Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) (2 page)

Tom scrutinized the houses. He recalled the address number: twenty-three Chestnut Street.
A yellow house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Mark's voice echoed in his head like a ghost's. Tom had the sudden, nervous thought that the man had been lying. But why would he have been? Everything Mark had said had proven true—Colton's death, the significance of the moon, the bullets being the only things to hurt the beasts.

What could he gain by lying about the ammunition at Colton's house?

Tom reassured himself as he kept driving. He glanced at the properties, searching for the right one. Between the ethereal glow of the moon and the yellow hue of the headlights, they all looked identical. Snow clung to their faces and obscured the numbers. The road ended in two hundred feet. He stared straight ahead, squinting through a copse of white-minted trees, finally catching sight of a small house tucked at the end of the cul-de-sac.
 

That had to be it.

He pulled to the end of the street.

To his dismay, a long driveway preceded the house. Tom swallowed, fighting the sinking premonition that he'd get stuck or attacked. Tall, snow-tipped pine trees lined the perimeter of the yard. The foliage extended past the house and into the backyard, which was heavily wooded. Rather than slowing down, Tom increased speed, building momentum as he transitioned to the driveway.
 

The tires skidded left and right over the snow.

The driveway went as far as the building's edge; there was no garage. He rolled fifty feet and stopped near a set of stairs. At the top of them was a side door leading into the house.

The wind gusted, flinging a batch of flurries through the driver's window. Tom squinted. When his vision cleared, he scoured the trees, but nothing leapt out at him. Still, the car was a homing beacon for the creatures, and he no longer wanted to be in it. He kept a firm grip on his rifle, surveying the house, and then cut the headlights and planned his entrance.

Between the urgency of his escape and the determination to get to Colton's, he'd barely thought about getting inside. He doubted he'd find a key under the doormat. He'd probably have to break a window. The noise would attract attention.
 

But what choice did he have?

He stared at the building, as if Colton might be waiting, ready to open the door. But nobody was home.
 

Colton's dead. Remember?

Rifle in hand, Tom stepped out into the open night, leaving the car running. His boots sank in deep snow. He cracked the car door, just in case he had to make a beeline back to it. He trudged for the set of stairs. Tom surveyed the dimly lit landscape as he mounted the steps. His legs felt stiff and asleep. It felt like he'd been in the car for hours, though it'd certainly been much shorter.

He grabbed the railing for support. The bars were rusted, worn. The screen door hung on a single hinge. He doubted the beasts had done the damage; it looked like Colton's house was naturally unkempt. He tried the door, but it was locked. Several glass panes lined the upper half. Without hesitation, Tom turned his rifle backward and shattered one of them, listening to glass cascade to the interior floor.
 

He reached inside, unlocked the deadbolt, and swung open the door.

He paused at the threshold, huffing in a breath of stale air. The house stank of beer and spoiled food. He could barely see the interior. The only illumination was the pale light of the moon, spilling several feet inside. He stepped over debris—clothing, paper, and dishes—and walked inside. He tiptoed to the refrigerator, a looming mass on the right-hand wall, and creaked it open, confirming there was no power. The stench of rotten food intensified, and he covered his mouth with his hand. He shut the door and made his way to the counter, looking for a flashlight.
There has to be one somewhere
. He searched the drawers. To his relief, he found one, and he tested it by pressing it against his coat. It worked.
 

The basement. That's where he needed to go.

He shined the flashlight on the floor, creeping through the dirty, dank house. He pictured Colton living alone, drinking away the hours he didn't spend killing. The image was as depressing as it was horrifying. That was no kind of life. But was this? Sneaking through the night, praying for safety? Tom's resolve hardened. He'd destroy the things before they got to him. He'd find the stash, and he'd defend himself against the creatures until morning.

He'd survive.

He crept into the next room. The dining room table was strewn with unopened mail and dishes. He continued into the foyer. To his right was a door that looked like it led to the basement. Before opening it, he searched the rest of the house. The living room was empty; so was the only bedroom and small bathroom. His initial suspicions about Colton's personal habits had been correct. The lack of upkeep extended from the exterior to the interior, evidenced by littered microwave dinners and scattered piles of DVD's. The bathroom reeked of mildew and mold.

Before heading to the basement, Tom glanced out a window next to the front door. He could just see the tail pipe of the station wagon, billowing smoke into the night. The street was empty.
 

And then it wasn't.
 

Two shadows lurked near one of the neighboring properties—large, bounding figures moving with their heads down. They were hunting. Hunting for
him
.

Hurry.

Dammit.

Balancing his rifle and flashlight, Tom sprang for the cellar. He grimaced as he snuck down the musty stairs, shutting and locking the door behind him. The door was thin. If the creatures followed him, it wouldn't hold for long. But he had to keep going. He only had a few bullets in his rifle. His ammunition wouldn't last long. God forbid he missed a shot…

He swiveled the flashlight in front of him, heart ramming his chest.
 

The basement was in worse shape than the upstairs, if that were possible. Bloodstained clothing spilled from the bottom steps into the room. Tom covered his mouth in repulsion. Perhaps the clothes had been ruined by Colton's nightly excursions. Farther into the room, Tom saw a battered washer and dryer and several pull-chain lights. No sign of weapons. Outside, the beasts howled. His panic heightened. They must've caught his scent.

Come on. There has to be a stash somewhere. Where is it?

He snuck past the washer and dryer, rounding the stairs. The ground was cracked, riddled with divots, as if the house were conspiring to swallow him whole. He stepped over empty soda bottles, a damaged air conditioner, and an overturned metal rack. He was about to give up when he spotted a freezer chest on the opposite side of the basement.
 

