She heard the steam engine huff of the werewolf behind her. The goddamned thing moved as fast as a train too. She flirted briefly with the idea of continuing to the staircase, then realized that was folly. The stairwell was a slaughterhouse. How many victims had taken refuge there in the hope that they’d escape the monsters? True, she’d only glimpsed the base of the stairwell earlier, but the bodies had looked like they were piled five high. And very few of them appeared to be in one piece.
Behind her, the werewolf growled.
Savannah sprinted for her life. She rounded a corner and the exit sign appeared ahead. She waited until the last possible second, then lunged for the corridor that would take her to the elevator doors. But she lost her footing as she tried to navigate the turn, and the werewolf merely leaped at the hallway in midstride, caught itself on the wall and landed right behind her. She took a floundering step but felt something shove against her lower back. She landed on her chest. It knocked the wind out of her, but that didn’t matter. The beast was bearing down on her, looming over her. She crawled forward, grimacing. She was going to die. No one was coming to her rescue. Not the police, not Duane.
Something tugged at the belt of her sundress, the thin leather strap she’d used to give the dress some shape. The werewolf was lifting her by the belt, toying with her, she realized. Savannah reached down with her good left hand, jerked the belt free of its buckle. Then she was tumbling to the ground, the wolf having lost hold of her. The beast snarled, discarded the belt. In a frenzy of terror, she rolled over, grabbed for the belt, which lay to her left. Her fingers closed on it just as the werewolf reached down, grasped her by the throat. She was lifted off the floor, her feet kicking, the breath being slowly strangled out of her. The odors of blood and shit blanketed her. Savannah’s eyes watered, her revulsion only outfaced by her terror. The werewolf raised her toward its amber eyes, and through her pain-fueled tears she saw the hellfire banked within those eyes, the insane hunger and ceaseless need to dominate. The bear-trap jaws hinged open. Slaver dripped from the tapered fangs.
Savannah swung the belt, watched the silver buckle carve a deep slit in the werewolf’s temple.
The werewolf roared, threw her backward. Savannah sailed through the air with the belt still clutched in her hand. She hit the floor, her head snapping back. In the dim orange light she saw the wolf stalking forward, the gash in its temple dribbling blood. It was nodding, leering, its mouth opening wide. Savannah adjusted her grip on the belt, slid the single prong through the gap between her index and middle fingers.
Growling triumphantly, the werewolf vaulted at her, landed on her. At the last second, Savannah jabbed at its right eye with the steel prong.
And then the werewolf was squalling, stumbling back, clutching its punctured eye. Dazed, Savannah gained her feet, stumbled toward the elevator. She’d dropped the belt, she realized. But that no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered was opening the door and closing it again, putting something between her and the werewolf, no matter what it was. She thumbed the button, praying the elevator hadn’t descended after delivering her to the top floor.
The doors slid open. Moaning, Savannah lurched forward. The lights inside the elevator flickered.
Savannah jabbed at the button to close the doors.
The doors began to close.
A blur of movement swam toward her, the blond werewolf racing toward the dwindling gap. Savannah pushed against the back wall, certain the wolf would beat the closing doors. The gap was six inches wide when the wolf leaped.
It closed at the exact moment the wolf crashed against the doors.
The elevator began to descend.
An unearthly bellow of fury sounded from just above her. She heard scratching, a guttural grunting. The sounds of maniacal effort.
Oh God, she thought. It’s prying the doors open.
A moment later the elevator rocked as something enormous landed on top of it.
She wished the elevator car would travel faster than it was, but she knew she was at its torpid mercy. Savannah moved to the corner of the elevator, her eyes on the ceiling.
The elevator slowly descended. Savannah trembled, waited for the sounds of scratching, of rending metal.
But she heard something else instead. The elevator began to rock, to shudder.
It ground to a halt.
The werewolf had managed to stop its downward progress.
Savannah sank down to the rubber-stripped floor, bit a knuckle to stifle her scream. She listened for the werewolf.
