But she was completely unaware of the werewolf approaching her. So were the twenty or so children congregated around the merry-go-round. The sight of one little girl, who couldn’t have been more than five years old, watching the revolving horses and unicorns longingly made Duane’s heart ache.
He hustled forward, doing his best to make as little sound as possible. Duane reduced the distance between him and Weezer. Thirty feet now. Twenty.
Without warning, Weezer broke into a loping sprint, straight at the woman and the pair of kids she was ushering out of the shelter.
Knowing he couldn’t wait, Duane yelled, “Weezer!”
Weezer skidded to a stop, the woman and the children whirling to stare at the werewolf that had halted only fifteen feet from them. Duane continued to rush forward, and as he neared Weezer—whose eyes were slitted in rage—he realized who the woman was.
His second grade teacher, Miss Hayward. She’d just been starting out when she’d had Duane in class, but now, two decades later, she looked like a different person.
Or maybe she was just scared shitless.
But God love her, she was being as brave as anyone could be, extending her stubby arms and pushing as many kids as she could behind her. But her mouth was frozen in a terrified O, and the crotch of her khakis had gone a much darker shade.
On all fours, Weezer roared at Duane.
Who barreled forward, aware that he’d done this before. But the first time he’d been rash. He’d left the gun in his pocket instead of emptying it into Weezer’s accursed face, and now the gun was lost and there was nothing he could do about it.
But he did have the machete, and if luck was on his side, maybe the weapon still contained a trace of Barb Callahan’s courage. Twenty feet from Weezer, Duane stumbled, nearly landed on the machete, and wouldn’t that have been something? Committing hari-kari in front of these screeching children and removing all hope they might have of surviving?
Gunshots sounded from the direction of the Viking ship and the Devil’s Lair, and Duane had a moment to wonder about Savannah. Was she dead already? Or cornered by one of the remaining werewolves?
No time to think about it now. He was bearing down on Weezer.
Weezer vaulted at him, his teeth bared and his claws extended.
Instinctively, Duane went into a double-kneed slide, the pavement chewing up his knees. As Weezer hurtled toward him, then over him, Duane slashed out with the machete, and was stunned when the blade unzipped a gash from Weezer’s chest to his abdomen. The machete was nearly torn from Duane’s grip as Weezer’s body sailed past, but he held on, and then he was scrambling around to face Weezer.
Who landed awkwardly and stood on two feet. In profile, Duane watched Weezer take a long glance down his cleaved torso, Weezer’s face going slack with surprise.
Without taking his eyes off Weezer, Duane hissed over his shoulder, “Get them back inside the shelter.”
Miss Hayward—or maybe it was Mrs. Something now—didn’t say anything, but she began to usher the shrieking kids back into the shelter. This close to the building, Duane realized it wasn’t really meant to house people—it looked like little more than an oversize white garden shed—and the kids must’ve been jammed in there like cigarettes in a pack. But at least there’d be something between them and Weezer, even if it was only a wall of aged plywood.
With a start, Duane realized Weezer was eyeballing the children. His chest was heaving, there was an unwholesome look in his eyes. And…holy shit.
Weezer had an erection.
“You son of a bitch,” Duane muttered. He strode toward Weezer. Raised the machete.
He was certain Weezer would counterattack, but instead of lashing out like Duane expected, the Weezer-thing rolled sideways and came up loping toward the merry-go-round. Duane spun and discovered with a sinking feeling that the little blond girl who’d been watching the carousel earlier hadn’t moved at all, except to mine for a booger in her right nostril. Her index finger was buried almost to the hilt, and she didn’t seem aware of the monster about to devour her.
Duane took off toward them, but he knew it was fruitless. He’d never get there in—
A figure darted in from the right, and Weezer roared as he was flung off course. He missed the nose-picking girl by mere inches and crashed into the underside of the revolving merry-go-round. As Duane reached the girl, he beheld Miss Hayward grasping the chain with which she’d belted Weezer, as well as the huge padlock that dangled from the end of the chain. It wasn’t a lethal weapon, not against a werewolf, but she’d nailed Weezer right in the head with it, and that proved enough to give the blond girl time to exhume her finger from her nose and scamper back inside the shelter with the others.
