Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance)
Read Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) Online
Authors: T.W. Piperbrook
Tags: #Werewolves
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?
Want to know when the next book will be out?
Sign up for NEW RELEASE ALERTS and get a FREE STORY!
OUTAGE 3:
VENGEANCE
By T.W. Piperbrook
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…
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 the 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.
