Part 37 (1/2)

The kitchen was deathly still. A horrible burning smell filled the air. Syd coughed and gagged as he rounded the corner, into the first stage of the slaughter.

It was Bruno. Just Bruno. But that was more than enough.

There was Bruno on the walls and floor and ceiling. Bruno on the fridges and the cabinets and drawers. The vast bulk of Bruno sizzled facedown on the grill; his entrails snaked out from under his ap.r.o.n, strung like garlands all the way to the service door, where they wrapped around and around the push-bar. The stench of death was everywhere, red mist still floating through the smoky air, a red sea parting as Syd bolted to the exit.

He had to duck under Bruno's guts, then slide them out of the way, in order to lean on the slickened bar and push. Syd dry-heaved and tried not to look at the intricate veins, the glistening sheen of human tubing never meant to be exposed. But there was no getting around the smell.

The door opened three inches and stopped. More chain was visible, red and silver gleaming.

”s.h.i.+T!” he hollered. ”s.h.i.+T!” There was only one other way out. Red was guarding it, which was good. But probably not so good for Red. Syd started back, hurtling toward the kitchen doors. Behind him, the grease from Bruno's face popped and spattered on the fire.

Back in the club, Treat Her Right owned the dance floor. They had the crowd in the palm of their hand. The music was sinuous, s.e.xual, snaky. It pounded into him the second he opened the door. I saw a picture of the future, and you're not in it. . . . Syd boggled at the inadvertent truth behind the lyrics.

There were easily two hundred happy, oblivious people, movin' to that swamp-rock groove. Faces he recognized: Tommy, Bonnie, Budd, and Holly. Coworkers. Customers. Friends. Even Marc Pankowski, doing his weasel dance in 4/4 time, didn't deserve to wind up like Bruno.

And that was when he started to move, pus.h.i.+ng out of the doorway and gathering steam, pumping himself up for what was coming, coming all too soon. He thought about the gun tucked into his waistband. He thought about the tire iron, and the wolf in the woods. That was different, he tried to tell himself, muscling his way through the crowd. But was it? Syd searched for the magical monster within, the glorious wolf in his soul, and came back with nothing but a frightened man who had a peashooter stuck near the crack of his a.s.s.

And that was when he saw the naked shape slide through the doorway. The naked shape held a thick steel chain. Red vaulted off his stool, raised up a hand. The chain whickered out. It was like watching lightning strike. One second, Red had a forehead; the next, he did not. The chain came back with Red's brains all over it.

Vic turned and began wrapping the chain around the handle, while Red tumbled earthward, the sound of his impact lost in the din. There were several hundred people in the club. Maybe a dozen of them saw it happen. Syd pushed desperately forward through the dozens in his path, pulling the gun, praying Vic would keep his back turned long enough.

If only there was time . . .

There was a big industrial-strength hook hanging off one end of the chain. Vic reached for it, as Syd raced to close the distance. There were still too many people in the line of fire. Syd cursed and pushed harder as Vic brought the hook around, fastened it tight.

Syd reached the end of the bar.

Vic whirled, with a smile that grew and grew.

Syd froze in his tracks, transfixed by the horror.

And it was too late now: too late for guns, too late for anything. Vic was growing, by leaps and bounds: transcending his matter, distorting his form. Translucent derma rippled over hypers.h.i.+fting musclemeat that surged as fur enclosed it, rank and reeking of death.

And there was no beauty in the thing that blossomed into monstrousness before him. No mercy in the lines that traced the sharp teeth's journey down the burgeoning snout. It was as far from nature as flesh could be: all Vic's madness and corruption, his selfishness and bitter rage, literalized themselves in the shape of the abomination he became.

Vic's true nature, revealed at last.

The thing that reared up on its haunches was fully seven feet tall. Its physiology was part man, part wolf part goblin: gangly limbs terminating in grotesquely splayed, black-clawed digits, torso elongating as the shoulders disjointed, pushed back from the deep, jutting breastbone. Its p.e.n.i.s stiffened and retracted into a belly-hugging sheath; a tail emerged from the crackling coccyx at the base of the spine, began to slowly wag. The nipple ring glinted off one of its teats; the tattoos of Nora that graced its arms twisted in the transition, as well: inked features stretching and distorting into a hideous screaming face as the flesh that held it s.h.i.+fted in the light.

The creature grinned horribly, lupine head hanging pendulously between the bony shoulder blades; its jaws gaped wide, saliva-slick and fiercely-fanged. Its ears elongated, pinned back, the little silver skull-earring still dangling from one lobe. Its blue eyes gleamed bright and wild. The promise of annihilation burned in them.

But beyond all its obvious physical grotesqueries was the air it carried: a foul vapor wafting off its sheeny, viscid skin. It was the stench of Vic's diseased id, marking territory. Claiming Chameleon's, and everyone in it, as his own.

Starting with you-know-who . . .

Syd instinctively retreated as the were-thing moved off the steps and into the crowd. He continued to back up, accidentally slamming into the person behind him. Awareness of the horror spread through the crowd, creating a chain reaction of jostling and shouting and shoving as people scrambled to escape.