“Stay with them,” Duane said to Miss Hayward, who seemed eager to comply.
It’s just the two of us now, Duane thought.
Then realized he was wrong as the carousel revealed a little red-haired boy sitting atop a white unicorn. Weezer spotted the boy at the same time, the kid only six or seven but old enough to know how to follow directions. The little shit, Duane thought. He was wearing an Angry Birds T-shirt and gaping at Weezer, whose look of consternation transformed into one of vilest hunger. Without pause, Weezer sprang onto the side of the carousel. To his credit, the little red-haired boy reacted quickly as well. He pushed off the unicorn and promptly landed on a sleigh, one of those bench seats grandparents or unadventurous kids sat on during the ride.
Weezer went after him. Duane was moving too, and though Weezer had gotten a half-second head start, Duane covered the distance between them faster than he would’ve believed possible. The implications of this flashed through his head—was he changing?—but the thought was gone in an instant. Because Weezer had ahold of the waistband of the kid’s shorts, was dragging the kid toward him.
Leaving Weezer’s back exposed.
Duane chopped down at it with the machete.
At least three inches of steel disappeared into Weezer’s lower back. Weezer bellowed, whirled and caught Duane with a vicious backhand. Duane flew backward and landed on the carousel’s silver platform. Duane shook his head as the horses rising and falling on either side of him danced into vague equine blurs.
The red-haired boy’s shrill scream brought Duane back to his senses, or at least most of the way there, and he forced himself to sit up, to grab hold of one of the horse’s stirrups. It lifted him up, allowed him to gather himself, to see if he still had time to save the little boy.
He did, he realized. But not much. Weezer had the poor kid suspended in the air by one ankle, the boy’s upside-down face on a level with Weezer’s open jaws. Duane wished he had the machete, but he had no idea where it had gone.
So he reared back and aimed a sideways kick at Weezer’s knee.
Weezer crumpled against the bench seat, the boy dropping to the platform and landing right on his red-haired skull. Duane was pretty sure the kid was knocked unconscious, and he was pretty sure that was a good thing. Because Weezer was whirling toward Duane with his claws out and his yellow eyes alight with fury, and Duane had not the slightest idea how to protect himself. Weezer plunged his talons into Duane’s shoulders, the razor-sharp tips sinking into Duane’s flesh as easily as meat thermometers into a holiday ham. Duane sucked in breath, his fingers acting on their own accord, seizing the flaps of the machete wound he’d made in Weezer’s chest, jerking wider the incision, the pale muscle tissue of Weezer’s pectorals exposed and pulsing blood. Weezer gasped. His claws came loose of Duane’s shoulders, slapped at Duane’s hands as though Duane were some purse-snatching hooligan and Weezer his elderly mark. When Weezer’s hands came free, Duane balled a fist, reared back, and clobbered Weezer’s snarling face dead in the nose. Weezer’s head snapped back, came darting at Duane’s throat, but Duane hopped nimbly aside, evading Weezer and taking refuge behind a pistoning black horse.
>
He was abruptly aware of how screwed he was. As if to confirm this notion, Weezer swiped at him over the pumping black horse and tore a ragged groove across Duane’s forehead. A sheet of blood poured over Duane’s brow, dripped in his eyes, and though he flicked his head from side to side and mopped his brow as well as he could, he knew he was toast. Moaning, Duane armed away the blood, kept hold of a carousel bar so he wouldn’t tumble off the ride, but it was no use. Any second now, Weezer would open his belly, remove his entrails in a gruesome string, and—
Duane froze.
Weezer was going for the little boy.
