in the gun—not enough to make Tom feel safe, but definitely an improvement.

  "I should've listened and taken the rest of Colton's ammunition." Mark sighed. "But I didn't want to acknowledge what he was saying. I thought I was helping him by ignoring him."

  "Where does he live?"

  "Over on Chestnut Street. Number twenty-three. It's a yellow house at the end of the cul-de-sac, a good eight miles away on the other side of town. He said his basement was filled with supplies."

  "Dammit."

  "If we were closer, we might have a chance at getting them. But I don't think we should risk going out there. I think we're better off hunkering down in here." Mark set the flashlight on the floor next to him.

  Tom recalled how he'd seen the light earlier, and felt a surge of gratitude.

  "I saw the light before we crashed," Tom said.

  "I was trying to signal you," Mark explained. "I saw the creature coming up behind you and knew you'd need help. Thank God it worked out."

  "I appreciate it," Tom said again. "If you hadn't shot that thing, I don't know where we'd be."

  The group fell silent, listening to the keening wind and the creak of the old building. The air grew colder by the minute. Without the distraction of conversation, Tom felt the chill of the building working through his joints, numbing his fingers and toes. He was gloveless. His boots were filled with ice.

  He stared out the frosted windows, taking in the parking lot and the road. Spirals of smoke still wafted from the SUV. The dead man-beast lay nearby. The body was covered in a thin layer of snow, partially buried by the elements. Tom wondered how long it would take until the man was fully covered.

  The parking lot across the street was deep and wide and filled with snow. The buildings were lifeless. Tom stared at each of them as if for the first time. The storm had painted them with a thick white brush. All of them looked the same. Tom's eyes started to glaze. The longer he stared, he started seeing things: creatures in every doorway, faces in every grime-covered window. He blinked to rid himself of the images.

  After a few moments, he peered into the room behind him, acquainting himself with the building. He recalled the stairs they'd traveled to get here.

  "How many floors are in this building? Three?" he whispered to Mark.

  "Yes. We're on the top floor," Mark affirmed.

  "How many exits?"

  "Four—two in the back, one on the side, and one in the front. I blocked all of them after what happened to Colton. The only way out is the way you came in. I left the garage unblocked so I could get to my truck as a last resort."

  "Do you think it'll drive if we need
it?"

  "Not likely." Mark gave a grim smile, his stubble-covered face illuminated by the light of the window. "That truck is hard to start on a good day. I don't think it'd get far in this weather. Besides, driving a vehicle out there is the equivalent of wearing a bull's-eye."

  Tom nodded, noting his downed SUV. Even his vehicle—newer and more reliable than the truck—had barely navigated the deep snow. Mark was probably right. The best option was to stay put. If they could outlast the storm, someone would drive by eventually. Help would come.

  It had to come.

  They hung near to the window, keeping a watchful eye but maintaining their distance from the panes. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Billy hugging Ashley, assuring her things would be all right.

  He hoped to God it was true.

  After an uneventful half hour, movement up the road drew Tom's attention. He readied his gun. The group tensed—a series of gasps and rustled coats. A vehicle was approaching in the distance, coming from the same direction they'd traveled. At the moment, it was several blocks away. He pictured a police car bursting onto the scene, ready to provide assistance. But it wasn't a cruiser. It was a pedestrian vehicle. The car weaved back and forth over the snow as if it were a ship on rough water, its dark paint illuminated by the moon's glow. It was a station wagon with two occupants.

  A pit grew in Tom's stomach.

  "What do we do?" whispered Ashley. "Should we signal them?"

  She scurried over and grabbed Mark's flashlight, prepared to turn it on. Mark reached over and stopped her. "No. Don't," he warned. "Look."

  He pointed out the window. In the time they'd been watching, a pack of furred shadows had emerged from a building near the station wagon. They barreled at the car with remarkable speed, cutting across the snow as if it were dry, flat pavement. The station wagon swerved; the occupants screamed in the distance.

  At the moment, the beasts were little more than black objects on the white landscape. They were almost at the car.

  "Oh, God!" Ashley slapped her hand over her mouth. "We have to do something!"

  Tom's heart sputtered. He sprang for the closest window and fiddled with the latch. He wasn't sure how he could help, but he needed to do something. He unlocked the window and pushed it open, letting in a rush of cold air, sticking his gun through the crevice. He aimed. He wasn't the best shot—he hadn't hunted in years—but maybe he could ward the things off. Worst case, maybe he could distract them.

  Mark pushed open the window next to him, taking a similar position.

  But the beasts were too far away.

  Tom swiveled his sights from the one creature to the next, but they were well out of range. In mere seconds, they'd enveloped the car. Several sprang on the hood, raking and clawing at the exterior. A few pounded the windows. Tom recalled his encounter in the SUV. It felt like he was watching an alternate reality, a twisted replay of the fate he'd almost endured.

  He felt hopeless and powerless.

  Growls and commotion filled the air. A window shattered. The station wagon veered off the road and into a building, the occupants screaming. The beasts were already pulling them out of the car. Tom prepared to fire, hoping he could distract the things, but Mark stopped him.

  "Don't shoot," Mark hissed, voice trembling. "We'll only draw their attention. It's too late."

  "But we can't just—" Tom trembled and lowered the gun, knowing Mark was right.

  The two occupants were thrust into the snow. The beasts clawed at their bodies, dragging pieces of flesh and clothing across the landscape. The people flailed, squirmed, and finally stopped moving. The creatures buried their faces in the carnage and feasted.

