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

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  Rosemary swiveled in all directions, her pistol drawn to her chest as if she were praying. Her hair was mussed and tangled, her face lit with panic.

  "Are you all right?" Tom asked.

  "I-I'm okay," she managed.

  They rode for the next mile in silence, glancing over their shoulders. Neither wanted to admit they'd survived the encounter. Saying the words might negate their escape.

  Chapter Ten

  "We need to reload," Tom said.

  Rosemary nodded. She retrieved the spare ammunition, and Tom walked her through it. He took stock of their location. Barring any more encounters, they were getting close to the shelter.

  Tom kept the rifle pointed out the window. Rosemary hung her pistol over the windowsill next to her. The moonlit buildings flitted by and dispersed. They'd entered a less dense part of town. The lack of buildings was relieving—it meant fewer places to conceal the beasts. If they were to be attacked again, they'd have more notice, but that didn't make Tom feel too comforted.

  He reflected on what had just occurred. What they'd survived.

  As expected, the beasts had been quick and vile. Tom was just grateful they'd been able to fend the things off. He prayed they'd left the worst of it behind, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that was the case.

  Rosemary fell into a reflective silence. Whether it was nerves, or anticipation of reaching the shelter, he wasn't sure. It was probably both. In their decision to leave, neither had spoken about the possibility that Jason and Jeffrey hadn't made it there. Any number of pitfalls could have waylaid them. The beasts were a sobering reminder of that fact.

  "How long have you lived here?" he asked Rosemary, hoping to calm her nerves.

  "Ten years," she answered, her eyes still glued to the outdoors.

  "Where'd you come from?"

  "Windsor. Most of my family lives out of state."

  "How'd you end up in Plainfield?"

  "Ron's family is from Ashford, so we moved to Plainfield to be closer to them."

  "That makes sense. My wife and I did the same thing. Our parents are no longer with us." Sensing that his companion was hardly listening, Tom exhaled. "We're almost at the shelter, Rosemary. We'll find them. If they're not there, we'll keep looking until we locate them."

  Tom knew he was telling her things she wanted to hear, but it felt like they were the right things to say. Rosemary's eyes shifted as she watched the road. He imagined her retrieving images of her family, clinging to hopeful thoughts.

  If Tom had any family left, he'd be doing the same thing.

  While his companion was deep in thought, Tom delved into memories of his own. He stared out into the open parking lots around them. The last time he'd gone to the Knights of Columbus was several summers ago. The sun had been high in the sky and his wife had been sitting beside him. They'd gone for the fireman's dinner, met with the townsfolk, and conversed about town events. Tom recalled admiring the grasses that covered the abandoned lots on either side of the street. Now the open area resembled nothing more than a snow-covered tundra. The storm had paved over the landscape, much as it had paved over his nostalgia.

  His memories of Plainfield had been tainted, drowned by newer, horrifying images. He doubted he'd be able to look at the town streets the same way again.

  They were only a few blocks from the shelter. Several buildings cropped up at the road's edge, silent guides leading them to their destination. Soon they'd have a verdict; they'd know whether Rosemary's family had safely arrived. Tom prayed for their well-being. He assessed the area around them, looking for clues as to what they'd find.

  To his relief, the area was unaffected by the slaughter. The doors and windows of the nearest buildings were intact; no abandoned cars lined the roadway. He had the instinctive thought they might be able to use the buildings for later refuge.

  He strained to see past the headlights. A few seconds later, the next block became apparent.

  And then he saw it. The shelter. He recognized the crest of the Knights of Columbus on a tall metal sign by the road, visible even through the falling snow. The sign was dull. The streetlights were off. He gripped the wheel as they approached, looking for signs of life.

  To his surprise, the parking lot was filled with cars.

  PART TWO: THE SHELTER

  Chapter Eleven

  "We made it," Tom muttered, almost in disbelief.

