Then there was movement: a tiny tendril emerged from the beast. Paul tensed as it came close, remembering the drilled hole in Crane's forehead and the toothy mouths he had seen sprouting from the beast.
But there were no teeth this time, just a round tube, open and hollow.
Like a straw, Paul realized suddenly. But it was too late to pull back.
With a “whfff,” a puff of air, dingy and fetid, emerged from the beast's improvised blow-hole.
It blew out the lighter.
“Shit,” said Paul.
The beast charged.
He had no time to relight. No time to do anything other than act on instinct.
Paul dropped the lighter.
He threw himself backward over the monitoring station desk.
In midair, he reached out and flicked back the cover that protected the blue emergency release button.
He hit the button.
Once....
Twice....
Three times.
A klaxon sounded. And every door in the prison swung open.
The inmates charged, surrounding the monster as a prime target, apparently either forgetting about or uninterested in Paul for the moment. They surrounded the beast, like ants disregarding a lesser intrusion to fight off the main threat to their sick hive.
The monster swooped into action as well, growing toothy mouths, barbed tendrils that it lashed about like flails.
Now the maniacs were on the beast, gripping it, biting it, wounding it with hands and nails and mouths. The beast was wounded, but continually reformed, re-healed itself. It was a war, a war between two armies who would not surrender, not retreat. The men were attacking each other as well, their bloodlust venting on one another.
The place was a bloodbath, and Paul knew that, even though this was the only way any of the men could hope to survive, he would still carry the burden of so many deaths forever.
But at least this wasn't like Sammy. At least Paul hadn't pushed them to death. He had released them, and given them a chance. Not much of a chance, but at least they would die fighting, not locked in their cells like individually wrapped meals for the monster.
The thought was strangely comforting.
Now he just had to get away.
He stayed partially ducked under the monitoring desk, waiting for his moment, waiting until he thought no one was looking.
Now.
He ran, heading for the tunnel as fast as he could. He heard a shriek behind him, then several smaller shrieks. Paul dared a look back, and saw the monster swaying after him, several inmates holding to it and being dragged along in its deadly embrace. Inmate after inmate disappeared, trampled by the mass or killed by the monster or maimed by their own kind. It was a binge of death on all sides, and Paul was hard-pressed to run fast enough to stay ahead of it.
He looked back and to his horror and dismay saw that there were only perhaps two dozen men left alive; the others had all already been put down by the monster in their midst or by one another.
The beast reached for him, and Paul felt a tendril touch the back of his neck, felt agony as one of the tiny toothed mouths burrowed into him. Then there was another shriek as the beast was brought down from behind, brought down like a giant brought down by ants, inmates swarming over it and hacking at it, pulling at it.
But Paul knew the battle was already lost. The beast was going to win.
And it would come for him.
Paul ran, then slammed through the prison tunnel door.
He locked it behind him.
Then slid to the floor and wept.
CLIMBING
Becky could see her mother, lying crookedly twenty feet below.
She could also see her breathing. That was good.
The reason she could see her mother was bad: Steiger was between them, hanging upside down from the ladder in the shaft, a flashlight caught in his pants pocket and shining directly down on the still form of Becky's mom.
Becky would have to crawl over him to get to her mother.
She climbed down, slowly.
No movement from the man. He might be dead. She hoped he was dead, though she was ashamed of that hope and knew it was not a good thing to hope for. But she couldn't help herself.
She stopped right above his still form. Blood dripped off his head in a steady stream.
He could be dead.
What if he's not?
She decided to test him. She took off her Emergency Pack and dropped it. It hit Steiger's legs with a thunk, then fell the rest of the way down, landing by her mother's still form.
Steiger didn't move. Neither did her mother.
She crawled down closer and kicked him.
Still no movement.
She hitched in a deep breath, buried Mr. Huggles in her shirt where he would be safe, and then started to crawl over Steiger.
DEAD
Paul ran up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped, felt himself go weak when he saw Jorge's clear, sightless eyes, his head a mass of blood. For a moment Paul wondered if the man had been taken by the monster somehow. But no. No burn marks, and the monster didn't leave victims behind.
This had to be Steiger's work.
Paul clutched at himself, aching for the loss of his friend, but there was no time for grief. Only survival.
He grabbed Jorge's trank gun out of the guard's holster, then checked the barracks. Donald, Vincent, and Crane. All dead.
Things just kept getting better and better.
The girls, he thought, and began to run.
ETERNITY
Becky gritted her teeth and crawled over Steiger. She had to hold onto his clothes as much as she held onto the ladder. There was little room to do otherwise.
The moment in time where she had to touch him seemed to stretch out in her mind, like a hallway that went forever in both directions. Though only a short moment, she was crawling in eternity. A hellish infinity of terrified movement over a man that wanted her dead, and she sensed wanted her worse than dead, though she could not comprehend what that worse thing might be.
The moment stretched out. Agonized.
Steiger moved. It was just a twitch, but Becky screamed, then bit her lip so hard that blood flowed, an eerie analog of the blood that now flowed from Steiger's scalp.
