Outside, the beasts razed.
Sven and Frederick eyed him warily. They'd each grabbed tools from the toolbox and were standing in the center of the room. Frederick clutched a claw hammer; Sven held a screwdriver in his meaty fist. Neither looked happy. Tom took a spot at the back door. He stared at the opposite end of the room, meeting Paul's gaze. The older man had agreed to guard the interior door. In the pale glow of the kitchen lights, his face looked ashen and weathered.
The crashing from the parking lot continued. Tom pictured the creatures bathing in the entrails of those they'd killed, licking blood and bone from matted paws. It made him even more grateful to be alive.
Each minute was a godsend, every breath borrowed. Tom gazed across the room at Sven, who'd pulled out his cellphone and begun shaking it. Tom assumed there was still no service. He considered asking the man for the time, but didn't want to engage him.
He looked around the windowless room. He wished he had a view of the sky; that would be as good a timepiece as any. The moon was their enemy, and its disappearance would mean a chance at living.
It would also give him a bead on what they were up against. Right now, they had no outside visibility. He envisioned the whole town of beasts congregating in the parking lot, growing in number like fans at a rock concert. It certainly sounded like that.
A noise at the door distracted his attention.
Tom's pulse spiked.
One of them was right outside.
He aimed his gun, glaring at the tables and chairs in front of the door as if they might spring to life. He heard a huff of air through animal nostrils, loud enough that it rose above the din. The door rattled—gently, at first, then harder.
The survivors gasped in terror.
"I told you, man, they ain't gonna leave us alone," Frederick hissed through clenched teeth.
"And some of us are defenseless," Sven added. "You motherfuckers don't know what you're doing."
A thump rattled the door, and it shook in the frame. Claws scraped the exterior from top to bottom. Tom imagined the door splitting down the middle like a ripped curtain, revealing the beasts on the other side. But it remained locked, standing, and barricaded. Tom drew a bead on it. Sweat leaked from his brow. He let it drip without wiping it.
The room around him suddenly felt cold and isolated, sealed off from the world that he'd known. Without visibility to what was outside, the beasts could be anywhere. Tom pictured the survivors transported to another place and time. Anything would be preferable to what they were going through. He stared without blinking; certain he saw the outline of a paw. He shook his head to rid his brain of the image.
The door shook again. One of the stacked chairs wobbled.
Another creature had joined the first. The two of them batted the door in tandem, knocking one of the chairs loose from the top of the table. The chair fell sideways and clattered to the floor. Sherry screamed, and Rosemary tried to quiet her. But it was no use. The beasts knew they were in here.
The only decision was when to enter.
The creatures rammed the door. Each successive bang felt like a punch to Tom's stomach, heightening his fear. His joints ached from maintaining his stance; his grip was so tight on the gun that he barely felt his fingers.
And then, out of nowhere, something tugged his jacket.
Tom spun, so tense that he nearly pulled the trigger. He leapt away from whatever was grabbing him, just in time to see it was Frederick. The man had lifted Tom's spare pistol from his jacket, and he leapt back with murderous intent in his eyes.
"Stay back!" he warned.
Tom raised his hands in shock, so surprised he didn't have time to readjust his aim. Frederick's hands shook as he aimed the gun. The beasts continued pounding on the door.
"Frederick, what are you doing?"
"I said stay back!" Frederick hollered again. His eyes were large and manic.
"Put it down!" Paul yelled from across the room.
Frederick turned over his shoulder, waving the gun. The older man ducked for cover. Frederick turned back to Tom, biting his lip.
"This doesn't have to—" Tom started.
"Get out of my fucking way!"
Frederick waved the gun again, and this time Tom had the foresight to duck. The black man fired. The bullet ricocheted off one of the chairs on top of the barricade. Frederick fired again, then again, the bullets going wide and clanking into the wall.
"Leave us alone, you motherfuckers!" Frederick roared at the beasts.
Tom knelt on the floor and covered his head with his hands, certain that one of the bullets would find a home in his skull. The shooting continued for several more seconds. Sherry screamed—a long, shrill sound that sounded more animal than human. And then the shooting stopped.