A thud sounded, low and leaden.
In the center of the ceiling, the metal twitched downward.
The werewolf was trying to punch a hole through the elevator roof.
Melody decided she’d have to scour the park for the yellow werewolf, not because the bitch would be hiding from her, but because the queen, having exhausted her supply of easy victims, would have resorted to prowling through the buildings to frighten them out of hiding.
The thought of the yellow bitch hunting innocent victims was fuel enough to sustain Melody’s wolf form. Melody welcomed the rage, welcomed the killing urge. Several times during her flight through the housing area of the park, she’d torn open cottage windows, ripped doors off hinges, to find terrified tourists huddling in the shadows, none of them foolhardy enough to attack her.
But their warm flesh was difficult to resist.
As yet she hadn’t killed wantonly, but God, it was getting harder. The flesh of her father and brothers still lay in her belly, but the taste of their blood, the glorious gush over her lips, her teeth…oh, how she longed for the sensation again, longed to bathe in the molten spray.
But each time she found them—in the shops, in the main office, in closets and under beds—she was able to ward off the hunger, was able to resist taking more lives.
But the police kept hunting her.
Twice now she’d been surprised by the thunder of their guns. Several times she’d been caught by their bullets. On two occasions the hateful slugs had simply grazed her and traveled on. Once, when she’d been caught in the hip, she’d been able to simply scoop out the bullet with the flick of a fingernail, the wound shallow. But two of the slugs still burned in her flesh, and those white-hot points of agony also served to enflame her rage. She believed she could resist the urge to open the throats of the lambs who hid in the shadows, the parents shielding their children, the harmless elderly men and women who’d come to Beach Land to eat saltwater taffy and to reminisce about their younger days.
But the gunmen…the trigger-happy tormentors…
Melody was inside a clothing shop when she heard the crunch of glass under sneakers.
One of the maverick cops had followed her inside.
Melody was in the back corner of the capacious shop, examining the dressing stalls for signs of the yellow beast. She knew if she could pick up the bitch’s scent, she’d be able to follow it until their final confrontation. But there was nothing in the stalls save a young mother and her infant son.
When Melody first yanked the yellow curtain aside, the mother yelped and pressed her infant against her shoulder. The baby immediately began fussing, and the mother rocked the child, her teary eyes never leaving Melody’s.
“Who’s there?” the cop called. His voice sounded shaky, Melody judged, but not the cautious kind of shaky. It was the fear of one who’ll do anything to save himself, the terror of the drowning man.
The young mother’s eyes flitted from Melody to the direction from which the cop’s voice emanated.
“I hear you in there,” the cop said, and Melody knew there was no avoiding it.
She glanced at mother and child, and when Melody’s eyes took in the infant, the mother must’ve seen something in Melody’s expression that horrified her. Because she began screaming for help, and that brought the clumsy footsteps closer, the cop and his sti
nging weapon poised and ready to unleash its mindless wrath on Melody.
She knew she had to kill him, but she glanced in all directions in an attempt to avoid murder. The dressing stalls were floor-to-ceiling, and there appeared no other way out.
The cop was approaching the edge of the first dressing room. Another moment and he’d spot Melody.
With a gasp, Melody lunged into the stall next to the young mother’s. The curtain swung up, a couple rings twanging free of their fabric, but the curtain remaining intact. Melody reached up, jerked the curtain sideways to close the gap, but it was no use, and anyway, the cop was only feet away now.
He appeared in the sliver of pellucid light slanting in from a transom window. He peered into the gap, screwing up his eyes to make out what lay within. Something flickered in his eyes—Fear? Recognition?—but as he raised his weapon, the infant in the dressing room beside Melody’s cried out, and the cop twitched forward. He sucked in surprised breath. The mother said something to him. But before he could react, Melody was rocketing out of the stall and diving to her right, away from the cop. He fired just as Melody bounded around the dressing stalls, and then she was leaping through the shattered picture window and moving rapidly through the night.