Finally the infinite moment ended.
She was past Steiger.
But now she had to continue downward, into the depths of the building, and see if she could rouse her mother.
DOWNSTAIRS
Paul ran through the door to his office. Nothing.
Abandoning stealth, he started yelling as he ran through the door to Dr. Bryson's office.
“Rachel! Becky!”
Nothing.
He ran downstairs to search.
SCREWS
Something was slapping Rachel.
Steiger!
She woke with a start, instinctively holding her hands over her head, and almost hit her daughter. At the same time, a searing pain ran through her left arm and she realized it must be broken.
She looked up and saw Steiger's still form, hanging from above them. Unmoving. She began to cry, and cradled Becky in her good arm. She prayed, thanking every saint she could think of for delivering her daughter up to her.
When she opened her eyes, she realized there was a vent nearby. Probably to the basement. She crawled to it, pulling Becky with her as quickly as she could while moving on one ruined arm.
The vent was covered. And unlike the other vents, this one didn't have latches, it was stuck fast, probably screwed on.
Rachel bit back the hot, salty vinegar of tears that wanted to explode from her. She didn't want to scare her child. But it was hard. She hammered at the vent as hard as she could, the sound ringing through her concussed skull like hammer blows on an anvil, but to no avail.
The vent remained unmoving.
Then, suddenly, it pulled off. Rachel did scream this time, a frightened yelp as something tore the thi
ng from its hinges.
The scream died on her lips as she saw who it was.
Paul.
“Thank God,” he said, and reached out a hand to help them out.
SMART
Paul had heard the banging in the basement and gone to check on it. Lucky thing he had. Now he helped Rachel and Becky out of the air conditioning duct.
“How did you –“ he began, but was interrupted.
“We need to go. Now,” said Rachel. “Steiger's in there,” she said.
“Alive?” asked Paul.
“I don't think so, but I'd rather not stick around to find out.” Then, apparently noticing Paul's appearance, she said, “What happened to you?”
“I ran into...whatever it was. Crane's toy.” Paul paused, trying to find the words. “I found Jorge. He's...everyone is....” The words petered out, unspoken.
Rachel nodded as though she had known that everyone else was gone already, and touched his arm softly.
“We're still alive,” she whispered, as if that had to be enough.
And strangely, it was enough. Enough for now, at any rate. Grieving would come later, perhaps, but for now Paul was satisfied that Rachel and Becky were alive and relatively whole. The next job was to keep them that way.
Paul looked around. There was no dearth of makeshift weaponry in the basement, but he doubted very much that any of the tools would avail him against Crane's creation. And when Rachel said, “I don't think I can keep going much longer,” Paul's heart dropped. He couldn't fail them, not now.
Tools, cleaning supplies, the bulky heater, some medical kits, a few odds and ends...nothing.
But wait.
Paul felt his pockets. “The lighter. Where's the lighter?”
It was gone, and once again Paul's heart sank.
Then he felt a tapping at his arm. It was Becky, holding a pair of road flares up to him, her Emergency Pack open. “Mommy gave me these. They're like a lighter, right?”
Paul took the flares, then hugged Becky. She didn't shy away.
“Honey,” he said, “you are one smart kid.”
He smiled at Rachel, and she smiled back in spite of her pain and clearly broken arm.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I don't think we can keep going any longer,” answered Paul. "If either Steiger or that thing get loose, they'll get us. So we've got to leave...and make sure they can't follow”
“How?” asked Rachel.
Paul looked at the gas heater. “I'm going to break a gas main and blow this place up."
“What about the other men? The prisoners?”
Paul didn't answer, but felt himself grow weary and sad. Apparently that told Rachel what she needed to know, for she said, “Oh,” in a soft voice and didn't ask again. Then her brow furrowed. “If we blow this place up, how will we survive in the storm?” she asked.
“Trust me,” he said.
He saw her brow furrow, and could only imagine what she was thinking. Trust him? A strange man? Doubtful. But she finally nodded.
Paul felt warm inside for the first time since waking up that morning.
AWAKE
Steiger's eyes opened. He was upside down.
He heard voices. The sound of a man's voice. And the voice of a beautiful woman and a lovely angelic girl's voice.
He loved angels. He would love this one.
He began to move.
REMEMBERING
Paul watched as Becky helped Rachel to the stairs, the little girl serving as a brace to the young mother, who tottered like an bedridden centenarian who was being allowed one last walk.
As soon as they got to the stairwell, Paul took the crowbar he had found and used it to pry loose the gas line leading into the heater. Immediately he heard the hiss of escaping gas.
He put the crowbar down – carefully, didn't want any sparks – and moved to the girls, taking over as Rachel's helper, Becky close behind.
They got to the top of the stairs together. Paul looked at the door to the prison tunnel. It was shut. No movement. He hoped the monster was still in there.
“How long do we have?” asked Rachel.
