really there, still alive.
Remember the Warrior, Tom!
Tom didn’t know how it was possible for his brother to reach out to him from the grave like that. But right this minute, with everything so crazy, he didn’t care. Nothing made sense now, so he might as well cling to the sound of that familiar voice he missed so much. He fought off the fear and the sickness. He gritted his teeth, and his mouth twisted as a low growl of determination came out of him.
He had to do something. Now. The beasts were still out there. The fog was rising. They would rise with it, come up the stairs, down the hall. They’d be at the door soon, any second. He had to find a way out of here. Find a way to get help.
Tom looked around at his bedroom for something he could use: the computer on the desk, the window by the bed, the sports pennants on the wall, the framed newspaper pages . . .
“Sources: Tiger Champs Used Drugs.”
Something flashed through his mind. Some fragment of memory. Why couldn’t he grasp it? He had to think . . .
Go to the monastery, Tom. That’s where the answers are .
For a moment, Tom felt as if everything were on the verge of making sense . . .
Then the creatures reached his bedroom, and all his thoughts were scattered.
The first thud was soft, as if one of the beasts had stumbled coming down the hallway and fallen against the door. The noise was so faint Tom might have pretended to himself he hadn’t really heard it.
But then the thing started mewling. That high-pitched, weirdly echoing sound was unmistakable. Tom took an involuntary step back as a fresh wave of fear went over him. He stared at the door.
The doorknob began to turn.
Tom heard the clicking of long claws against the metal. The knob turned tentatively at first. Once this way, once that. Then again. Then it clicked back and forth harder—back and forth. Then the knob began to rattle as the creature grew frustrated. The door began to shiver on its hinges . . .
Tom gasped as the door leapt in its frame. One of the things started pounding on the wood, slamming the wood—it sounded like with its open hand—again and again. Then it stopped. But the next noise went up Tom’s spine and made his teeth ache. Scratching. Long claws were digging into the surface of the door, trying to rip their way through. Then there was more pounding—steady pounding now. Tom heard grunts, gasps, small animal shrieks out in the hall. How many of them were out there? He couldn’t tell.
The snarling got louder. The pounding on the door got more insistent. The dresser that barricaded the door began to shiver.
Eyes wide, Tom turned this way and that, looking for some way out. The window . . .
He crossed the room to the window. Peered outside.
His bedroom looked out on the backyard. He could see the fog lying over the small square of grass. At first he couldn’t make out much more than the ruffled whiteness. It was like staring down into clouds from an airplane.
But then he saw them.
There must have been nearly a dozen of them out there, dim hulking shadows ranging back and forth through the mist. Some were climbing into the house through the broken windows. Others were moving in slow, stumbling circles right below him, as if they were waiting for him to try to climb out and escape.
The pounding on the door continued behind him. And the growls and snorts and shrieks out in the hall continued, too. Grimly, Tom looked over his shoulder and saw the door rattling and the dresser trembling. The barricade couldn’t hold forever. The creatures were going to come bursting in, and soon.
Tom prayed for help as he scrabbled in his pocket for his cell phone. Please, God, help me, help me . . .
He fished his phone out. His hands trembling, he quickly called up the number pad and keyed in 911. He raised the phone to his ear. Waited. But there was nothing. There was no sound. Quickly, he lowered the phone. Looked desperately at the readout. He felt his stomach go sour
Remember the Warrior, Tom!
Tom didn’t know how it was possible for his brother to reach out to him from the grave like that. But right this minute, with everything so crazy, he didn’t care. Nothing made sense now, so he might as well cling to the sound of that familiar voice he missed so much. He fought off the fear and the sickness. He gritted his teeth, and his mouth twisted as a low growl of determination came out of him.
He had to do something. Now. The beasts were still out there. The fog was rising. They would rise with it, come up the stairs, down the hall. They’d be at the door soon, any second. He had to find a way out of here. Find a way to get help.
Tom looked around at his bedroom for something he could use: the computer on the desk, the window by the bed, the sports pennants on the wall, the framed newspaper pages . . .
“Sources: Tiger Champs Used Drugs.”
Something flashed through his mind. Some fragment of memory. Why couldn’t he grasp it? He had to think . . .
Go to the monastery, Tom. That’s where the answers are .
For a moment, Tom felt as if everything were on the verge of making sense . . .
Then the creatures reached his bedroom, and all his thoughts were scattered.
The first thud was soft, as if one of the beasts had stumbled coming down the hallway and fallen against the door. The noise was so faint Tom might have pretended to himself he hadn’t really heard it.
But then the thing started mewling. That high-pitched, weirdly echoing sound was unmistakable. Tom took an involuntary step back as a fresh wave of fear went over him. He stared at the door.
The doorknob began to turn.
Tom heard the clicking of long claws against the metal. The knob turned tentatively at first. Once this way, once that. Then again. Then it clicked back and forth harder—back and forth. Then the knob began to rattle as the creature grew frustrated. The door began to shiver on its hinges . . .
Tom gasped as the door leapt in its frame. One of the things started pounding on the wood, slamming the wood—it sounded like with its open hand—again and again. Then it stopped. But the next noise went up Tom’s spine and made his teeth ache. Scratching. Long claws were digging into the surface of the door, trying to rip their way through. Then there was more pounding—steady pounding now. Tom heard grunts, gasps, small animal shrieks out in the hall. How many of them were out there? He couldn’t tell.
The snarling got louder. The pounding on the door got more insistent. The dresser that barricaded the door began to shiver.
Eyes wide, Tom turned this way and that, looking for some way out. The window . . .
He crossed the room to the window. Peered outside.
His bedroom looked out on the backyard. He could see the fog lying over the small square of grass. At first he couldn’t make out much more than the ruffled whiteness. It was like staring down into clouds from an airplane.
But then he saw them.
There must have been nearly a dozen of them out there, dim hulking shadows ranging back and forth through the mist. Some were climbing into the house through the broken windows. Others were moving in slow, stumbling circles right below him, as if they were waiting for him to try to climb out and escape.
The pounding on the door continued behind him. And the growls and snorts and shrieks out in the hall continued, too. Grimly, Tom looked over his shoulder and saw the door rattling and the dresser trembling. The barricade couldn’t hold forever. The creatures were going to come bursting in, and soon.
Tom prayed for help as he scrabbled in his pocket for his cell phone. Please, God, help me, help me . . .
He fished his phone out. His hands trembling, he quickly called up the number pad and keyed in 911. He raised the phone to his ear. Waited. But there was nothing. There was no sound. Quickly, he lowered the phone. Looked desperately at the readout. He felt his stomach go sour
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