* * *
Earl swung the locking bar shut on the stainless coffin before stumbling away, wincing at the pain. He could feel the burning of the fresh cut across the top of his chest. Heather had sliced him good. A little higher and he would have lost his throat, so he’d gotten lucky, but he still needed to tend to the injury quickly before it became an issue. He always kept an extensive first-aid kit on hand, though it was normally for his Hunters. It had been a real long time since he’d needed one for himself.
Earl addressed the only other person remaining in the street in front of the Alpha’s house. “Everyone else had the sense to run. You’re a stubborn one.”
“I ain’t seen nothing like that before.” Aino had made the decision to help, and had even had the guts to help lift the unconscious Heather into the box. “Her grandpa saved my life, pulled me out of a collapsed mine. I thought you aimed to kill her; figured I owed Aksel to see that to the end. Surprised me when you picked her up instead.…You’re bleeding. Let me see that cut.”
Earl opened his coat. Heather had managed to tag him just above where it had been fastened, and one claw had made it through the Kevlar beneath. “Just a scratch,” he lied.
It wasn’t fair to blame Heather. It wasn’t like she’d done it on purpose. Earl reasoned they were probably even, because he’d smashed the Thompson’s steel butt-plate over her head until the stock had cracked. Just shooting her would’ve been the safe move, but she was a good girl. Even though the odds of her beating the curse were near zero, she deserved a chance. Santiago would have done the same for him. Though Heather was going to be mighty surly when she woke up inside that dark little prison box.
Once safely back in the truck, Earl turned on the interior dome light, found his first-aid kit, and unbuckled his armor. Heather had scored a solid laceration just over his collarbone. A flap of skin was dangling, loose, leaking blood in a wide circle. “Damn. That’s ugly.”
“Just a scratch, huh?” Aino grunted.
“It’s wide, but shallow. It’s the depth that gets you.” Earl shoved the skin back into place, wiped it with iodine, and applied a pressure bandage. As soon as he had a spare minute, he’d give himself some stitches. It was too big to glue. The hard part would be keeping an eye on it at that angle. Since the last time he’d given himself stitches had been in the 1920s, he was a bit out of practice. “Turn up the heater, would you?” Earl asked as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the head rest. “Why do people live someplace this damn cold?”
“Keeps out the riff-raff.…This was a quiet town, ’til recently.”
“Got me there.” Earl lit a cigarette and got back to work, having decided that thirty seconds was too much sitting around. He could bleed later. “I need you to figure out what that journal says, and I need it fast.”
“I can do that. What about Heather?”
“Through no fault of her own, she’s one of them now. Locked up, she can’t do no harm, but if she gets out…She’s not the girl you knew before.”
“Is there a cure?”
Surprisingly, there was. If that amulet could cure Earl, then it could cure anyone. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was the same device that had started the curse to begin with, so it reasoned that it could end it, too. Not just for Earl and Heather, but for all werewolves, everywhere. If he could get his hands on that amulet and figure out how the magic worked…
The truck lurched. A terrible grinding sound came from the back, claws against steel, followed by an enraged roar. Heather was awake, and not surprisingly, she was a fierce one.
“There’s a cure,” Earl said with renewed determination. He had accidently created the monster that was terrorizing this town, but he could make that mistake right and in the process end the curse forever. “And I know who has it.”
* * *
The storm was finally breaking up, having transitioned from blizzard to horrible snowfall in the last hour. That should have made Horst happy, but instead that just meant that the werewolves could see them better. Sadly, sacrificing Jo Ann hadn’t seemed to slow them very much. The awkward creatures weren’t much more agile in the deep snow than the Hunters they were chasing, but they didn’t seem to be getting tired, whereas Horst thought his heart was about to explode. The monsters were gaining on them.
“We’re almost there!” Lins shouted. The only other remaining Briarwood Hunter turned out to be the fastest on foot, and was a good twenty feet ahead of the other two when he stopped to urge them on. He raised his M-4 and popped off a pair of shots at their pursuers. “Come on.”
Horst was gasping for breath as the frigid air scorched his lungs. Agent Stark wasn’t doing too much better, since the MCB man looked a little too old to be sprinting through uphill snowdrifts, but the mass of undead werewolves behind them was one hell of a good motivator. It was tempting to shoot Stark in the leg to give the werewolves another distraction, but they still had a couple hundred yards to cover. He’d save that option for later.
There was a fence at the top of the hill. Passing Lins, Horst reached the chain link. It rattled as he struck, knocking snow from the metal. Horst had gotten a lot of practice clearing fences tonight, so it only took him a second to sling his FAL and clamber over. He landed softly on the other side and took off without waiting to see if the others needed help, but the clank from behind told him somebody was following. He made it down a narrow lane between concrete bleachers and onto a long white field. The vaguely goalpost-shaped blobs at each end told him they were running across the football field. The lights of the gym were on the other side. On the roof were the spotlights they’d seen earlier. One of them flashed over to blind him. Horst began waving his arms madly overhead, too out of breath to call for help.