Though it made no earthly sense, though she needed to be thinking about survival right now and though her very life depended on what she did in the next two minutes, the only thing Savannah could think about on the long ride up the elevator was Short Pump.
No, her mind corrected. Duane. His name is Duane.
But he didn’t think of himself as Duane before, she argued. He saw himself as Short Pump, as the butt of the joke.
You should have helped him see more. You should have believed in him.
Okay, she thought, but why the hell am I worrying about this now?
Because you wish Duane were here with you.
Savannah sank against the back wall of the elevator, realizing this was true. She hadn’t appreciated Duane when they’d been here earlier this week. But now that he was gone—now that she was nearing her own death—she wished she could go back.
The elevator crawled higher, higher.
She remembered the way Duane had charged at Weezer. Giving her time to get away. Creating a diversion. Showing more bravery than she would have guessed he had in him.
That’s a theme with you, isn’t it, Savannah? Underestimating people. Taking them for granted—
The elevator climbed higher.
—letting your looks carry you through life, and see where they’ve carried you? Right to the top of this death house. And you know what the cruelest irony is, Savannah? You little fucking princess?
The elevator jarred to a stop.
You’re not going to be pretty for much longer.
The elevator doors slid open. The eerie soundtrack lapped over her. Deep chords played by a tuneless organ. Industrial thuds and creaks. Maniacal laughter from some deep, distorting cave.
Savannah quaked with terror.
The blond werewolf is going to rend that face of yours to ribbons.
She drew even with the double doors.
And eat what’s left of you.
Savannah emerged from the elevator but paused, listening. She couldn’t hear anything, but what did that prove? The blond werewolf was preternaturally cunning. Savannah peered into the gloom and saw, about fifteen yards ahead, the place where the corridor turned, the only illumination the infernal orange glow that shone between intermittent cracks in the walls.
She swallowed, her whole body trembling. What if she simply stepped back inside the elevator, rode it down to the holding area? What if she outfoxed the beast, managed to escape the Devil’s Lair and ran like hell for the suspension bridge? It was doubtful, but it seemed a lot more appealing than tiptoeing around these labyrinthine corridors and waiting for the blond wolf to leap out at her and rip her apart.
What if it doesn’t rip you apart? the teasing voice asked. What if it disfigures you instead? What if it leaves you so blighted that your own son won’t be able to look at you without screaming in horror?
The ghastly Devil’s Lair soundtrack seemed to taunt her. The thudding. The organ. The hateful laughter. It filled the corridor, swelling, until she felt she’d happened into some terrible nineteenth century mental ward. Inhabited by the damned. Their shrieking voices plagued her.
She barely heard the elevator doors slide shut.
Savannah whirled, thinking to jab the illuminated button, but that was madness too. If she rode the elevator back down, the werewolf would have plenty of time to catch up to her, to slaughter her the moment the doors opened.
So she was basically out of options. She could either stand here until the werewolf came or take her chances navigating the murky corridors in the feeble hope she could evade the creature.
Her heart thudding painfully, her right arm dangling uselessly at her side, Savannah stepped forward.
Halfway to the T in the hallway, she froze, listening.
Furtive footsteps echoed down the corridor. Coming nearer? Savannah grimaced, concentrating on the sounds, struggling to trace them to a specific place.
The footsteps paused. Or maybe the speaker noise drowned them out. Dammit, couldn’t the old woman in the ticket booth have killed the grisly soundtrack once things started to go to hell? How many more people had died because the piped-in sound had masked the approach of the werewolves?
Footfalls again. Faster this time. They sounded like they were emanating from the walls.
Maybe they were, she realized with a jolt. Maybe the blond werewolf was still climbing up the many flights of stairs on the way to the fifth floor. Savannah began to move a bit faster. As she did, she listened as hard as she could and racked her brain to recall where the nearest exit sign had been when she and Duane had come this week.
She crept forward, wishing someone, anyone were here with her now.
Well, she amended, anyone but the blond werewolf.