  The Knights of Columbus building stood alone in the parking lot. Tom stared up at the dimmed sign as they pulled in. The fact that they'd reached their destination felt unreal. He changed focus to the dozen white-embossed cars around them, thinking they'd disappear before his eyes. The vehicles felt like a mirage, a projection. He steeled himself for the possibility that he'd awaken from a dream and find himself buried in a tangle of beasts.

  Among the cars was a police cruiser.

  "The police are here!" Rosemary cried. A second later, she said, "I see Ron's car! Jason and Jeffrey must be here, too!"

  She pointed toward a large, black SUV. She reached for the door handle.

  "Wait a second," Tom said. "Be careful."

  A low grumbling noise emitted from somewhere in back. It took Tom a second to identify what it was. A generator.

  The noise replaced his fear with hope.

  The place had power.

  He surveyed the parking lot closer. The vehicles looked like they hadn't moved in hours. Filled-in tire tracks zigged and zagged between the aisles. His attention roamed to the building. The KOC was large and rectangular, made of yellow-painted brick. A recent renovation had left the surrounding lots treeless and empty.

  The side entrance—visible from the parking lot—consisted of two glass doors. Both were closed. He'd pulled up in the first aisle, thirty feet from the door. Two paper signs were affixed to the doors, but he couldn't read the writing from their position.

  "Let's go, Tom!" Rosemary urged.

  "Hold on. Let's take as much ammunition as we can," he said cautiously, stuffing several boxes of bullets into his coat.

  He followed the same procedure he'd taken at the house, leaving the car running and the driver's side door open. Then he stepped out into the lot. The snow in the parking was less dense than the road, probably due to the cars compacting it with their tires. Rosemary disembarked, and they crept toward the entrance, wary of blind spots, places the beasts might hide. To Tom's relief, he saw nothing lurking between the cars.

  Rosemary approached the black SUV, which was parked in the front row. She wiped the windows, peering inside. She tried the door handle, but it was locked.

  "Nothing," she announced. "They must be inside the building."

  They crept past the vehicle and continued. Tom kept his rifle ready, aiming at the glass doors leading into the hall. When they got closer, he read the pieces of paper affixed to the inside panes.

  Temporary Shelter. Food, drinks, and heat!

  Despite the rumbling generator, the building was dark. Tom peered through the doors, but couldn't see past the first few feet of the foyer. It took him a second to realize there was a second, wooden door guarding the hall.

  How long has it been, Tom? A few years?

  He reached for the handle of one of the glass doors, convinced it'd be locked. But it wasn't. He pulled the door open and aimed his pistol into the foyer. Boot marks lined the floor—scuffs and dirty, tracked snow. The foyer was warm, pulling heat from somewhere inside the building. He felt a measure of relief. The door shut gently behind them, closing out the icy wind and snow.

  He glanced at Rosemary. She smiled through her nervousness. She still clutched her gun. Despite the odds, they'd managed to get here together. They'd battled the creatures in town and survived. Tom drew a breath and reached for the door handle. For a second, he imagined his family waiting for him, ready to receive him with open arms. He envisioned Lorena's gentle smile, Jeremy's infectious laugh. But he knew that could never be. The best he could hope for was a reunion for Rosemary.


  He opened the door.

  Tom stuck his pistol through the entrance, ready for something to leap out at him, but nothing did. The room was dark save a glimmer of light from somewhere in the back. He stepped through the threshold, aware of Rosemary close behind him. In the back of the room were a bar, several cabinets, and stacks of folded tables and chairs.

  The door clicked shut.

  The odor of cleaning products and food wafted into his nose—reminders of past gatherings. But there was something else in the air, too, and it filled Tom with dread. He looked down. Tom covered his mouth with his hand, suddenly hit with the oppressive odor of blood. Rosemary gagged.

  The hall was covered in human remains. Tom and Rosemary stumbled backward, keeling over in the wake of what looked like a massacre. Tom could make out the outline of a hand. A head. An arm. The generator growled from behind the building, providing power for people who no longer needed it.

