Part 17 (1/2)

The rock smashed into the werewolf's pointed ear, crus.h.i.+ng the thin flesh and tearing open a painful-looking gash. The werewolf shrieked and started up the hill when another, smaller rock whistled down and struck its right cheekbone. Another rock flew past, and the beast took cover.

As soon as he saw the werewolf duck behind a tree, Tom turned and scrambled over the top of the hill, emerging onto a level area of the woods. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the werewolf coming up. He threw two more rocks at it and missed both times.

He only had two rocks left. Better save them. He turned and ran toward the thinnest-looking underbrush on the plateau - he'd long since forgotten about finding paths.

He wanted desperately to believe it was all a dream, that any moment he would wake up, frightened but safe in his bedroom. But the pain in his lungs, the ground hitting his feet, the branches that whipped his face and cut his hands were all undeniably real, regardless of the grotesque impossibility that was chasing him.

He wished he could stop and hide for a second, just to catch his breath and see if it was still behind him, but the insanity of the idea only deepened his terror.

Don't look back, it might be gaining on you.

He ran as only a man in fear for his life can run; ceaselessly, mindless of the fire in his lungs and legs. His hands burned from the scratches they took pus.h.i.+ng the branches out of the way. His legs felt warm, then hot, then almost weightless, creating the eerie sensation that he was floating through the forest without touching the ground. It occurred to him that the shadows no longer stretched out in front of him. Had he somehow turned around?

But no - the moon was almost directly overhead.

How long had he been running?

He slowed down just a little, trying to hear if there was anything behind him. What if the monster had given up and gone back to the house instead?

It was impossible to listen while he ran - all he could hear was his own breathing. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder and saw nothing. He couldn't keep running forever. He had to find out if the werewolf was still back there.

He picked out a large tree up ahead, just next to the path, and decided to duck behind it. By the time he made his decision he was almost there.

The tree came up the path at him and he scooted behind it and pressed his body against the trunk. He tried to hold his breath, but it was impossible. His chest refused to stop heaving - his blood was screaming for oxygen. He took five deep breaths and clamped his hand over his nose and mouth.

In the stillness that followed, a series of rapid footsteps suddenly came to a halt twenty or thirty yards back. The werewolf had been behind him all along, gradually closing the distance between them without revealing its presence. And Tom had stopped and let it catch up even more. He was lost.

His only chance was to keep perfectly still and hope the thing didn't find him. His lungs heaved and his body rocked as he held his nose against the urgent demand for air. If he let go and gasped, the werewolf would be on him in seconds. But he couldn't hold his breath forever.

He unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt with his free hand and pulled it over his mouth and nose. He pressed the fabric into his mouth and willed himself to take a shallow breath, but his will was no match for his lungs.

He sucked in air like a drowning man, wheezing and gasping so loud that he couldn't hear anything else. Then he regained control and heard the footsteps das.h.i.+ng in his direction.

Desperate, he looked up the tree. There was a single branch, about eight feet off the ground. He leaped for it and, to his astonishment, snagged it on the first try. He heard the werewolf's footsteps racing toward him as he gripped the limb with both hands and hauled himself up. In the midst of his panic, he heard a perfectly calm voice in his head say, It's amazing what you can do when your life depends on it.

The werewolf rushed the tree just in time to see Tom's feet swing up and out of its reach.

The werewolf regarded him with hungry eyes that showed no trace of recognition. Moonlight gleamed on its sharp canine fangs and saliva ran down its chin.

The werewolf leaped and grabbed the limb. As its short, stubby fingers closed around the branch, Tom swung the flashlight down hard on the creature's knuckles. The werewolf howled and jerked its hand back, then grabbed the tree with both hands, bit it, and shook it with tremendous force. Tom held on for his life.

”Please G.o.d please G.o.d Jesus please don't let it get me please G.o.d Jesus please please please,” he chanted, only dimly aware that he was speaking out loud. The werewolf let go of the tree, leaped suddenly, and caught hold of the branch with both misshapen hands. Tom swung the flashlight in panic, but the werewolf was ready for him. It reached up and grabbed the flashlight and threw it into bushes about twenty feet from the tree.

