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

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  CONTENTS

  About Outage 3: Vengeance

  Title Page

  Part One - The Preparation

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two - The Shelter

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Three - The Battle

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Reviews

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Copyright Info

  ABOUT OUTAGE 3: VENGEANCE

  Beaten, bloodied, and stripped of those he loves, Tom Sotheby is determined to ward off the beasts. As he prepares for the final hours of the night, he'll need to summon every ounce of strength and courage he has.

  Will he survive the Great Storm, or will the beasts claim his life?

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  OUTAGE 3:

  VENGEANCE

  By T.W. Piperbrook

  PART ONE: THE PREPARATION

  Chapter One

  In the frenzy of his escape, Tom barely noticed the glass littering the station wagon's seats. Several shards dug painfully into his skin, reminding him of the open window and the previous passengers that had been ripped out and shredded in the snow. He shuddered at the memory.

  He couldn't end up like those people. He wouldn't.

  He reached next to him, patting the area between the station wagon seats, finding a pair of winter gloves. He used them to swipe the shards from the seat to the floor. He slipped them on. His body was stiff and frozen, but his anger drove him. He reached over and turned up the heat, listening to it hiss through the vents, fighting with the cold that whipped through the open window. The station wagon hummed through desolate, lifeless streets. He might as well have been the first man to pass this way. Ever.

  Not only was he without Lorena, he was without Mark, Billy, and Ashley. Their deaths left him feeling bitter and empty. How long had Billy and Ashley been waiting to attack him? Would they have stayed at his side for the remainder of the night before they feasted on him?

  He grew enraged at the thought.

  Their betrayal left him hollow and untrusting, wary of anyone he might meet. On top of that, he was still confused about Mark's transformation. The man had clearly been distraught by the death of his brother, and he'd seemed genuine in his attempts to help. But he'd turned, too.

  It was possible Mark had tried to save Tom's life.

  It no longer mattered.

  What mattered was that Tom had a destination. A purpose.

  The vehicle's tires ground against the snow, kicking up patches of white. Cold air whipped through the shattered driver's side window. Every so often, Tom glanced in the rearview mirror, convinced he saw movement, but it was simply the cascade of white that had plagued him since he'd awoken hours earlier. He was past the point of denial. He knew things would never be normal again.

  Tom navigated the barren roads, his years of familiarity guiding him. With the machine shop and the beasts behind him, the town felt empty. The dark, lifeless buildings and the dead streetlights looked like they'd always been that way.

  Plainfield was a stranger, deadlier version of the one he knew.

  He let go of the wheel and reached for the gun on his lap. The handle of the rifle was cold—even through the fabric of his gloves. He caught sight of the station wagon's interior. Coffee cups and loose change littered the passenger's side floor; the glove box hung ajar. He saw nothing helpful. The former occupants had probably been as frightened and confused as he'd been. They'd probably had no way to defend themselves.

  A white street sign to his right grabbed his attention. Tom reclaimed the wheel and took the turn. The vehicle went wide, sliding sideways on the snow-covered road, and he almost missed the side street. He corrected course, listening to the tires spin.

  Dammit.

  He was driving fast—too fast. Some part of him wanted to stop the car and rush outside, to take down as many of the creatures as he could. But he'd run out of bullets before he ran out of beasts.

  He couldn't let them win that easily. He had to get to Colton's.

  He turned onto New Britain Avenue, a thin, commercial road lined with evenly spaced office buildings. He recognized the frosted storefronts of a pizza place, a florist shop, and a lawyer's office. On a weekday, he'd expect a flurry of pedestrians and parked cars, but now, the street offered only snowdrifts and shadows. The road was narrow and nerve-wracking.

  A blur of motion drew his attention to a nearby alley. Tom snagged the rifle and thrust it over the windowsill. Between two brick buildings, something had moved. What was it? He was unable to see more than ten feet past a set of dumpsters, but he could make out a dark shadow.

  A beast burst from the darkness.

  The creature loped full speed at the vehicle, its claws dripping with the remains of a recent meal.

  Tom's rage boiled.

  Come get it, you piece of shit.

  He gripped the rifle and fired. The bullet caught the creature in its opened mouth, snapping its head back and sending it reeling to the ground. It writhed for a second and grew still. Tom slowed, trying to get a better glimpse of the alley from which it had emerged, wondering if its victim was still alive. He saw no evidence.

  He kept driving.

  He stared at the dead beast in the driver's side mirror, feeling the satisfaction a predator must feel after the kill. The beast's gory end was fitting for its existence.

  It serves the thing right.

  It serves it goddamn right.

  Tom caught a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were dark, his expression vacant. His hair was caked with blood and snow. He barely recognized himself. He was sore, in need of warmth and treatment. But all that would have to wait.