  "No," Rosemary gasped. "It can't be…"

  She glanced frantically around the room, as if the gory scene might disappear.

  "Jason! Jeffrey!" she cried.

  She waded through the carnage, scouring the floor. Her boots squeaked and slid as she moved. Tom grabbed hold of her.

  "We have to go!" he urged. The hall had transformed from a place of respite to a place of unspeakable terror.

  "Let go of me!" she said, wrenching free. "I have to find them! I have to find Jason and Jeffrey!"

  She strode further into the room, her distressed cries growing louder by the second. Each set of remains was worse than the last. The bodies had been chewed, savaged, torn apart. Tom ran after Rosemary, stepping through the mess. The contents of his stomach swirled. He wasn't certain what he'd expected, but it hadn't been this. He whirled left and right. The walls were splashed with blood; so was the door they'd walked through.

  Even the bar at the other end of the room was coated with remains.

  The generator droned and droned. Emotionless.

  They had to leave. As difficult and horrendous as it would be, they had to leave. Tom raced across the room. He caught up with Rosemary. She bent over a toy truck on the floor, heaving frantic gasps.

  "This is Jeffrey's," she said, pulling it from a puddle of blood. "I'd recognize it anywhere."

  She looked down at the small, gutted carcass next to it. It was impossible to tell to whom the body belonged. The dim lighting provided only a sickly, yellow glow. For once, Tom was grateful for the lack of visibility. He tugged her coat.

  "Come on, Rosemary," he demanded.

  She stared at the remains as if they might spring to life. Tom grabbed her by the arm. Before they could move, something crashed outside.

  They froze.

  Tom spun in the semi-darkness, aiming his gun at the door through which they'd entered. The crash came again. It sounded like something was shattering the windows of the vehicles. The generator lulled, just for a second, giving them a moment of eerie respite. Rosemary dropped the truck to the floor. It landed with a betraying thump.

  "Come on, we have to get out of here," Tom urged.

  Rosemary's hands fell to her sides, but she remained stiff. It looked like she was in shock. Tom dragged her by the coat, leading her further into the building. They couldn't go out the way they'd come in. Something was out there. There had to be another place to hide. He headed for the bar in the back and the light just behind it. With each step, the blood on the floor grabbed at their boots, squeaking and groaning like the last wishes of the dead.

  They stepped over the endless carnage. Pieces of people were everywhere. It was hard to believe the remains had been human beings.

  People as real as his companion next to him, as real as Lorena…

  Keep going. Tom didn't have time to think about it.

  A phone sat on top of the bar. The receiver was off the hook, dangling from a frayed cord. Tom ran past it, headed for a break at the end of the bar. Behind it was a closed door. Tom wasn't sure where it went, but wherever it led was better than here.

  Please be open.

  The crashes were right behind them. The beasts had reached the outside entrance. Although Tom couldn't see the creatures, he heard them, and that was enough to propel him forward. It sounded like a large group—more than they'd be able to handle with a few guns alone.

  They'd just passed the end of the bar when the door behind it cracked open. Tom ground to a halt, clutching Rosemary. She let out a stifled scream.

  They stopped ten feet short of the door, aiming their guns at the threshold. A dim light crept out from another room. Something was emerging from the other side. They were walled in. Trapped.

  Rosemary let out a final, resigned cry.

  And then a man peered through the crack, his face pale, lips shivering. Tom stared at the man for a moment, surprised.

  "Back here!" the man hissed. "Hurry!"

  They did.

  Chapter Twelve

  The man ushered them frantically through the door. Tom and Rosemary plowed across the threshold, tripping over each other like cars of a derailed train. They fled into the next room, clinging to each other for support. Clattering continued from somewhere behind them—claws pounding doors, bodies scraping against windows.

  The door clicked closed behind them, and the man sprang for a metal table. The legs ground against the floor as he pushed it. Tom set down his rifle and jumped to the man's aid. They hoisted the table, barricading the door. When they were finished, Tom stepped back and surveyed their rescuer.

