by Liam Jackson
You're being silly, kiddo. Probably just someone looking for an address in the neighborhood.
Pam walked back to the front door and looked out from the peephole. Standing in plain view was a diminutive, elderly woman, complete with a silk scarf and bluish hair. "Told ya so, silly," Pam chided herself.
She slid the chain from its latch and turned the knob on the dead bolt. Taking a deep breath, Pam opened the door and smiled.
"Hello. What can I do for you?"
The woman, frail and wrinkled hands clasped to her chest, returned the smile and said, "Oh, dear, I hate to intrude this time of night, but I've been driving around in circles for over an hour. I'm looking for the Wainwright residence. Lillian Wainwright? I believe she lives on Rosemont Drive. I found the street a block over, but can't recall the address. I don't suppose you know her?"
Pam shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. Do you have her phone number?"
The old woman smiled sheepishly. "I had a piece of paper with her number, dear, but lost it somewhere along the way.
Oh, I'm sorry. I should introduce myself. My name is Ellen, Ellen Wainwright from St. Louis. Lillian is my younger sister. I just have to find her house tonight. She'll be worried sick, poor thing, and frankly, it's a little frightening, being out here and alone at this hour in a strange city."
The old woman looked as frazzled as she sounded, and despite Pam's nagging reservations, she couldn't stand the thought of turning her away.
Pam opened the door wide and motioned Ellen into the living room. "Come in, and we'll check the phone book. I'm sure we'll find your sister in nothing flat."
The old woman smiled broadly, relief apparent on her face. "Oh, thank you, dear! I hate to impose but... well, I don't mind telling you that I was getting desperate."
As she started through the door, the old woman paused and looked back toward the still idling Lincoln. Pam leaned out the door for a closer look at the car. The thing that immediately struck her was that the car was probably eligible for antique license plates. The second thing that caught her attention was the pitch-black tinting that covered all of the windows.
"Your car should be fine, but if you're concerned, you can turn off the engine and lock the doors. But I don't think you have anything to worry about. This is a pretty safe neighborhood."
"Oh, I'm not worried, dear," the old woman said smoothly. "Now, let's check that phone book, shall we?"
Pam led the old woman in to the living room and invited her to sit. "Would you care for something to drink? Maybe some coffee?"
The woman politely declined the offer and made herself comfortable on the plush sofa. "I'm fine, dear, just fine. And I do appreciate you allowing me into your home."
"No problem, Ms. Wainwright. None at all," Pam called over her shoulder as she walked into to the kitchen to get the phone and the directory. Flipping through the pages, she was struck by a brief moment of melancholy. The last time she bothered to look at the book was the morning that Michael began looking for a doctor. Brushing away a tear from the corner of her eye, Pam took a second to regain her composure, then walked back into the living room.
Taking a seat beside the old woman, Pam searched the long W section for a Lillian Wainwright and came up empty. Not even an initial L Wainwright anywhere in the greater Kansas City Metro area. While Pam double-checked the listings, Ms. Wainwright stood up and walked to the fireplace. Pam watched from the corner of her eye as the old woman inspected the various photographs that sat atop the mantel. After a moment, she picked up one of the pictures, a wedding day photo in an ornate pewter frame. It was Pam's favorite.
"Oh, my! What a handsome young man. And so tall!"
Pam smiled despite her somber mood. "Oh, yes. My husband is a big one. He was quite the athlete, too. Played college football at Nebraska. He's a training officer with the Kansas City Police Department now."
"Well, isn't that nice! A police officer! I suppose you must be very proud of Mikey."
It took less than a second for the remark to register on Pam. "How... how did you know my husband's name?"
The old woman gave her a puzzled look then smiled a toothy grin. "Didn't you tell me his name, Pam? I'm sure you must have mentioned it."
"Oh, I'm sure I didn't, just as I'm sure I didn't mention my first name either."
Pam laid the phone book aside and rose up from the sofa. Every instinct screamed for her to be rid of this strange woman, and the sooner the better. She wobbled a bit as she stood. Her nightly medication was taking effect. "I think maybe you should leave now."