Frederick heaved thick breaths. Tom raised his head and looked around the room, certain he'd find one of his companions dead or injured. But the others were unhurt. They raised their heads, shivering in shock and surprise, assessing each other for wounds.
Frederick kept his aim at the door. He kept squeezing the trigger even though the gun was empty. His loud, uneven breath filled the room.
Out of nowhere, a body slammed into Frederick.
The black man flew to the floor, a blast of air escaping his stomach as he hit the ground. Sven grunted and growled as he wrestled for the gun. Frederick screamed obscenities, but kept a grip on the pistol. Sven grabbed hold of his hand, beating his fingers into the ground until he released the gun. The pistol skittered over near Tom. Seizing the opportunity, Tom scurried over and retrieved it. Frederick squirmed and bucked against the weight of the man pinning him down. Paul ran over to the scene and pointed his gun at the tackled man.
"Get off me, man!" Frederick yelled.
Sven didn't relent. Instead, he grabbed hold of the man's other arm and held it against the floor. Realizing he was outmatched, Frederick let out one final curse and went still, his eyes blazing defeat.
Tom heard a thud on the door, and he spun and aimed his pistol. The beasts were still outside, but no longer scratching and growling. One of them sniffed curiously, as if intrigued by what was happening.
The beast gave one last snarl, then retreated from the door.
Chapter Fifteen
"I'm sorry, man," Frederick said to the others.
The survivors stood around him in a silent circle. Tom shook his head. Thankfully, no one had been injured. That didn't make him feel any better. The man's reckless behavior could have killed him or the others.
"I thought they were coming in. I thought we were about to die," Frederick tried.
"And what good would you have done?" Sven asked. "You wouldn't have hit one of those fucking things if it was standing in front of you." He motioned to the wall, riddled with misplaced bullet holes. "Your aim sucks."
"You almost killed us." Paul shook his head angrily. "You almost hit Tom."
"I apologize," Frederick repeated. "What else you want me to say?"
He looked at Tom for empathy. Tom exhaled and lowered his gun. He looked over his shoulder, verifying that the door was closed, and then sighed.
Frederick sighed and cast his eyes to the floor. "This shit has me goin' crazy, all right? Sittin' in here, waiting for those things to break in and eat us. And you're tellin' me I can't even have a weapon to defend myself. What do you expect me to do?"
"I think we should tie him up," Sven growled. He looked at the others for approval, but no one agreed.
Tom looked around the circle, catching a glimpse of Sherry. He was surprised to find her standing, looking on with the others. Her face was pale, but sympathetic. She was clutching a hammer. Tom understood Frederick's panic. As misguided as his actions had been, the man was as scared as the rest of them.
"Let's all calm down. Frederick, why don't you come with me and keep watch at the back door? Rosemary, you come, too. Paul and Sven, why don't you watch the hall entrance with Sherry?"
Everyone agreed. Tom and
Rosemary ushered Frederick to the back door, keeping a close eye on him. Tom thought it best to separate Frederick and Sven. Though the encounter was over, he didn't want to risk any more altercations. They had enough dealing with the creatures outside.
As they took their positions, Tom listened for noises outside the door. The commotion had died down. For a second, Tom had the distinct feeling that the beasts were listening to them. He recalled the creature that had been at the door a few minutes earlier. It had seemed interested, rather than fearful. He doubted the beasts had been staved off by the gunshots. From what he'd observed, the beasts didn't seem to have any regard for humans, armed or not.
Frederick stood next to the wall, his eyes flitting across the barricade. His rapid breathing subsided. He wiped the sweat from his hands on his oil-stained pants.
"Do you work around here?" Tom asked, hoping to calm the man down.
"I'm a mechanic down at Anthony's Service Station. Been there six months," Frederick said.
"How'd you end up here?"
"I stayed late at the shop last night. I was having trouble with my car. Then the shop lost power." Frederick swallowed. "I heard about the shelter, so I decided to come here. Luckily my car was still drivable. I figured they'd have some damn coffee or something. Now I wish I hadn't come."
