"It sounds like it came at the perfect time."
"It did. But now I'm not sure it matters anymore." Paul bit his lips and stared at the door. "Once those things get in, it'll all be over, anyway."
Tom tightened his grip on the gun. "We'll do what we have to do to stave them off."
The lights flickered.
"It's so quiet out there now," Paul commented. "If I didn't know better, I'd suggest we go outside to our cars and get the fuck out of here. But that's probably what they want. There's nowhere to go except here. I bet they're enjoying this. The fuckers."
Tom swallowed. He looked around the room, studying the faces of his companions. Rosemary held Jason's truck, turning it in her hands, Frederick next to her. Sven had stopped pacing and was staring at the ceiling. Sherry readjusted under the counter, her head in her hands.
Tom dispelled the idea that Paul was right.
"We've made it a lot longer than the others," Tom said. "If we can hold off a bit more, we might just get out of this thing yet."
"I keep saying to myself, if John was the toughest son of a bitch I knew, and he died, what chance do I have of staying alive?" Paul stared despondently at the wall.
For the past hour, Paul had seemed full of fight, but now he seemed to be losing his resolve. Tom patted him on the shoulder.
"We'll make it through this."
Tom recalled Mark saying the same words to him a few hours ago. At the time, Tom had felt reassured. He tried to forget the fact that Mark was dead.
Paul sighed. "You know, Gertie was a big believer in the bible. She was always watching the news, listening to all the shit they spilled about wars and death. She was a positive woman, but every once in a while she slipped into this mode where she was certain the world was ending. I always laughed it off, of course. But now I'm wondering if she was right. Maybe the world is ending."
Tom studied the rifle in his hands. "You know, Paul, when I was out there alone, I was thinking the same thing. But when I stumbled on that factory building and met Mark, when I learned about Colton's ammunition, I realized these things could be killed. That made me change my mind. If God wanted us dead, I doubt he'd give us the means to defend ourselves."
"I guess so," Paul said, half-convinced.
"It's up to us to get out of this. Whatever we have to do, we need to do it."
Paul sighed. "You're probably right, Tom. But say we survive until morning. Then what? How many people are even alive out there? And what happens to these creatures?"
"We won't know until then. Hopefully that'll be the end of it. We'll see when we get there."
Paul ignored him. "Even if we get to morning, that's not going to bring back Gertie. And it's not going to bring back John."
Tom looked over at Paul sympathetically. Tom's eyes immediately widened. In the time they'd been talking, unbeknownst to him, Paul had tucked the pistol underneath his chin. Tom reached for the man, but he was too late.
Before Tom could react, Paul squeezed the trigger and shot himself in the head.
Chapter Seventeen
The explosion rocked the room. Gore splattered Tom's face and clothing. He tasted copper in his mouth, and he screamed, his voice overshadowing the ringing in his ears. Paul's face, whole just seconds before, was now caved and bloodied. The man's body went slack as his pistol clattered to the ground.
The others panicked. Sherry's scream echoed off the walls, and Sven, Frederick, and Rosemary scrambled to make sense of the situation.
Tom's heart collided with his ribcage. He reached for the man, hoping to rewind time, but there was nothing left to salvage. Paul was dead.
"Oh God!" Rosemary shrieked. She ran over to Tom, flailing her hands. "What happened? What the hell happened?"
"I was just talking with him, and he took the gun…" Tom's voice trailed off. He tried to wipe the blood from his face, but only succeeded in smearing his jacket with Paul's remains. He inched away from the body. His stomach felt sick and sour.
"Holy shit, man! Holy shit!" Frederick yelled.
Frederick and Sven joined Rosemary, surveying the body with terror-stricken eyes. Sherry climbed out from beneath the table. She stood against the wall, shocked and swaying for balance, holding her hammer.
Tom got to his feet. Bile still stung his throat. He glared around the room, as if Paul's death would spark an immediate reaction from the beasts. But the room was quiet, save the disbelief of his companions and the generator's constant, soon-to-be nonexistent growl.
He couldn't believe what he'd witnessed. Paul had seemed despondent, but hell, they all were. To think he would give up now was unbelievable. Not after they'd survived half the night.
He was the most composed of us all.
"That motherfucker. I knew you shouldn't have given him the gun." Sven shook his head. "You should've given it to me, like I said. Now what are we going to do?"
Tom stared at Paul's slack, lifeless figure. His body was a grim reminder of the fate that awaited them all. Tom snatched the gun on the ground and tucked it in his pants.
"Well, what are we going to do, Tom? Don't you have all the answers?" Sven asked again.
Tom ignored the jab.
"Should we put him somewhere?" Frederick asked.
"I'm not sure," Tom said.
Tom's coat was slick with blood and remains. The sight and smell were making him sick. Rosemary handed him a towel she'd located in one of the cabinets. Tom thanked her, then shirked off his jacket and used the towel to clean his face.
"I don't think it'll do any of us good staring at him," he said, after a pause.
"Why don't we put him in the broom closet?" Rosemary suggested.