  Tom drew back from the window, covering his mouth with his hand. He resisted the urge to be sick. In just seconds, the wintry scene was awash in blood. Ashley cried into Billy's shoulder, her quiet gasps filling the room.

  "Be quiet," Mark managed, his own voice quivering. He leaned over and closed his window, beckoning Tom to do the same. They latched them silently.

  Tom lowered his gun and put his head in his hands.

  "There was nothing we could've done," Mark reassured him.

  Tom gritted his teeth. Over the course of the night, he'd seen more bloodshed than he had in his lifetime: Lorena, Abby, and now these people. It was as if some cruel god was piling on the tragedy, seeing how much he could take.

  And the worst part was, it was far from over.

  Chapter Ten

  The beasts feasted for several minutes, reveling in the gore they'd created. The station wagon bore silent witness. From a distance, the scene felt surreal, as if Tom were observing a cable show documentary rather than witnessing something in front of him. He swallowed. The gory remains of the station wagon's occupants could just as easily have been them, had they been outside.

  The wind snarled, rattling the windows, misting Tom's view of the scene. When it finally cleared, the beasts had finished their meal. Almost in unison, they spread out across the landscape, heads swiveling in all directions, eyes scouring the street. Several darted for the SUV. Tom's pulse spiked. He watched as they closed the gap with incredible speed, loping on furred, inhuman legs. If he hadn't known better, he would've insisted they'd never been human—creatures that had originated in some faraway place, rather than on Earth.

  His eyes roamed to the body by the SUV. The man had sunk further into the snow, but pieces of him remained uncovered. Within seconds the beasts were hovering over him, inspecting the ground. They glanced from the SUV to the body then back again. For a moment, Tom was certain they were constructing the story from the snow. Did they have the ability to reason? Did they have the ability to discern what had happened?

  They raised their heads, extended their snouts into the air, and sniffed.

  They looked at the building.

  Tom and his companions ducked, their breathing rapid and fearful. Tom stared at a spot below the windowsill, his gaze unmoving, as if the slightest bit of motion would draw the creatures near. He listened for any clue as to what the creatures were doing, but heard nothing. The wind gusted. The building creaked. Tom realized he was sweating. Despite the chill in the air, his heart was pounding furiously, warming his upper body. He glanced over at Mark. The man's face was fraught with fear.

  After a few torturous moments, Tom clutched the windowsill and pulled himself up. He peered through the glass, inspecting the world an inch at a time. He saw the buildings across the street. The snow blanketed road. The SUV. No sign of the creatures. Where were they? His gaze wandered to the station wagon, then to the opposite end of the road. Nothing.

  "Are they gone?" Ashley whispered.

  Her words were so meek that for a moment Tom was sure he was imagining them. It wasn't until she asked again that he answered.

  "I think so," he said.

  One by one his companions resumed their positions. The world outside had returned back to what it was, with the exception of the bloodied bodies and the station wagon.

  "Hey, wait a minute," Mark said. "The one I killed is gone."

  Tom studied the area by the SUV. Mark was right. The man's body had vanished.

  "Where the hell is it?" Tom whispered. He scoured the ground but saw no sign of it.

  "Maybe they cleaned up after themselves," Billy offered. "Maybe they're getting rid of the evidence."

  "What about the cars? The bodies?" Mark asked.

  "I bet they're protecting their own."

  Billy's words sent a shudder down Tom's spine. They suggested a level of cunning that was almost as frightening as the beast's primordial nature. He swallowed the thought.

  They watched in silence for several minutes, the only sound the occasional creak of their boots. The wind blew in intermittent gusts, rerouting the falling snow. In another scenario, the authorities would arrive soon to take control of the scene, snapping photographs and tagging remains.

  The isolation reigned.

  A long, triumphant howl sounded in
the distance.

  Tom considered the way the beasts had torn into the station wagon, the way they'd shattered the windows and ripped the people from inside. "Is there anything else we can use to block the door?" he asked Mark. "Do you think that table saw is enough?"

  "We can push a lathe in front of it. Maybe stack some boxes."

  "Let's do it." Tom backed away from the window and motioned to Billy and Ashley. "Stay here and keep watch."

  He made his way across the room, following Mark's shadowed form. The industrial machines hung like statues in the dark, forcing him to weave around them. Tom only had a vague sense of what the room looked like in the light. The building was as much a mystery to him as the creatures outside. In another situation, he might've been intimated by the darkness, but now he was grateful for the cover.

  After walking a few steps, Mark winked on his flashlight and played the beam across the floor, illuminating the machine they'd placed in front of it earlier. The door was wooden and seemed sturdy, but Tom knew better than to trust it. They walked to a nearby corner.

  "Help me stack those boxes," Mark said, shining the light to a nearby corner. Tom retrieved several, helping Mark carry and stack them. They piled them on top of the machine, covering the top half of the door. Then they moved another machine behind the first. This one didn't have wheels, and was more difficult to move. They grunted as they slid it across the floor.

  When they were finished, Tom wiped the dust onto his jeans. His heart hammered against his ribcage; his body was sweating from the exertion, but it felt good to keep busy. Anything to keep from dwelling on the bloodshed he'd seen outside. He caught his breath and peered back across the room at the windows. Billy and Ashley's frames were silhouetted against the snow. Billy had his arm around the girl. To a casual observer, they might be mistaken for a young couple admiring the first snow.