Keep running. Almost there. You can do it. He’d despised all that running that MHI had made them do during their stupid Newbie training, but right then he was really wishing that he’d kept up the regimen. I’m doing good. I can make it. Then Lins passed him by again. Shit! Lins just had longer legs.
There was a horrible sound from behind. Horst was too terrified to look, but knew he had to. He craned his neck around to witness a sea of half-mutated bodies, some hairy, some naked, mottled red and black, crashing over the fence like an unstoppable wave. The first of them hit the ground running wildly. It was charred and twisted, like a burn victim.
Agent Stark raised his pistol and shot the burned monster repeatedly. It slipped and crashed against the bleacher. Other monsters passed it by and didn’t even slow. Stark emptied his gun into the crowd, but none of the creatures seemed to notice. Terror gave him renewed stamina as Horst turned back around and ran for his life.
There were harsh buzzing noises overhead. Bullets! The men on the roof of the gym were shooting at the monsters, too. Maybe it would buy them some time. There was another fence, but luckily there was an open gate. Lins reached the brick wall of the gym, but there was no door on this side, just drifts piled waist-deep against the wall, and windows that were far too high to reach. “What do we do now?”
“Get to the front!” Stark shouted as he caught up and slammed the gate shut. Furious, he reached over and snatched away Horst’s rifle. “Give me that if you’re not going to use it!” Stark shouldered it and began shooting across the football field. “Up yours, fish-men! You’ll never take me alive!”
Horst had no idea what fish-men Stark was shouting about, but the monsters were closing in fast. Lins had run for the front corner of the building, so Horst followed. He’d made it another fifty yards after Lins before the other hunter came back around the corner, wildly firing his M-4 from the hip. “They’re attacking the front door, too! Go back. Go back!”
“Back where?” Horst asked desperately. He started back the way they’d come, only to realize that Stark wasn’t there. “What? How—”
“Up there!” Lins shouted, grabbing Horst by the arm and dragging him along. Somebody had opened one of the side windows and tossed out a rope. Stark was pulling himself up, boots pressed against the walls. The dude wasn’t much of a runner, but he sure could climb fast. By the time they got close to the dangling rope, helping hands had reached out from the window, grabbed Stark, and hoisted him inside.
They had to get up that rope. It was their only chance. Monsters were crashing into the fence all around them, and others had followed Lins from the front corner. Others smashed down the gate and poured through. They were surrounded. Horst reached into his coat for his FN, having forgotten that Harbinger had stolen it. “I’m out of guns!”
“Get to the rope,” Lins said as he stepped in front. “I’ll hold ’em off. Go!”
Horst was actually impressed by the bravery. He hadn’t thought Lawrence J. Lins had it in him.
A monster charged. This one was mostly werewolf but was wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and pink curlers in its hair. Dead white eyes bore into him as it opened its mouth in a soundless roar. Lins raised his gun and put a silver 5.56 round right through its nose. Another followed, and Lins cranked off four rounds before it fell. Horst jumped over the body and grabbed the fat nylon rope. Another monster was closing fast, but Lins stepped in the way and slammed the barrel of his carbine into its face and knocked it into the drift.
Horst climbed with a strength born of adrenalin and desperation. Then the unseen people above were hauling the rope in, and it was as if he were flying up the wall.
“Come on! Come on! Bring it!” Lins could be heard shouting between gunshots. The shooting stopped. Lins’s gun was empty. Then he began to scream, but Horst was too scared to look down. There was a terrible snapping noise, and the scream trailed off into a gurgle.
There were knots tied in the rope every foot. It gave him something to hold on to. It had probably just been the rope for PE class that somebody had cut down and thought to dangle to them. Here he was, the leader of an elite group of monster hunters, and his only lifeline was a PE rope thrown to him by some country bumpkin. His entire team was dead. He was a failure. Everybody was going to laugh at him.
A monster leapt. The claw struck the side of his boot. Horst squealed and drew his knees up to his chest, squeezing his eyes closed extra-tight as the people above hauled him in. He was so terrified yet glad to be alive at the same time that tears were flowing freely to freeze on his cheeks.
Now he knew how that girl had felt.
He’d done what he’d had to do. He’d been trapped in a warehouse with a shipment of drugs and the ghoul had eaten almost everybody else. The girl had belonged to one of the mules. Maybe eight or so, she didn’t even speak English. He needed to draw the thing out, so he’d done the logical thing and used bait. His Spanish was lousy, but he’d lied and told her he was tying the rope to her so he could lower her to safety. She’d been terrified but happy for a chance to escape. Happy…at first. Then he’d waited for the monster to show up so he could nail it.