"Oh, dear, you mustn't let yourself get worked up. Especially in your condition. Tell me, does Mikey have a young friend by the name of Sam Conner?"
The old woman set aside the picture and walked across the room to stand directly in front of Pam. She laid her hand upon Pam's forearm and Pam instinctively jerked away as if the touch carried an electric shock.
Ms. Wainwright ignored her and crooned, "Oh, dear. You're distraught! Really, Pam! You must think of your health. Losing the baby must have been a terrible ordeal for you, just terrible. You wouldn't want to go through that again, would you?"
Pam slowly backed away, never taking her eyes from the old woman. "Who are you? What do you want?"
The old woman suddenly threw back her head and cackled. "Oh, my, that's certainly direct, isn't it? Very well, dear, I'll tell you who I am. But first, I have something to show you."
The air around Ms. Wainwright began to shimmer and Pam's stomach lurched. The room twisted wildly as she experienced a sudden and severe spasm of vertigo. All around her, furniture spun violently in place and Pam was certain the ceiling would switch places with the floor at any moment. All the while, she tried to keep her eyes on the old woman.
As she looked on, the air took on a translucent quality, akin to smoke in a bottle. Still, she could see well enough that something very peculiar was happening and there was no way she could blame her medication for it. The old woman now stood taller by several inches. In a matter of seconds, she had grown from an inch or so above five feet to a height well above Pam's own five-ten. Fabric ripped at the seams and clothing fell away to the floor. Her shoulders and arms bulged, filling out with knotty muscle and sinew. All the while, the woman continued to talk. Her voice, raspy and suddenly masculine, reverberated throughout the room as if a dozen or more people spoke at once.
"So nice of you to ask Us in, Pammy, dear. Did you know that Mikey let Us in, too? Yes, he did! He was such a good boy, I'm sure his passing will be mourned by his many friends."
Something inside of Pam snapped and fear surrendered to outrage.
"What do you mean? What have you done to Michael? Tell me!" she screamed.
Ellen Wainwright cackled again and this time there was a strong suggestion of madness in her tone. Her voice was little more than guttural snarls now, and rows of needlelike teeth showed from between the old woman's thick painted lips.
"Oh, shut up and sit down, you sniveling little bitch. Can't you see We're busy here?"
And Pam could see that she was. Before her very eyes, the old woman was changing, transforming into something more animal than human. Her eyes, once a warm shade of brown, now took on a feral appearance, bright yellow with tiny scarlet flecks dancing around each pupil. Thick splotches of coarse brindle hair sprouted along muscular legs, arms, and shoulders.
"Dear God, what are you? What have I done?"
"Why would you think that He gives a good long shit about the likes of you?" the creature said with a hideous grin.
"For the few minutes you have left on this earth, We are the only god you have. We are going to mount you and split you like a rotten melon!"
The creature took a step toward the paralyzed woman, thick rivulets of acidic saliva dripping from the downturned corners of its mouth.
"And after we finish with you, We'll rip your fucking pup right out of your stomach. We'll enjoy that, yes We will. Just like We enjoyed his bastard father. Mikey was
so much fun, yes he was!"
That final taunt ripped through the mental bonds that held Pam in thrall and she flung the phone at the creature.
"You're lying!" screamed Pam. She heard the phone shatter upon impact, and bolted for the stairs. The creature roared with bloodlust and lunged for her. Luck, or fate, smiled on Pam in that instant and the creature's feet became entangled in the shredded clothes that littered the floor. Pam felt the vibration as the monster landed hard at the base of the stairs.
Dear God, help me. I can't fight that thing. I can't...
Taking the stairs two at a time, Pam misjudged the last step and slipped. She fell hard into the wall, then scrambled on hands and knees for the bedroom.
Michael's spare gun! Have to... reach the bedroom...