  Only four more miles to Colton's house, he thought grimly. Only four more miles…

  Chapter Two

  Tom stared at each of the street signs as if it was for the first time, afraid that they might disappear. The way that things were going, he no longer trusted his eyes. Everything needed to be checked and rechecked. Verified.

  He glanced at the clock. Two a.m. By some miracle, he'd survived half the night. Whether it was his own dogged determination or God's will, he wasn't sure, but he wouldn't take it for granted. Tom would make it to Colton's, and he'd get to morning. He'd use the ammunition to fend the things off, provided it was there.

  Mark's words echoed through his head.

  "If we wait out this storm, we'll be all right."

  Tom wanted to believe those words. More than anything, he wanted to live, if only to spite the beasts. In many ways, giving up would be easier—he'd see Lorena, he'd finally get rest for his weary body. That is, if such an afterlife existed. But he wouldn't give the creatures the satisfaction.

  They'd reveled in enough carnage as it was.

  The buildings around him were dark and vacant, but he sensed th
e beasts, lurking in shadows and alleyways. He kept his gun pointed out the window, ready to fend them off. The only thing worse than having a gaping, shattered hole next to your head was leaving it unguarded. He'd learned plenty of lessons tonight.

  Tom stared into the white gloom. Snow pelted the windshield, blurring his vision past a hundred feet. The street was silent save the mechanical noises of the station wagon and the frigid whip of the wind. He drove for several unobstructed miles, watching deserted commercial buildings whip past. The power lines sagged from the weight of the snow, forming a convoluted maze. The trees and roads were ravaged by the storm. The frozen, dark buildings were reminiscent of an earlier, more archaic time. He looked for the fork in the road, the one that would lead him to the neighborhood containing Colton's house.

  Instead, he caught sight of something else.

  Silhouettes in the road drew his attention. He squinted through the falling snow, discerning objects on the road. This time, it wasn't the beasts, but a string of cars. The vehicles were lined up in the road's center, as if the commercial street were a parking lot, instead of a thoroughfare. Tom swerved to avoid them. He drove alongside them, unable to stop staring. The cars had collided with one another. The hoods and bumpers were crinkled upwards, the windows shattered. Blood and remains lined their interiors.

  His stomach hitched at the sight of a woman sitting in a driver's seat. Her neck was titled sideways, her insides painted down the front of her winter jacket. A duffel bag sat on the seat next to her.

  Had she been headed to the shelter?

  He saw no movement in any of the vehicles, no signs of life. The beasts had been brutal and thorough. Tom glanced in all directions, certain he'd find the creatures nearby, but the slaughter seemed like it'd happened some time ago.

  He resumed normal speed, suppressing his nausea. Up ahead was the fork he was looking for. The street split off in two directions, bisected by a large, empty diner. To the right, several miles away, were the shelter and the police station. To the left was the street leading to Colton's.

  Tom glanced in the rearview mirror at the stalled cars. The police wouldn't be able to help him now.

  No one would.

  Tom was on his own.

  He took a left-hand turn.

  Colton's road was a small, dead end street removed from the center of town. Within a few minutes, he was upon it. Although Tom had never been up the road, he'd passed it numerous times.

  As he turned down the street, he appraised the houses that lined either side of the narrow, snow-covered road. The buildings were quaint and close together, the properties small and flat. Tom saw no lights in any of the windows; no evidence that anyone was home. He scanned the road for tire tracks, but found none. Anyone who'd left had probably done so a long time ago.

  They were either very smart or very dead.

  The road made him nervous, more so than the previous streets. If he had to turn around quickly, he'd be running over one of the snowy lawns, risking getting stuck. He hoped he wouldn't have to make a quick getaway.

  Tom scrutinized the houses. He recalled the address number: twenty-three Chestnut Street. A yellow house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Mark's voice echoed in his head like a ghost's. Tom had the sudden, nervous thought that the man had been lying. But why would he have been? Everything Mark had said had proven true—Colton's death, the significance of the moon, the bullets being the only things to hurt the beasts.

  What could he gain by lying about the ammunition at Colton's house?

  Tom reassured himself as he kept driving. He glanced at the properties, searching for the right one. Between the ethereal glow of the moon and the yellow hue of the headlights, they all looked identical. Snow clung to their faces and obscured the numbers. The road ended in two hundred feet. He stared straight ahead, squinting through a copse of white-minted trees, finally catching sight of a small house tucked at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  That had to be it.

  He pulled to the end of the street.

  To his dismay, a long driveway preceded the house. Tom swallowed, fighting the sinking premonition that he'd get stuck or attacked. Tall, snow-tipped pine trees lined the perimeter of the yard. The foliage extended past the house and into the backyard, which was heavily wooded. Rather than slowing down, Tom increased speed, building momentum as he transitioned to the driveway.

  The tires skidded left and right over the snow.