She hadn’t traveled fifty feet before another barrage of bullets tore the air around her, one of them embedding painfully in her heel. The wound was severe enough to slow her progress. Melody had made the mistake of passing through the parking lot, where the police were thicker. Had she chosen the boardwalk, she might have had better luck, but that didn’t matter now. They were firing at her from behind parked cars, from the shelter of a Slushie stand. Reckless. Blazing away. Another bullet passed within an inch of her nose, and growling, Melody fell to all fours to present a more difficult target. She heard a commotion to her right, something happening near the merry-go-round. But the policemen were right behind her now, their efforts concentrated on bringing her down.
Melody loped toward the Devil’s Lair.
Maybe she could take refuge behind it. Or in the bay water beyond.
This notion held some allure for her. She wanted to live, after all.
But even stronger was the desire to end the queen’s life.
The bullets whizzing past her, Melody raced toward the Devil’s Lair.
Weezer stooped over the little red-haired boy, who was indeed unconscious. Duane’s vision was blurry and his eyes stung from his own blood, but he could see well enough to know he had to act now. If only he had the damned machete!
Duane threaded between a horse and a unicorn and aimed a kick at Weezer’s hairy ass. He regretted it when one of Weezer’s knees landed on the red-haired boy’s prone body. The kid scarcely moved, and Duane had a momentary worry that Weezer had already killed him.
But Duane had to proceed as though the boy were alive. And at any rate, the kids in the shed were definitely still alive, as was Miss Hayward. If Duane couldn’t save the little red-haired shit, he could save the rest of them.
Weezer sprang at Duane, who barely had time to fling up an arm to protect his throat. Weezer’s jaws clamped down on Duane’s forearm, squeezed. Duane bellowed in pain as the dull crunch of compressed bone sounded beneath the carousel’s merry organ. Weezer was attached to Duane’s flesh like a furry armband, the teeth grinding now, shredding, and in desperation Duane thrust a thumb at the dark hollow of Weezer’s ear. The thumbnail punctured Weezer’s eardrum, burrowed its way in, and Weezer’s mouth opened in a bellow, Duane’s forearm released. He stumbled away, alive and still in one piece.
But in monumental pain, pain unlike anything he would have believed possible. The one blessing, he thought ruefully, was that most of the damage was limited to the right side of his body. His missing fingers. His mutilated forearm.
Weezer was stalking toward him.
Duane backpedaled, glancing right and left for the machete. It wasn’t embedded in Weezer’s back, and it damn sure wasn’t lying out in the open. Had Weezer thrown it clear of the merry-go-round?
Duane swallowed, decided he needed to get off this freaking ride. At the very least that would lead him away from the unconscious boy, and he might even draw Weezer away from the shelter. There’d been gunshots from the central boardwalk area only a minute ago; maybe Duane would get lucky and encounter some cops.
Or maybe they’d shoot Duane dead in a fit of dreadful irony.
Duane was just turning to step off the platform when Weezer launched himself toward him. So sudden was the leap and so unprepared was Duane that he reacted instinctively, simply falling backward and hoping that Weezer went somersaulting over him.
But Weezer didn’t. He landed on Duane’s chest, his knees pinning Duane’s arms, and for a crazy moment, Duane was reminded of elementary school, of all the times smaller, scrappier kids had picked fights with him in order to prove themselves, the kind of bullying no one talked about. Because you didn’t feel bad for the big kid who got bullied. Only the little ones. When the big ones got treated worse because everyone thought they could take it.
Weezer was grinning at him now, his deep chortling and jeering yellow eyes like the mean-spirited little bastards who had made Duane’s grade school days such a living hell.
Duane thrust his arms up and bucked with his midsection as hard as he could. The movement was forceful enough to compel Weezer forward, his hairy genitalia passing an inch over Duane’s face. Duane made to rise, but his right arm failed him. He collapsed on his side. Weezer reached for him, and Duane made to crawl underneath one of the moving horses when something bumped his shoulder. He figured it was one of the unconscious kid’s feet, but no, the kid was ten feet away at least. As Weezer’s talons closed on Duane’s ankle, Duane swiveled his head and saw it was the machete he’d bumped. He threw out his left hand to grab the machete, but Weezer jerked his leg back, yanked Duane’s body away from the weapon.