Inches from the door, an iron band wrapped around her left ankle and squeezed with an impossible strength. Pam screamed as shards of splintered bone pushed through the skin. Teetering on the edge of unconsciousness and desperate to reach the bedroom, Pam kicked out blindly with her good leg. The heel of her foot smashed into the creature's snout. Suddenly, she was free and scampering into the bedroom on hands and knees. Pam turned the knob on the dead bolt just as the thing that had been Ms. Ellen Wainwright of St. Louis slammed into the door with all the fury of a small tornado. The thick oak splintered in a half dozen places, but held.
Have to reach the gun!
Pam tried to stand, but the pain from her fractured ankle proved too intense. The bedroom wasn't large, but the closet where Mark kept the compact 9mm handgun was on the other side of the bed. Pam crawled across the floor and dragged herself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
Taking a deep breath and steeling herself against the pain, Pam laid on her side and started to roll across the bed toward the closet. Before she could carry out her plan, the bedroom door exploded from the hinges.
Without thinking, Pam launched herself from the bed and onto the floor. Rolling, she made it to the bathroom and managed to shut the door just as the creature charged headlong into the frame. Unlike the solid oak bedroom door, the bathroom door was made of veneered spruce. Pam knew that this door wouldn't withstand a fraction of the punishment. Hope all but exhausted, Pam sobbed, "Oh, God... I don't want to die... Not like this..."
Softly, the concerned voice of Ellen Wainwright, a kindly old grandmother, called out from beyond the door. "Dear, are you all right? What's wrong? You just stormed up the stairs without a word! Did I say something to upset you?"
"Go away!"
Is this really happening? Have I lost my mind? "That was a nasty fall, dear. Let Auntie Ellen in and we will take good care of you."
We will take good care of you... We will... We... "Go to hell!"
"Open... the ... door... you... fucking bitch!"
Another shock wave crashed against the door and the bottom hinge popped free of the shattered frame. Pam used the sink to pull herself from the floor and away from the groping claw that reached for her from beneath the wrecked wood. Frantically, she looked around the tiny room for anything that she could use as a weapon.
Curtain rod! No, too flimsy. What, then? What?
For lack of a better alternative, Pam picked up a can of hairspray from the vanity. Maybe I can spray it in the eyes, blind it long enough to get out of the house!
She knew the plan was ridiculous, but she was determined to try something... anything.
"I won't leave you like this, Mikey," she whispered. "Not like this!"
Easy now. Cigarette lighter. Calm and reassuring, the message came from nowhere and everywhere. "Wha—?"
Cigarette lighter. Hurry.
"Cigarette... lighter? Oh, God, I'm delirious."
Pam looked at the can of hairspray then ran her hand along her jeans pocket. Then it came to her. "Cigarette lighter!" Michael had showed her the trick a couple of years ago.
She pulled the disposable lighter free just as the creature charged a third and final time. Bowing to an irresistible force, the door flew free from its remaining hinge and smashed into Pam, pinning her against the sink. The creature, still separated from its prey by the battered door, screeched and tore at the wood with fang and claw.
Pam knew the door would fall apart any second. With her thumb, she adjusted the lighter to maximum flame, then raised the can of hairspray and waited for an opening.
Patience. You will only get one chance at this.
Suddenly, the door was gone, reduced to rubble, and Pam was face to snout with the nightmarish monster. She struck the lighter. A three-inch finger of flame sprang to life just as the creature wrapped its spindly claws in her hair and pulled.
Pam jerked her head to the side and cried out as a fistful of hair tore free from her scalp. She sprayed the contents of the aerosol can across the top of the cigarette lighter, turning it into a miniature, but effective, flamethrower.
Fire, fueled by fast-burning alcohol and propelled by compressed air, struck the monster's bulging eyes from scant inches away. Pam sent a second gout of orange fire into the creature's face, and watched in glee as its fur smoldered, then burst into flames. The creature stumbled and fell hard against the bathroom wall, caving in a large section of Sheetrock.
Burning fur and oily skin fell away in large clumps, igniting the wallpaper and small pieces of wood from the door's wreckage. Staggering, the creature raked the air with gnarled talons. Its own demise was inconsequential when compared to the ultimate indignity of death at the hands of an Offspring.