"We need to do something, man. Those things probably smell him. They're probably getting ready to come inside and eat the rest of us," Frederick said. He stared at Paul's caved, featureless face, and turned his head. Without warning, he threw up on the floor.
"Aw, man! What the hell? Now we have to smell that all night," Sven groaned.
Tom shuddered. The room had become a perverse blend of smells and sights. Each second that Paul's body remained only deepened their anxiety; they needed to do something. "All right. Let's empty out the closet and put him in there. As awful as this is, it's not going to do any of us good to keep looking at him."
Tom headed over to the supply closet, keeping a wary eye on the doors. At any moment, he expected the creatures to fight their way in, preying on the survivors' panic. He considered what Frederick had said; the creatures probably smelled the fresh odor of blood, even through the sickening mess they'd made in the other room.
Tom opened the door of the closet and removed the supplies with Rosemary's assistance.
"I heard you two talking, but I wasn't paying much attention," she said guiltily. "I wish I'd done something."
Tom cast aside a dustpan and a broom. "I don't think there was anything any of us could've done. I think he had his mind made up," Tom said. "We need to push on and keep calm. That's the only way we'll have a chance at surviving this."
Rosemary chewed her lip silently. She removed a pail from the closet and placed it on the floor. "What did he say? You know, before he did it?"
"He was upset, Rosemary. Like we all are."
Realizing the curtness in his voice, Tom softened his tone. "Can you hold my rifle?" he asked. She agreed. He called to Sven. "Can you help move him?"
Tom walked over to Paul's body, taking hold of one of his legs. Sven took the other. They slid the dead man across the floor, pulling him over the red square tiles. Paul's shirt bunched up, absorbing the blood on the floor like a sponge. Tom looked away, focused on the closet. When they reached it, he and Sven each took one of Paul's arms and lifted him up.
The closet was small and compact, and he barely fit inside. They propped him up, fighting the gravity of his unsupported body, finally managing to shut him inside. When the door closed, he collapsed with a muted thump. Tom dispelled his guilt at stowing Paul away. There wa
s no time for dignity. Not when survival was uncertain. Later, if there were a later, they'd find time to bury the dead.
With Paul out of sight, the others had calmed down somewhat, but the aftermath of the man's death still hung in the air. Frederick had resorted to pacing the far end of the room, keeping away from the place where Paul had died. Sherry hid away underneath the table. Rosemary hung by Tom's side; Sven kept an uneasy watch by the front door. Tom saw him eyeing the spare pistols, which Tom had tucked in his pants. He'd have to give them up soon. He was going to need help.
He couldn't take on the beasts alone.
He'd have to trust the men, like it or not.
"I heard some of what you were saying to Paul," Rosemary admitted. "It was hard to hear over the generator, but you were asking about the layout of the hall, right?"
"Yes."
"Did you learn anything that might help us?"
"There are four other doors in the main room. Aside from the main entrance, there's a door leading to the basement, a bathroom, and a closet. None of that seemed like it'd be much help."
"Were you thinking of making a break for it?" Rosemary asked.
"No. I was just thinking that if we ended up out there, it'd be good to know where to run." Tom sighed wearily. He was exhausted and emotionally drained. Watching Paul die had only added to the weight of the tragedies he'd already witnessed that night. His tired, cramped legs were worn out from standing.
"It's been quiet for a while," Rosemary whispered, after a pause. "Do you think they're still out there?"
"I doubt they'll leave," Tom answered. "Not without getting to us first."
"Maybe they've found something else that interests them. Maybe they moved on to easier targets."
Tom shrugged. As appealing as the idea was, he doubted its truthfulness. Before he considered it further, the lights flickered.
Tom glanced at the ceiling. Rosemary shifted uncomfortably.
"How much longer do you think we have?" she asked nervously. "You know, with the power?"
"I'm surprised it's lasted as long as it has. Paul said it would—"
As if on cue, the generator sputtered.
The lights went out.
PART THREE: THE BATTLE
Chapter Eighteen
Sherry screamed. Tom's heart galloped. Even though he'd been expecting the power to fail, it didn't make it any less frightening. He stared into the gloom, trying to discern the shapes of his companions. He heard the rustle of coats and the swish of pant legs, and a second later, saw the screens of several phones blinking on. Rosemary held hers in the air.
"Tom?" Rosemary whispered.
"I'm here."
He felt Rosemary's hand on his arm. Across the room, Sven waved his cellphone through the darkness. "That's better," he said.
"I can't see shit," Frederick complained from further away.
"Maybe that's better," Sven said. "You won't be able to watch yourself get eaten."
"Hopefully they get you first, fat boy," Frederick retorted. He attempted to be insulting, but Tom could tell his retort was half-hearted, laced with fear.
"Does anyone else have phones?" Tom asked.
The others confirmed they didn't.
"Sven and Rosemary, you should probably keep the phones off," Tom suggested. "Save the batteries. We might need them later."
They agreed, and a moment later, the room plunged back into darkness. With the generator dead, the building went silent. There were no noises from the parking lot. The quiet felt like a second entity waiting to spring. Tom stared in the direction of the doors. Once they opened, he'd have seconds to aim. Barely enough time to fire a shot. Right before the power went out, he'd been prepared to pass out the weapons.