In answer, Paul lit one of the flares and dropped it on the top step of the stairs. “I was going to just light some trash down in the basement, but this is better. Gives us longer. Gas'll saturate the place and make sure it all goes up.”
At that moment a ghastly, inhuman wail echoed through The Loon. The sound of something mad, and lonely, and hungering for flesh.
“It's coming,” said Becky.
They walked past the staff break room, and it felt like a million years ago that Paul had first met Jacky Hales, though he knew it had only been twenty hours or so. A lifetime of fear and terror had happened since then. Strangely, though, Paul wasn't as sad as he had thought he would be. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was still alive, maybe it was because of Rachel, warm beside him, her arm around his neck as he helped her. For whatever reason, though, the cold of the storm outside no longer seeped into his bones, no longer made him feel chilled as a corpse.
He felt alive.
He tossed the second flame onto the couch in the break room, watching the couch alight.
“What's that for?” asked Rachel.
“In case Steiger or Crane's pet finds the other flare and puts it out.” He took one more look into the break room, now filled with smoke, then said, “Let's go.”
They went to the lobby, and Paul grabbed a parka off the rack for each of them, even Becky, who was almost swimming in hers. Then he opened the front door. Wind whistled in. They went through the door.
GRABBED
The wind hit them hard. But Paul felt like it had perhaps lessened a bit; as though the worst of the storm had passed. That was good.
Even so, it was too much for Rachel. She hit the snow, took a single step, and then fell forward with a cry of pain. Paul knelt to help her stand, but she waved him away, despair and agony writ large across her face.
“No time for naps,” Paul said, and noticed happily that the wind had died down enough that he didn't have to shout to be heard. “We gotta go!”
Rachel looked like she was about to say something, but there was a sudden shriek, and she and Paul both looked around in time to see Steiger yank Becky inside The Loon.
The door shut behind them.
SNAPPED
Steiger held the suddenly screaming child with one hand while he put a key – which Hip-Hop had helpfully marked “entrance” before his demise – into the lock. He turned it, then snapped the key off.
He didn't want any interruptions for the next little bit.
GIRLS
Paul tried to get the key in the lock, but it wouldn't go.
Beside him, Rachel was frantic. She felt in her own pocket, drawing out a pair of keys. “What about these?” she asked.
Paul looked at the keys then discounted them almost instantly. “No, those are the keys to Vincent's truck,” he answered. Then stopped. “Come on,” he said, and grabbed Rachel's arm.
“No!” she screamed. “What about Becky?”
“It's okay,” he said. “She'll be all right for a little while.”
“He'll kill her!”
“Steiger doesn't kill little girls,” said Paul, and the cold that had left him earlier was now deep within his bones. “Not right away.”
He saw Rachel's face go bleached white. “God, no,” she whispered.
DEATH
Steiger wrestled with the struggling little girl. This was almost too much fun.
He threw her bodily into one of the chairs behind the security station, then held her until she stopped screaming. “I'm not going to hurt you!” he shouted. “You're my angel.”
Becky kept struggling for another moment, but Steiger felt her grow tired and slowly her muscles stopped shaking. He loosened his grip on her, but didn't let her go. “That's better,” he said. “If you'd gone out there, you would have frozen to death. I couldn't have
that on my conscience. You believe me, don't you?”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Becky.
Good girl, smart girl, thought Steiger. My angelic little girl.
“Good, good,” he said aloud, and stroked her cheek. Gently. Lovingly. “Poor thing,” he added. “You need rest. Why don't I take you upstairs and put you to bed?”
Becky nodded meekly, and Steiger smiled at her again, letting her go. He held out his hand. She reached out to take it...then the little bitch kicked him in the mouth and ran for the front door.
Steiger felt a tooth come loose, then turned slowly to where she was scrabbling against the broken door, trying in vain to get out. “I'm afraid not, my precious, my little angel bitch.” He chuckled and spit blood on the floor.
“Now, you really ought to be getting to bed.”
She kept struggling with the door as Steiger approached her, the little girl so amusing in her feeble attempts to escape. She couldn't escape. The universe was on Steiger's side, and that was too much power for anyone to withstand him long.
At last Becky turned toward him...and shrieked.
Steiger laughed, thinking that the beautiful little girl was screaming because of him, then realized that she wasn't looking at him, but behind him.
He spun around, and came face to face with the devil itself. A molten mass of motley flesh that spun and whirled, a gigantic fleshy thing that had no head, then two heads, then an arm where a head should be.
Steiger shined his flashlight on the thing, and it shrieked. Steiger smiled. “Hello, playtime,” he said, and stood between it and Becky. “You can't have her. This angel is mine.”
He threw himself at the devil, letting himself go to a place he rarely indulged: the complete surrender of self to the wave of insanity on which he constantly rode. He grabbed a first aid kit from a nearby wall and used it to batter at the beast. The thing shrieked and wailed, and something...exploded out of it, grabbing the kit like a huge hand and hurling it at a wall, where it exploded into small pieces.
The Loon Page 25