Vic advanced on his hind legs, claws bared and jaws snapping. A drunken frat boy stumbled into his path, was torn in half in one swipe. Blood sprayed and gristle spattered. More screams, lost in the music. ”GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!” Syd howled. But they couldn't hear.

And even if they could, there was nowhere to go.

Vic waded gleefully into the terrified throngs, tearing holes in the scattering dance floor hordes. An arm gone here. A head gone there. A rib cage exposed to the smoky red air. Syd turned and ran, shoving onlookers to either side. Trying to get them out of the line of fire. Trying to get them out of his way. A half-dozen screeching people tumbled through the kitchen doors, were greeted by a waft of greasy Bruno smoke and the first flicker of fire.

Vic snarled and carved an all-meat swath, in hot pursuit of his prey. The crowd indeed parted. Just not fast enough. Vic split the stragglers lengthwise and everywhichway, hosing the room down with fresheting gore. People slipped on the blood-slickened floor, fell, and were trampled in the rush to escape. All at once, the band stopped playing.

And then all h.e.l.l broke loose.

Syd glanced back in time to see Tommy closing in behind Vic, a hardwood bar stool raised high overhead. It was solid, no Hollywood breakaway prop, and it came down with all the muscle in big Tommy's powerful frame. It slammed into Vic's skull with a hideous cracking sound. Vic staggered and howled.

”NO!!!” Syd screamed as Vic whirled and slashed and his friend's belly opened, gray intestines tumbling out through the hole. The monster cracked open Tommy's chest and dug out his still-pumping heart. It was amazing how much blood it contained, how far it spewed in the very short time it took to reach Vic's mouth and then disappear forever.

Tommy dropped. Vic turned and snarled . . .

. . . but Syd was already to the back hallway. He saw the chained-up emergency exit. Dead end. At the last second he thought of the ladder, and the attic. Syd fought his way back, started climbing as fast as he could.

Halfway up, he heard the roar of a shotgun blast. He saw Trent, falling back behind the bar; the Vic-thing was crouching on top of it, gun barrel still smoking in one misshapen hand. There were several dead people littering the bar area. Syd saw half a skull draped with flowing red hair.

Then Trent, too, was gone, head bluntly staved in. Vic spun the gun around, pumped another round in. He grinned at Syd. Took aim.

”f.u.c.k!” Syd roared, clambering up the ladder, teeth clenched in antic.i.p.ation of the coming blast. When it came, he flinched-antic.i.p.ating death-instead got chips blown in his face from the fresh buckshot crater in the wall to his left. He kept climbing, kept climbing. Vic fired again. This time it was wide. Vic was a terrible shot.

Syd hit the trapdoor and shoved his way through. There were more screams, from directly below: he looked down and saw other people behind him, frantically following his lead. Seconds later, something huge hit the ladder, rocking it loose from the wall. Vic tore the stragglers off, flung them wide, started to climb.

The trapdoor was small for Vic's bulk, but somehow Syd didn't think that would stop him. Syd's eyes cast around for a means of escape. There was one skinny little window at the far end of the attic, past the cobwebbed rafters and crates of debris. He bolted for it. Behind him, the trapdoor blew apart.

There was a two-by-four with some nails sticking out, jutting from a box to the window's right. He used it to smash out the window, clear the jagged gla.s.s teeth jutting out of the frame. Then he slid out feet-first and belly-up to the sill, just as Vic tore the first ma.s.sive chunk from the floorboards.

Syd pulled himself out the rest of the way.

Vic stared at him, howled.

Syd let go of the sill.

And then he was falling, he was falling, plummeting fifteen feet straight down to land on unforgiving gravel. Syd hit and rolled, his feet and ankles spiking white with pain. He came up staggering: weaving through the sea of cars, endorphins masking the agony even as the adrenaline pulsed and pushed him forward.

As he ran, he smelled smoke, glanced back in time to see the first tongues of flame lick the windows. A chorus of screams rose up, piercing the cacophony. Syd hesitated a moment, torn between the impulse to smash down the door and the urge to flee. But there were no heroes now; all the heroes were hamburger, cut down in the terrible wake of the monster's onslaught. He forced himself forward, tried to keep his mind clear.

The screams were still ringing in his ears as he made it to the Jeep, leapt into the driver's seat, and jammed the key into the ignition. As he fired it up, he heard the wrenching crack of splintering wood that told him Vic was in the attic now, heading for the window. He looked up in time to see the too-huge shadow filling the tiny window frame.

Syd gunned the engine, threw the Jeep into reverse. You can't just LEAVE them, his conscience cried. He started to back out. A second later, the beast's snout appeared, snarling madly as it began to rip chunks from the window frame, enlarging the hole.

Syd pumped the gas, revving in place. To his left, the road beckoned, offering escape. Directly before him stood the front door. The attic window was widening by the second. His own survival margin could be measured in microseconds.

While inside, people were trapped and dying.

”f.u.c.k!” Syd cursed, blinking back tears. ”f.u.c.k!”

He wrenched the gears.h.i.+ft from reverse to first and popped the clutch. The Renegade screeched and spun, lurching forward. The engine whined, picking up speed. The front door loomed in the headlights. Syd held his breath, leaned on the horn and at the last second hit the brakes.