Weezer fell on him, opened his stinking, slavering maw wide, and lowered to within inches of Duane’s face.
“Taste death, Short Pump,” Weezer croaked.
“Go to hell,” Duane answered and bit down on Weezer’s bottom lip.
Weezer gasped, jerked away, but Duane refused to relinquish his hold. The smell was rancid, eye-watering, but Duane held on, clenched his teeth harder. Weezer screamed, a high-pitched, keening scream, and the lip began to tear free of his face. Duane shoved him away. Weezer tumbled off, garbling in some anguished, alien language. Duane clambered toward the machete, grasped its handle, pushed to his feet.
Weezer was on his feet too, and he was clutching his spraying lip, the blood wet and red and everywhere, and his eyes shot up to fasten on Duane’s. But Duane was already letting loose with a backhanded stroke, the machete slicing through Weezer’s throat, freezing him, opening a sluice gate of scarlet, the rills lapping over Weezer’s chest, Weezer’s eyes goggling down at himself.
Duane swung the machete at the side of Weezer’s neck, the blade chunking in diagonally, but before Weezer could grab the machete, Duane yanked it away, circled his stunned opponent. Weezer was choking on his own blood, coughing and spattering the carousel horses with happy red paint. Duane cut loose with another swing, this one so powerful the machete sank completely into the back of Weezer’s neck. Weezer staggered forward, the machete lodged in his neck, his blood gushing all over the metal platform. Duane followed him, intent on ending this right fucking now. Weezer’s knees clunked down on the soupy metal surface, but Duane caught him before he tumbled forward.
“Like to hurt little kids now?” Duane heard himself shouting. “Like to eat them, you motherfucking cretin? Well, how about this?” He planted a foot on Weezer’s shoulder, got hold of the slick machete handle and pushed Weezer forward until the blade slurped loose. Weezer’s face gonged against the bloody metal platform. Duane realized he was getting a little sick from the constant revolving motion of the carousel, but he made himself
shuffle up beside Weezer’s sprawled body, raise the machete again and tear down at Weezer’s gore-streaked neck. The blow separated most of the remaining tissue, but he wanted to be sure, so he hacked down three more times until there could be no doubt, until the head lay four inches away from the rest of Weezer’s neck. Out of breath, Duane reared back and punted the head, which careened off one of the outer bars and went skittering into the grass. A moment later, Duane staggered off the carousel and just missed falling forward onto his face. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, chest heaving, the machete clutched at his side. Then he opened his eyes and saw the children and his second-grade teacher clustered around him, their eyes wide and staring.
Duane swallowed. “Hey, Miss Hayward,” he said, panting and bending over with his hands on his knees. When she only gaped at him, he said, “Are you still Miss Hayward? Or did you get married? I never asked.”
She didn’t answer. Duane decided that was okay.
He didn’t really give a shit anyway.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The blond werewolf punched through the metal on the fourth attempt.
On the floor, Savannah had a good five feet of clearance from its grasp, but the flimsy metal of the elevator car wouldn’t hold the werewolf off for long. And the car itself was not moving. How the werewolf had managed to brook its progress she had no idea, but the stark truth now staring her in the face was that she’d die if she didn’t escape the car soon. She had thirty seconds, probably less, before the werewolf dropped down into the car with her.
She scuttled over to the control board and jabbed the 1 button, thinking she’d activate the elevator’s downward motion again. But though the button lit up, the action accomplished nothing; the car didn’t even tremor.
Savannah jammed the button to open the doors and cried out with relief as they began to move. But her first glimpse of what lay on the other side caused her excitement to curdle, and what was more, the doors ceased opening after revealing a ten-inch aperture.
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