  The man was older, in his early sixties. Thin, wispy white hair barely covered his scalp. His collared shirt had the name "Paul" stitched on it.

  "Thanks, Paul," Tom panted, catching his breath.

  "No problem," Paul said. "We heard voices. We knew we had to do something."

  Tom surveyed the room. In the frenzy of their arrival, he hadn't noticed there were others. A pale light shone from somewhere in the middle of the room, illuminating three frightened figures hiding under a long counter on the left-hand side of the room. None looked like Jason and Jeffrey.

  They'd entered a large kitchen in the back of the Knights Of Columbus. The room was about fifty feet wide and a hundred feet long. The counter contained a built-in sink. On the other side of the room were an oversized refrigerator and a metal preparation table. Several cabinets were opened, rummaged through. There were no windows. A door on the right-hand wall hung open, revealing a small broom closet.

  On the opposite side of the room was a door that Tom presumed led outside. It was barricaded. The floor was wet with tracked blood.

  Tom scoped out the three other survivors. Aside from Paul, there was a heavyset man, a woman in her forties with frizzy hair, and a black man with oil-stained workpants. The survivors stared at Tom and Rosemary from beneath the counter, their faces a mixture of fear and confusion.

  "Are you here to help us?" the frizzy-haired woman asked.

  They eyed his rifle, as if the weapon itself might lead them to safety.

  "We came here looking for her children," Tom explained, barely able to get the words out. He motioned to Rosemary, but a loud crash distracted him.

  Tom spun back to the barricade. The noise was coming from the next room.

  The survivors tensed and stared at the door, stifling gasps. Nails clicked and clacked on the hardwood of the hall. Tom heard the sound of windows shattering. Tom readied his rifle. The beasts sounded like they were tearing down the walls, deconstructing the hall piece by piece. After a few seconds, the door buckled.

  "Help!" Paul hissed.

  Tom and Paul grabbed the table, holding it in place. Tom's body jolted with each successive bang. Rosemary assisted.

  "We need the rest of you!" Paul called to the others.

  Tom glanced behind them. The black man scrambled to his feet and darted over, bracing his feet against the floor and holding the edge of the shuddering table. The fat man took a little longer to stand, struggling with his sizeable midsection, and
then got to his feet and joined the others. The frizzy-haired woman remained in place, crying underneath the table. The survivors held the table for several seconds, fighting against the invisible weight on the other side of the door.

  Snarls laced the air, making Tom question whether the beasts had already gotten inside. But they hadn't. Not yet. He held tight to his rifle and gritted his teeth.

  The bucking increased in force, and the group pushed back to compensate. The door felt like it was going to split down the middle. The fat man yelled, his eyes bulging as he fought the groaning table.

  Suddenly, without cause, the noises abated. The survivors glanced at each other nervously, awaiting confirmation that the beasts were gone.

  Paul put a shaky finger to his lips.

  Tom perked his ears. He heard a few animal footfalls in the snow somewhere outside the building, then the constant hum of the generator. Other than that, the hall went silent.

  "They've done this several times," Paul whispered. "I think they're messing with us."

  Tom stared at the door in shock. He clutched his rifle. The din of the beasts was over, but he knew they were far from safe. Rosemary let go of the table, wiping the tears from her eyes. She surveyed the frightened faces of the people around them. Her fear turned to hope. "My two boys," she whispered, her voice wavering. "Have you seen them? They're eleven and seventeen years old."

  The other people shook their heads.

  "We've only been here a little while," Paul explained.

  "Nobody's seen them?" Rosemary asked again, her hope wilting. "Maybe they got away…they must've gotten away…"

  The survivors shook their heads. Tom could tell none of them wanted to speak their minds—the children were probably dead and devoured in the next room. Tom lowered his eyes to the sticky wet blood on the floor. It looked like the carnage had been brought in from the other room.

  "What happened here?" he asked Paul.