Werewolf Suspense (Book 3): Outage 3 (Vengeance) by T.W. Piperbrook Page B
Authors: T.W. Piperbrook
Tags: Werewolves
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clutching Rosemary. She let out a stifled scream.
They stopped ten feet short of the door, aiming their guns at the threshold. A dim light crept out from another room. Something was emerging from the other side. They were walled in. Trapped.
Rosemary let out a final, resigned cry.
And then a man peered through the crack, his face pale, lips shivering. Tom stared at the man for a moment, surprised.
"Back here!" the man hissed. "Hurry!"
They did.
Chapter Twelve
The man ushered them frantically through the door. Tom and Rosemary plowed across the threshold, tripping over each other like cars of a derailed train. They fled into the next room, clinging to each other for support. Clattering continued from somewhere behind them—claws pounding doors, bodies scraping against windows.
The door clicked closed behind them, and the man sprang for a metal table. The legs ground against the floor as he pushed it. Tom set down his rifle and jumped to the man's aid. They hoisted the table, barricading the door. When they were finished, Tom stepped back and surveyed their rescuer.
The man was older, in his early sixties. Thin, wispy white hair barely covered his scalp. His collared shirt had the name "Paul" stitched on it.
"Thanks, Paul," Tom panted, catching his breath.
"No problem," Paul said. "We heard voices. We knew we had to do something."
Tom surveyed the room. In the frenzy of their arrival, he hadn't noticed there were others. A pale light shone from somewhere in the middle of the room, illuminating three frightened figures hiding under a long counter on the left-hand side of the room. None looked like Jason and Jeffrey.
They'd entered a large kitchen in the back of the Knights Of Columbus. The room was about fifty feet wide and a hundred feet long. The counter contained a built-in sink. On the other side of the room were an oversized refrigerator and a metal preparation table. Several cabinets were opened, rummaged through. There were no windows. A door on the right-hand wall hung open, revealing a small broom closet.
On the opposite side of the room was a door that Tom presumed led outside. It was barricaded. The floor was wet with tracked blood.
Tom scoped out the three other survivors. Aside from Paul, there was a heavyset man, a woman in her forties with frizzy hair, and a black man with oil-stained workpants. The survivors stared at Tom and Rosemary from beneath the counter, their faces a mixture of fear and confusion.
"Are you here to help us?" the frizzy-haired woman asked.
They eyed his rifle, as if the weapon itself might lead them to safety.
"We came here looking for her children," Tom explained, barely able to get the words out. He motioned to Rosemary, but a loud crash distracted him.
Tom spun back to the barricade. The noise was coming from the next room.
The survivors tensed and stared at the door, stifling gasps. Nails clicked and clacked on the hardwood of the hall. Tom heard the sound of windows shattering. Tom readied his rifle. The beasts sounded like they were tearing down the walls, deconstructing the hall piece by piece. After a few seconds, the door buckled.
"Help!" Paul hissed.
Tom and Paul grabbed the table, holding it in place. Tom's body jolted with each successive bang. Rosemary assisted.
"We need the rest of you!" Paul called to the others.
Tom glanced behind them. The black man scrambled to his feet and darted over, bracing his feet against the floor and holding the edge of the shuddering table. The fat man took a little longer to stand, struggling with his sizeable midsection, and then got to his feet and joined the others. The frizzy-haired woman remained in place, crying underneath the table. The survivors held the table for several seconds, fighting against the invisible weight on the other side of the door.
Snarls laced the air, making Tom question whether the beasts had already gotten inside. But they hadn't. Not yet. He held tight to his rifle and
They stopped ten feet short of the door, aiming their guns at the threshold. A dim light crept out from another room. Something was emerging from the other side. They were walled in. Trapped.
Rosemary let out a final, resigned cry.
And then a man peered through the crack, his face pale, lips shivering. Tom stared at the man for a moment, surprised.
"Back here!" the man hissed. "Hurry!"
They did.
Chapter Twelve
The man ushered them frantically through the door. Tom and Rosemary plowed across the threshold, tripping over each other like cars of a derailed train. They fled into the next room, clinging to each other for support. Clattering continued from somewhere behind them—claws pounding doors, bodies scraping against windows.
The door clicked closed behind them, and the man sprang for a metal table. The legs ground against the floor as he pushed it. Tom set down his rifle and jumped to the man's aid. They hoisted the table, barricading the door. When they were finished, Tom stepped back and surveyed their rescuer.
The man was older, in his early sixties. Thin, wispy white hair barely covered his scalp. His collared shirt had the name "Paul" stitched on it.
"Thanks, Paul," Tom panted, catching his breath.
"No problem," Paul said. "We heard voices. We knew we had to do something."
Tom surveyed the room. In the frenzy of their arrival, he hadn't noticed there were others. A pale light shone from somewhere in the middle of the room, illuminating three frightened figures hiding under a long counter on the left-hand side of the room. None looked like Jason and Jeffrey.
They'd entered a large kitchen in the back of the Knights Of Columbus. The room was about fifty feet wide and a hundred feet long. The counter contained a built-in sink. On the other side of the room were an oversized refrigerator and a metal preparation table. Several cabinets were opened, rummaged through. There were no windows. A door on the right-hand wall hung open, revealing a small broom closet.
On the opposite side of the room was a door that Tom presumed led outside. It was barricaded. The floor was wet with tracked blood.
Tom scoped out the three other survivors. Aside from Paul, there was a heavyset man, a woman in her forties with frizzy hair, and a black man with oil-stained workpants. The survivors stared at Tom and Rosemary from beneath the counter, their faces a mixture of fear and confusion.
"Are you here to help us?" the frizzy-haired woman asked.
They eyed his rifle, as if the weapon itself might lead them to safety.
"We came here looking for her children," Tom explained, barely able to get the words out. He motioned to Rosemary, but a loud crash distracted him.
Tom spun back to the barricade. The noise was coming from the next room.
The survivors tensed and stared at the door, stifling gasps. Nails clicked and clacked on the hardwood of the hall. Tom heard the sound of windows shattering. Tom readied his rifle. The beasts sounded like they were tearing down the walls, deconstructing the hall piece by piece. After a few seconds, the door buckled.
"Help!" Paul hissed.
Tom and Paul grabbed the table, holding it in place. Tom's body jolted with each successive bang. Rosemary assisted.
"We need the rest of you!" Paul called to the others.
Tom glanced behind them. The black man scrambled to his feet and darted over, bracing his feet against the floor and holding the edge of the shuddering table. The fat man took a little longer to stand, struggling with his sizeable midsection, and then got to his feet and joined the others. The frizzy-haired woman remained in place, crying underneath the table. The survivors held the table for several seconds, fighting against the invisible weight on the other side of the door.
Snarls laced the air, making Tom question whether the beasts had already gotten inside. But they hadn't. Not yet. He held tight to his rifle and
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