Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) (10 page)

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.

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 said. "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."

"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.
 

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.