That must be it.
 

He dashed toward it.

In the flashlight's glow, he saw a single metal lock holding the chest shut. He stuck the light in the crook of his arm, turned the rifle around, and bashed the lock, trying to make quick work of it. The noise echoed through the basement. Tom cringed, but heard no repercussions to his action. He raised the gun and struck the lock again, breaking it open. He removed the lock and threw open the chest.
 

His eyes widened.
 

Mark hadn't been lying.

What he found wasn't what he'd expected, but it was more than he had hoped. The chest contained two pistols, another rifle, and numerous boxes of ammunition. He opened one of the boxes. Silver bullets glinted in the flashlight's gleam. He thanked whatever God had gotten him here safely. Tom removed each of the guns, imagining Colton's state of mind as he'd purchased them. He probably thought they'd benefit him and his brother, but Mark hadn't listened.

And now both Mark and Colton were dead. Tom swallowed.

He had just enough time to check that the weapons were loaded before a crash echoed from somewhere above him. The beasts were coming. Tom swiveled his rifle at the stairs, almost dropping the flashlight. He groped for the switch, found it, and clicked it off.

The basement suddenly felt colder, more closed off than before. Weapons or not, Tom was far from safe. The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but the door was flimsy protection. Once the creatures bashed into it—

The crash came again.

It was coming from the side of the house where he'd entered.
 

Tom pictured the beasts inhaling his smell, salivating with hunger. He tucked both pistols in his jacket, kept hold of his rifle, and felt his way along the wall to the stairs. Aside from a few small windows, the door was the only entrance and exit. The basement was hardly the stronghold he'd envisioned.
 

But it would work. He'd
make
it work.

The next crash was accompanied by the hungry panting of creatures and the sound of paws scratching the house's exterior. The kitchen door caved. Tom gritted his teeth as it slammed against the wall and the creatures entered the house.

Feet scampered through the upstairs. Nails dragged over hardwood; whines and growls filled the rooms. The creatures plowed their way through Colton's belongings. He listened as they searched room to room, performing the same ritual he'd carried out moments earlier. The creatures snarled as they tripped over one another, fighting for the first taste of flesh.
 

And then they were at the cellar door. Tom swallowed as one of them pressed against the wood, giving it a tentative swipe. They'd found him.
 

Just like they did at his house.
 

Just like they did at the machine shop.
 

The difference was, this time Tom wasn't going to wait for them to attack. Tom aimed the rifle at the door and fired.

Tom squeezed off two shots, listening to a high-pitched yelp as one of the things fell on the other side of the door. Another took its place, tearing at the wood until the door crashed inwards.

Tom fired again, using his memory of the layout and the commotion of the creatures to guide him. Another wounded bray emanated from above him, and something tumbled down the stairs. Tom heard the irregular thump of a body bouncing off the wooden steps and coming to rest. Tom fired several more rounds into the darkness where it had landed, bent on destroying the thing. He backed against the wall. He flicked on the flashlight.

The creature was dead. Its mouth was agape in a last guttural growl, its chest open and gushing blood. He aimed the light up the stairs, following the path of its descent, and located its companion. The other beast lay dead at the top landing.

Holy shit.

Tom exhaled and lowered the gun. He listened. With the creatures disposed of, an eerie calm settled over the house. Soft snow pattered against the upstairs windows; from somewhere outside, he heard the station wagon purring gently. He studied the beast on the floor, trying to make sense of its existence. Its eyes were red, its snout long and curved. Its claws were opaque and stained with blood. Up until now, he'd barely gotten a look at one of the things.
 

The beast was as gruesome in death as it'd been in life.

He saw no reason for the beasts' existence, other than pain and suffering. No reason for remorse. After watching it for a minute, Tom treaded past it and up the stairs, intent on securing the house. He pointed the flashlight as he ascended, keeping his eye on the beast at the top of the stairs. The creature stared absently at the ceiling, its claws furled to its chest.
 

He stepped around it and glanced cautiously out the living room window. He aimed his flashlight at the floor. The street was empty. If any of the other creatures had heard the commotion, they weren't in close proximity. Grey smoke bled from the back of the station wagon. Tom had the sudden urge to go outside and shut the car off, fearing it would draw attention, but it wasn't safe to do so. Instead he verified that the front door was dead-bolted, and then stalked toward the kitchen.

He aimed his pistol in front of him, treading through the dining room, veering past the overturned dining room table and the scattered mail. The kitchen floor was slippery with tracked snow. A gaping hole remained where the kitchen door had been. The door had been bashed against the nearby wall, the glass panes broken out. He crept over and wedged it shut, fighting against a broken hinge. He'd need to reinforce the door. Tom trekked to the stove, the closest appliance, and tucked his pistol in his pants. He set down his flashlight. With effort, he was able to wrench the stove from place and skid it across the floor. He grunted and strained, finally managing to slide it in front of the door.

He listened. Heard nothing.
 

With the stove in place, he felt safer, but not safe enough. The windows were unprotected. So was the front door. Any of those could provide access for the creatures. With the right tools, Tom could carve up the dining room table and block the windows. But how long would the barricade last? He'd seen what the barricade had done for him at the factory building.
 

He settled for using the dining room table to block the front door. When he was finished, he headed for the basement.
 

It was the most defensible place he had—one entrance and exit, a small pile of weapons and ammunition. If his guess was correct, he only had a few more hours of moonlight. Only a few more hours to survive.

Tom shut the already-cracked basement door and headed downstairs to wait.