"I don't think anywhere else is better," Tom said. "They'll sniff us out wherever we go."
Next to Tom, Rosemary nodded in agreement. Her face was more composed than before. As nerve-wracking as the incident with Frederick had been, it seemed to have distracted her from her grief.
"How'd you find the others?" Tom wondered.
"I ran into Sherry on the way here. Her car had broken down in the cold. I stopped to help her, and then one of those things came out of nowhere. It darted at us from behind the Chinese place. We hopped in my car and came straight here. Somehow we outran it. We were hoping to find the police. Instead we found everybody dead, and then we got trapped here with all those bodies…" Frederick met Rosemary's gaze and lowered his eyes.
Rosemary bit her lip.
"So Sven and Paul were already here when you arrived?" Tom asked.
"No, only Sven was. I guess he'd just gotten here. When Sherry and I came into the building, Sven ran into the kitchen and tried to shut us out. He's a rude motherfucker, man. We had to beg him to open the door. And I don't like begging no one. If it weren't for those things outside, I would've left that son of a bitch by himself. I would've let the fucking things eat him." Frederick looked across the room and scowled, but Sven wasn't paying attention.
"So that's why you don't like him. I figured you guys knew each other."
"Not before tonight. He looks familiar, though. I probably fixed his busted-ass car." Frederick gave a wry grin. "Paul was the last to arrive. We let him inside when we heard him banging on the door."
Tom nodded. Despite Frederick's careless actions, despite the predicament they were in, it felt good to relax, if only for a second. In spite of what Frederick had done, he didn't hate the man.
With any luck, they'd all survive.
They'd kept vigil for another twenty minutes when the generator sputtered. The furnace rattled in the basement. Tom stared across the room at Paul, watching him react.
"The generator's low on gas," Paul said. "The tank's only good for a few hours."
"Dammit," Tom swore. "Where's the generator?"
"Under a canopy out back. We have a hookup back there. We kept a few things running: a few lights, the heat, and the refrigerator. That's it."
Tom nodded. There was no way to get to the generator—at least not without opening doors and risking lives. He knew that much.
He glanced around the room. The light was one of the only things keeping them sane. He couldn't imagine being in the dark, listening to the creatures scrabble at the doors. That was how he'd felt in Colton's basement. The lack of windows in the kitchen was safe, but disconcerting. They'd be even more vulnerable once the things broke in if they couldn't see what they were shooting at.
He studied every inch of the room, committing it to memory. The kitchen was large, but it'd feel a lot smaller soon. Other than the small storage closet and the area under the counter, there were few places to seek refuge. The preparation table was no longer an option, unless they wanted to climb beneath the barricade. An empty, dust-ridden gap remained where the refrigerator had been. Sven and Paul sat on their haunches at the other side of the room, whispering. Sherry glanced at them from under the counter, then stared back at the wall. She mouthed words, but no sound came out.
Tom looked at Frederick, speaking quietly. "You said Sherry's family was killed?"
"Yeah. When I found her on the side of the road, she was alone in her car. I asked her where she was going and she said she didn't know. I don't think she's said more than a few words since then."
"Is she from Plainfield?"
"If she is, I've never seen her." Frederick shrugged. "But that doesn't mean much. She could be from anywhere."
"You didn't ask her?"
"Nah."
Tom stared at the woman, his dread growing. What if she was one of them? What if she was like Billy and Ashley? Perhaps her demeanor was all an act, just like theirs. When the lights went out, nothing would stop her from transforming and attacking. As if sensing his suspicions, Sherry turned her head and met his eyes. He smiled at her, but she didn't acknowledge it. Her eyes were glassy and empty. He looked away.
A chill worked its way through Tom's body.
That was the other thing. Heat. During their stay in the room, he'd gotten used to the relative warmth. It was much better than the cold outside. But that would go away, too, once the generator went down. The lack of heat would make them lethargic. Less coordinated in a fight. Tom had to store his energy. Although he wasn't certain of much, he knew he'd need all the stamina he could muster.