She listened for the rabid breath of the beast, the clitter of toenails on wood. If she could—
“Oh my God!” she yelled as something battered her from the right, something hard and fast, and then she was sprawled against the wall, staring in shock at the grasping hands that had emerged, the same fucking ones that had scared the shit out of her and Duane the last time they’d been here, only this time they’d bumped against her ruined right arm, and if she got out of here alive she’d sue the assholes who’d designed this attraction.
Savannah pushed away from the wall with her good elbow, told herself to get a freaking grip. She threw one last hateful look at the groping green hands, which had begun their slow recession into the wall, and she moved around the corner. The glow shifted from orange to red. Savannah pivoted slowly to her right, in the direction of a small, recessed alcove.
Above which a red sign said EXIT.
Savannah bit her lip and wondered how she should play this. The blond werewolf could hurtle out of this door at any moment.
Unless there was another stairwell, another exit sign. She rummaged through the scrap heap of her memory for images of other exit signs, but she drew a blank. She knew it should be a fairly straightforward process determining whether or not this was the same stairwell that she’d glimpsed in the holding area, the one choked with half-eaten body parts.
But she wasn’t sure.
She took a hesitant step forward. If this wasn’t the exit that connected to the holding area, she might very well use it to make her escape.
Then again, if it was the same stairwell, the werewolf was likely in there right now.
“Damn,” she whispered. She punched her thighs, considering. Maybe she should, after all, scamper back to the elevator and ride it down to the holding area. Maybe the werewolf wouldn’t expect her to retrace her steps. Maybe the werewolf believed she’d disembarked on another floor.
Or perhaps the werewolf was on the other side of this door.
Her body frozen with dread, she stared at the black door and waited for it to wheeze inward, the monstrous blond werewolf to explode out at her.
The cackle of demented witches sounded on the Devil’s Lair soundtrack. Savannah fancied she could hear breathing right behind her.
She whirled, arms thrown up to fend off the werewolf.
The hallway was empty.
Then go! a voice somewhere within her cried out.
Nodding to herself, she set off down the hallway. She had to do something, t
hat was what mattered. Waiting meant certain death. If she acted now, she might live, she might die, but at least—
She heard a creaking sound behind her.
Savannah turned, saw the black door open.
Bathed in lurid red light, the blond werewolf emerged.
Savannah was appalled by its height, its rippling muscles.
Its mouth writhed into a grin.
Savannah whirled and sprinted away. She heard the clattering of the werewolf’s pursuit.
And as she ran, it was as though the act of moving somehow unstuck the machinery of her mind. She remembered how Duane, in an attempt to soothe her jangling nerves, had narrated the layout of the Devil’s Lair to her, had explained how each floor had a theme. This one, Duane had said, was merely a warm-up of sorts, an illumined skull here, a pair of groping hands there. In fact, she thought as she raced around a corner, the attraction hadn’t actually gotten scary until they’d descended to the third floor, the one with the zombie theme.
Of course, she hadn’t had a werewolf chasing her last time. That tended to make the experience a little more harrowing.
She neared a corner, this one washed in a spectral green light, and risked a look behind her.
The werewolf was only twenty feet away. And closing.
Whimpering, Savannah veered around the corner and encountered a straight stretch of hall. She remembered walking it with Duane. She remembered…
The werewolf snarled as it leaped at her.
Savannah hit the floor. Another set of groping hands shot out of the wall, collided with the werewolf. The mechanical arms snapped off as the werewolf crashed into them, tumbled over Savannah, its body skidding on the floor. With a bellow of outrage, the werewolf rolled over in a whir of hairy limbs. Savannah was already on her feet, racing back the way she’d come. She swerved around the corner, heard the werewolf roar behind her, the sound a thunderous booming in the tight corridor. Savannah moved faster now, glad to have a plan, even if it was a poor one. If she could make it back to the elevator, if she could get the doors shut in time…
Wolf Land Page 37