Palms slapped the floor in front of him. Someone was coming toward him. Tom heard the person whimpering.
"Who's there?" he asked, though he'd already guessed.
"Sherry."
The woman crawled until he felt her hot breath on his face. He smelled the remnants of a previous meal on her breath—some sort of spices and meat. "I want to stay over here by you guys, if that's all right," she said.
"Okay," he said. How could he refuse?
"You have guns," she clarified, her voice shaking.
Tom swallowed. The woman was right, but he hardly felt like a leader. Tom was as apprehensive as the rest of them. Sherry crouched a few feet away. Though he couldn't see her, he pictured the woman's hollow eyes looking at him in the darkness. He felt a surge of uneasiness. It was time to pass out the guns.
Sven stifled a cough. Frederick mumbled something indecipherable.
"Everyone listen up. Let's meet in the middle. Get in between the two doors. When those things break in, we'll need every bit of distance and time we can get," Tom suggested. Nervous grunts of agreement emanated from the darkness.
Tom scurried through the darkness on hands and knees, Rosemary and Sherry behind him. Across from him, Sven and Frederick did the same. The floor was cold through his gloves. Tom smelled cleaning products, vomit, and the coppery odor of Paul's blood. He gagged. The memory of the gunshot—of Paul's splattered face—was an image he couldn't erase.
Soon the five of them met in the room's center. They shuffled until they were against the wall.
"I'm going to need your help. All of you," Tom started. "We need to pull it together."
Whether it was the looming silence or the darkness of the room, he wasn't sure, but this time there were no arguments. The room was pin drop quiet.
"Sven and Frederick, I know you two have had your differences. But you need to put that aside. Otherwise we're going to end up like the people in the other room. Is that how you want to end up?"
Sven and Frederick shifted in the darkness.
"Is that how you want to end up?" Tom asked again, forcing them to answer.
"No," Sven mumbled.
Frederick sighed. "Seeing Paul's face like that...it was awful. I don't want to end up like that."
"Whatever you need us to do, we'll do it," Sven concluded.
Tom sucked in a breath and continued.
"Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to use Rosemary's light to show you how to use the pistols. Then, between the four of us, we'll cover the doors. Sven and Frederick will cover the door to the hall. Rosemary and I will cover the door leading outside. Sherry, stick between us; there's no way to know which one of them the things will come through."
"Okay," Sherry murmured.
"I'm good with that," Frederick said.
"Me, too," Sven agreed.
Sven and Frederick listened intently while Tom caught them up to speed on the guns. He reloaded them while the men watched. When he was finished, the men asked several questions, and he answered them the best he could.
"When it's time to reload, stick together, and we'll cover each other." Tom aimed his pistol at the back door. "Now let's go."
The two groups shuffled a few feet away from each other, assuming their positions, keeping Sherry in between them. Rosemary shut off the light. The last thing Tom saw was Sherry's panicked eyes.
With the light off, Tom stared intently into the gloom, expecting to see shapes in the darkness, things springing to life. But the room was black and impenetrable. They remained in silence for several minutes. Listening. Every so often, coats rustled or someone drew a frightened breath. Each noise made Tom's heart stammer. He pictured beasts in every direction, stalking them. What if one of the beasts was crouched in the darkness? What if his friends had turned?
He tried to convince himself he would've heard something.
Billy and Ashley had been vocal and violent, their transformations unmistakable. Their stretching limbs had been punctuated by growls. If someone else turned, he'd hear the person, and he'd take care of them. That was it.
Tom thought back to the time he'd spent in the factory building. It was a little warmer in the Knights of Columbus, but the fear was just as biting. In some ways, the anticipation of
the beasts was worse than facing them.
At least in the factory, he had the windows to watch.
Here he had nothing.
They hovered in silence for several minutes, afraid to speak, afraid to move. Outside, the wind kicked up, pelting the building with snow. Tom wondered how much more had piled up in the time he'd been indoors. He envisioned the cars in the parking lot smothered in white. For all he knew, the building itself was encased in ice, impenetrable to the outside world. He cast away the irrational thought and calmed his breathing.
He focused on getting to morning. If he concentrated hard enough, he could picture daylight pushing through the storm, repelling the beasts with the morning sun.
Night couldn't last forever.
Could it?
A scratching noise emanated from a distant corner. Tom twisted his head to look, forgetting the light was off. Something skittered across the room. His pulse spiked. It didn't sound like something large. Probably a rodent. But how could he be sure?
Rosemary and Sven turned on their cellphones, shining them at the distant walls. They saw nothing.
Tom waited for the noise to resume, but it didn't.
"Rats," Sven grunted in the near-darkness, after a pause.
Sherry laughed nervously. The sound was unnatural and forced, as if it'd taken her effort to muster. Rosemary clung to Tom's sleeve and they shut off the lights.
Tom pictured Paul slumped over in the closet, blood leaking from his ruined face. Perhaps the rats had gotten to him already. The memory of the gunshot—of the man's final, despondent words—was still fresh in Tom's mind.
Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) Page 8