The werewolf began to haul itself up and Tom kicked its fingers and ground his heel into its knuckles. Again the werewolf howled and tried to pull away, but its hand was pinned to the branch by Tom's boot. Tom dug a rock out of his pocket and hurled it straight down into the werewolf's face. It struck the monster across the bridge of its nose, and Tom was sure he heard the sharp click of breaking bone.

The creature yanked its hand out from under Tom's foot and he almost fell out of the tree.

The werewolf shrieked and licked its damaged fingers and touched its puffing face tenderly. It stared up at Tom with boundless hatred, hissing and showing its fangs.

Tom unconsciously pulled himself up another inch or two, transfixed by the living nightmare below.

One of the werewolf's eyes had swollen shut and a thin line of blood trickled from it to the creature's mouth. The werewolf glared at Tom with its good eye, as if wondering how to get him out of the tree.

Then its face brightened suddenly. As if remembering something important, it took one last look at Tom, grinned hideously, and ran off.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the creature disappear into the forest.

Toward the moon. East.

Toward the house.

Oh my G.o.d! Tom thought. Janet! The kids!

Chapter 16.

Thor lay in the cramped cage, listening to his heartbeat in the darkness. The Angel of Death had left for the day, and with no humans to hear them, only a few die-hard animals still howled and cried. Perhaps Thor's turn would come tomorrow. He hoped he wouldn't have to wait long.

A sc.r.a.ping noise at the front door startled him out of his gloom. Maybe the Angel of Death had come back for him.

A piercing screech of metal against metal shocked the animals into silence, followed by a series of loud bangs, the high-pitched scream of gla.s.s shattering, and the squeaky crunch of feet grinding gla.s.s into concrete. Someone had broken into the outer lobby.

m.u.f.fled voices in the lobby sounded strangely familiar. A crowbar sc.r.a.ped against the metal frame of the inner door for a moment, then stopped. The voices argued for a second, then the gla.s.s pane of the inner door exploded with a terrific crash, scattering bits of broken gla.s.s across the floor. A crowbar swung around the opening, knocking a few of the larger pieces of gla.s.s out of the door frame. Then Teddy and Brett stepped into the House of Death.

”Jeez,” Teddy said. ”If we let him out now, he'll cut his feet. You look for his cage while I find a broom.” He handed the crowbar to Brett and tried the doorway to Death. It was unlocked. Thor panicked as he watched Teddy step into the Death room. But seconds later, he emerged, still alive, with a broom in his hands. Brett found Thor's cage and attacked it with the crowbar while Teddy swept the broken gla.s.s away from the cages.

Teddy looked up from sweeping and saw Brett struggling with the crowbar and getting nowhere.

”Here, gimme that,” he said.

Brett had wedged the curved end of the crowbar into the door, but he wasn't strong enough to pry it open. Teddy grabbed the long end with both hands and put one foot against the cage, and together they wrenched the door out of its frame, with its tiny padlock still locked. Teddy peered into the cage.

”C'mon, Thor! You're free!”

Thor looked back at Teddy with oddly mixed feelings. There was something undeniably pleasant about seeing him, but what was he doing here? Thor was no longer part of the Pack. And even if his crime was forgivable, which it wasn't, only Dad could forgive him - not the Pack's pups. Not those he outranked.

”Come on!” Teddy ordered, pulling on the muzzle Thor still wore. He tried to sound authoritative, as he had so often recently, but he possessed no authority.

But Thor heard something else in Teddy's voice - desperation.

Thor could ignore Teddy's bl.u.s.ter forever, but he could not ignore his needs - that would only compound Thor's guilt, and he couldn't bear that.

Just when the pain had begun to fade and he'd started to feel nothing, these two had to come along.

”Thor, come on,” Brett added, and there was a hitch in his voice - he would start crying any moment. Brett crawled into the mouth of the cage and unfastened the muzzle.