Tom looked to his left, noticing movement. Rosemary stood next to him, her face torn with emotion. She'd removed something from her pocket and was staring at it. Jeffrey's truck. She twirled the sticky, plastic object in her hands, leaving traces of blood on her fingertips. He hadn't even been aware she'd salvaged it.
"I should've gone with them," she whispered.
"Rosemary…" Tom said. "It's not your fault."
"I should've gone to my mother-in-law's." Rosemary blinked back a tear. "If I had, maybe they'd still be alive."
"You can't know that."
"If I'm going to die, I'd rather have died with them."
Tom swallowed. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't have the heart to tell her he'd contemplated similar things.
Chapter Sixteen
Since Frederick had fired the pistol, the beasts were surprisingly quiet. Tom pictured them lurking in the dark, determining the best way to get to them. He alternated his gaze between the doors on either side of the room. Was it possible they sensed real danger? He doubted it. They'd shown no fear when attacking him and his comrades at the factory building, and he doubted they'd show fear now.
The more likely option was that they were biding their time.
The lights flickered.
Off. Then on again.
The generator was running out of juice. Tom's eyes darted around the room. He studied the exits, envisioning the doors caving. For the past few minutes, he'd concentrated on defending their stronghold. What he hadn't considered was the possibility of escape. What if they could get past the beasts and into the other room? It might come to that.
Tom didn't know the hall that well. But Paul did. Maybe there was something else in the building that could help them.
He strode over to the man, leaving Rosemary and Frederick to guard the back door. Paul was leaning against the wall by the other barricade. Sven had left his side and resorted to pacing the room. Paul's face was gaunt and pale. He swallowed nervously when he saw Tom coming.
"How long you figure we'll have power?"
"Another few minutes, probably," Paul sa
id. "Once the generator starts running low, it doesn't take long to shut off. Then we'll be in the dark. It'll get cold fast."
"Where do the other doors lead?" Tom pointed to the entrance Paul was guarding. "I saw a few doors in the main hall, but I didn't get a good look around."
Paul spoke without hesitation, as if he were leading a guided tour. "There are four other doors out there. Across the room is the entrance. Then you have the supply closet. Nothing but mops and buckets in there. That's all the way to the left. Then you have a bathroom. Lastly, there's the door that leads to the basement."
"What's in the basement?"
Paul shook his head. "Not much—just some old boxes and fans. Things we don't use anymore. John's war memorabilia, mostly."
"Who's John?"
"The co-owner of the hall, remember? He died with the rest of them." Paul beckoned at the door. "I saw his body among the others. I hardly recognized him. I think that was his arm next to the bar." Paul swallowed a lump in his throat.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Paul looked at the floor. He pursed his lips. "He was a tough son of a bitch. You know, in the ten years I knew John, I never saw the man get emotional. He was very practical. Anytime something went wrong, he'd find the solution. He was like that all his life, from what I hear."
"Where'd you meet him?"
"He was my neighbor. He lived a few houses down the street from me. I'd known him for years, and I used to attend all his events here at the hall. A few years ago, I retired from Pratt & Whitney, and I was planning to do some volunteer work for him."
"How'd you end up as co-owner of the hall?"
"A year after I retired, my wife died of a heart attack. You spend all your years working somewhere, with the hope that you'll enjoy retirement with the one you love. No one prepares you for what happens when your spouse dies."
"I understand," Tom said. With Lorena gone, he was in the same situation.
"Gertie used to do all the cooking, the cleaning, the bills. She was the anchor that held the house together. Without her, it felt like the whole house was floating out to sea, and I had no idea where I'd wash up. So I never got around to the volunteer work. And then John and I started talking one day. I used to walk around the neighborhood, you know, to keep my mind occupied. He called me over to his porch." Paul turned the gun in his hands. "He told me he was getting older, and that he could use my help running the hall. It turns out John had no living relatives. He offered to make me a co-owner. I accepted. We've been running this place for five years now. It's kept me busy, and I've grown to love it."
Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) Page 7