Pam crouched beneath the sweeping claws, searching desperately for an opening. If the creature didn't manage kill her, smoke and fire surely would. An unexpected lunge nearly decapitated her, and Pam fell back between the sink and toilet. The creature's momentum carried it over the top of the commode and into the bathtub.
Hailing wildly, the creature became tangled in the shower curtains. Within seconds, the monster was covered from head to knees in a death shroud of melting, shrinking plastic. Pam stared at the writhing figure, unable to look away, listening as shrieks dwindled to whimpers, then silence.
Pam crawled out from beneath the sink and scrambled into the bedroom. Flames now raced along three of the four bathroom walls and she knew the house would burn to the ground if she didn't get help immediately.
Pam found the phone laying on the floor near the closet door, and hit the speed dial for 911. A dispatcher answered on the second ring.
"Nine-eleven. Your name and nature of the call please."
"This is Pamela Collier, at Three thousand, one-oh-five Richmond Circle! My house is on fire. I need the fire department! And send the police!"
"I'm sorry. We're closed."
"You're... you're what? I don't think I heard you." Pam held her hand over her nose and mouth and crawled across the carpet, out into the hallway.
"I said we're closed. Please call again tomorrow."
Pam screamed into the receiver, "This isn't a joke! I need the fire department, now!"
Laughter.
"Now, calm down, Pammy," came the mocking reply. "You know your health hasn't been so good since losing the pup. Speaking of health, why are you still alive, bitch?"
In horror, Pam flung the phone back into the bedroom.
Pam stammered, "This... this can't be happening. God, tell me none of this is real. Pleasepleasepleaseplease..."
You don't have time for this! Get out of the house. Now! She was startled by the strong masculine voice, but quickly decided it was sound advice. There was no time to worry about the voice inside her head or the monster upstairs. She had to get out of the burning house. Sitting on the top step of the stairway, she began the arduous and painful task of scooting her way down, one painful step at a time.
It took less than a minute for Pam to make her way down to the living room, but the upstairs and a large portion of the roof were now burning. Acrid smoke crept through the ceiling tile and drifted along the stairway. Smoke reduced vision in the living room to a few feet. The heat was g
rowing unbearable.
Pam tried to stand on her good leg and hop, but the jarring motion sent a jolt of excruciating pain through the injured ankle and into her leg. Pam fell heavily, striking her forehead against the glass and brass coffee table and setting off a shower of white sparks behind both eyes.
Struggling to her knees, Pam made her way across the living room and nearly reached the front door when a familiar and terrifying sound came from the stairway.
"Pammy... come back, Pammy."
"No! No!"
Pam had a hand on the doorknob, when the door flung wide. Through the smoky haze, she could see the form of a large man. At least, she thought it was a man. Without speaking, he stepped into the doorway and seized her roughly by the shoulders. The Lincoln!
The grip was far too strong to fight. Pam's first thought was that someone or something had been waiting in the Lincoln all this time. And now it had her, and she was all out of last-minute heroics.
Pam began sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh, Mikey. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."
She heard a vaguely familiar voice urgently call her name. Then strong arms lifted Pam from the floor and carried her out into blessed fresh air. Behind her, several thunderous explosions ripped through the house.
Gunshots?
"The white car ... watch out for the ... white car."
Succumbing to shock, Pam drifted into twilight. "Watch out... white car... white car."
"Easy, little sister. There's no car out here. My name is Paul. Paul Young. You're safe now. Sleep."
CHAPTER 42
Mykonos, Greece
Although he had existed since the beginning of time, and had experienced firsthand most everything that the Multiverse had to offer, Axthiel was a student of human history.
More precisely, he was a student of war, and had collected hundreds of books on the subject. He knew that most of the great men in human history had been warriors, and that many of the greatest written works of Man were little more than textbooks on the subject of killing. Mankind had elevated both armed and unarmed conflict to an artform and Axthiel admired and appreciated that trait in any species. Even hairless monkeys.