  The driveway went as far as the building's edge; there was no garage. He rolled fifty feet and stopped near a set of stairs. At the top of them was a side door leading into the house.

  The wind gusted, flinging a batch of flurries through the driver's window. Tom squinted. When his vision cleared, he scoured the trees, but nothing leapt out at him. Still, the car was a homing beacon for the creatures, and he no longer wanted to be in it. He kept a firm grip on his rifle, surveying the house, and then cut the headlights and planned his entrance.

  Between the urgency of his escape and the determination to get to Colton's, he'd barely thought about getting inside. He doubted he'd find a key under the doormat. He'd probably have to break a window. The noise would attract attention.

  But what choice did he have?

  He stared at the building, as if Colton might be waiting, ready to open the door. But nobody was home.

  Colton's dead. Remember?

  Rifle in hand, Tom stepped out into the open night, leaving the car running. His boots sank in deep snow. He cracked the car door, just in case he had to make a beeline back to it. He trudged for the set of stairs. Tom surveyed the dimly lit landscape as he mounted the steps. His legs felt stiff and asleep. It felt like he'd been in the car for hours, though it'd certainly been much shorter.

  He grabbed the railing for support. The bars were rusted, worn. The screen door hung on a single hinge. He doubted the beasts had done the damage; it looked like Colton's house was naturally unkempt. He tried the door, but it was locked. Several glass panes lined the upper half. Without hesitation, Tom turned his rifle backward and shattered one of them, listening to glass cascade to the interior floor.

  He reached inside, unlocked the deadbolt, and swung open the door.

  He paused at the threshold, huffing in a breath of stale air. The house stank of beer and spoiled food. He could barely see the interior. The only illumination was the pale light of the moon, spilling several feet inside. He stepped over debris—clothing, paper, and dishes—and walked inside. He tiptoed to the refrigerator, a looming mass on the right-hand wall, and creaked it open, confirming there was no power. The stench of rotten food intensified, and he covered his mouth with his hand. He shut the door and made his way to the counter, looking for a flashlight. There has to be one somewhere. He searched the drawers. To his relief, he found one, and he tested it by pressing it against his coat. It worked.

  The basement. That's where he needed to go.

  He shined the flashlight on the floor, creeping through the dirty, dank house. He pictured Colton living alone, drinking away the hours he didn't spend killing. The image was as depressing as it was horrifying. That was no kind of life. But was this? Sneaking through the night, praying for safety? Tom's resolve hardened. He'd destroy the things before they got to him. He'd find the stash, and he'd defend himself against the creatures until morning.

  He'd survive.

  He crept into the next room. The dining room table was strewn with unopened mail and dishes. He continued into the foyer. To his right was a door that looked like it led to the basement. Before opening it, he searched the rest of the house. The living room was empty; so was the only bedroom and small bathroom. His initial suspicions about Colton's personal habits had been correct. The lack of upkeep extended from the exterior to the interior, evidenced by littered microwave dinners and scattered piles of DVD's. The bathroom reeked of mildew and mold.

  Before heading to the basement, Tom glanced out a window next to the front door. He could just see the tail pipe of the statio
n wagon, billowing smoke into the night. The street was empty.

  And then it wasn't.

  Two shadows lurked near one of the neighboring properties—large, bounding figures moving with their heads down. They were hunting. Hunting for him.

  Hurry.

  Dammit.

  Balancing his rifle and flashlight, Tom sprang for the cellar. He grimaced as he snuck down the musty stairs, shutting and locking the door behind him. The door was thin. If the creatures followed him, it wouldn't hold for long. But he had to keep going. He only had a few bullets in his rifle. His ammunition wouldn't last long. God forbid he missed a shot…

  He swiveled the flashlight in front of him, heart ramming his chest.

  The basement was in worse shape than the upstairs, if that were possible. Bloodstained clothing spilled from the bottom steps into the room. Tom covered his mouth in repulsion. Perhaps the clothes had been ruined by Colton's nightly excursions. Farther into the room, Tom saw a battered washer and dryer and several pull-chain lights. No sign of weapons. Outside, the beasts howled. His panic heightened. They must've caught his scent.

  Come on. There has to be a stash somewhere. Where is it?

  He snuck past the washer and dryer, rounding the stairs. The ground was cracked, riddled with divots, as if the house were conspiring to swallow him whole. He stepped over empty soda bottles, a damaged air conditioner, and an overturned metal rack. He was about to give up when he spotted a freezer chest on the opposite side of the basement.

  That must be it.

  He dashed toward it.

  In the flashlight's glow, he saw a single metal lock holding the chest shut. He stuck the light in the crook of his arm, turned the rifle around, and bashed the lock, trying to make quick work of it. The noise echoed through the basement. Tom cringed, but heard no repercussions to his action. He raised the gun and struck the lock again, breaking it open. He removed the lock and threw open the chest.