Chapter 12
“Hey, Becky, I got a problem.” She came over to him. “He’s not picking up on the signal.”
“Interference?”
“Don’t think so.” He pressed the mike button twice. No answer. He went over to voice.
“Wake up, Dick. You gotta signal back or I can’t tell if you’re still there.”
Only the whisper of static answered.
“Maybe there is some interference,” he said. “I’ll go out on the balcony, get a better line.”
“We’d better go to the roof. It won’t take a minute.”
“Look, I’ll just go outside and—”
“We’re going up right now. Get your coat on.”
He complied. Now that she was making their command decisions, he seemed to be returning to a more normal equilibrium. This was fine by her; she’d trade her stripes for his bars any time.
Both of them had moved their pistols to their jacket pockets by the time they reached the roof door. Becky felt ice-cold inside, as cold as the night on the other side of the door.
“You cover my back,” she said. “Draw your gun. We take no chances.” She pushed the door open and stepped out, her eyes going at once to where Dick should be. But wasn’t.
A pang of fear made her heart start to pound. She suppressed it, took a deep breath, called him.
Nothing answered but the wind. Then she saw an object not far away, a dark bulge on the icy roof. “Christ, here’s the camera!” Slipping and falling she went and retrieved it.
Part of the housing was knocked off. The lens was cracked. She backed into the stairwell, closed the door against the wind. In the quiet she heard her own ragged breathing. Her insides were churning, she wanted to be sick. “Something’s happened to him,” she said. “Let’s get downstairs.”
“To the alley?”
“Hell, no! If they got him that’s where he’ll be— and they’ll be there too, waiting for us to come to him. Remember this morning—the lure? They only get to play that particular trick once a day.” She spoke from reason, but her heart screamed at her to go to the alley, to save her husband. If he was there, though, he was most certainly beyond saving. She wanted to weep, but instead she pressed on. “We’ll go back to the apartment and look out over the balcony. Maybe this damn camera will work enough to let us see what’s on the ground down there.”
They returned to an apartment that was already changing for Becky, ceasing to be a home. Everything was the same except Dick was… gone. If he had fallen, his body must have sailed right past these windows while they were trying to get him on the CB. She put the camera down on the dining room table, wiped tears angrily from her eyes and examined the damage. All you could see through the viewer was a pearl-white blur. “It’s totaled,” she said. “At least the film’s intact.” She tossed Wilson the cassette.
“Six shots. He took six shots.”
Talking made her throat constrict. She stood silent, unable to answer, her mind searching for some way to believe that Dick was still alive. She wished that the camera hadn’t broken. Then they could use it to look out over the balcony into the alley, and at least confirm the worst. She went over the possibilities: he had been attacked by a werewolf on the roof and had fallen—that was number one. A distant number two was that he had somehow escaped this attack by jumping onto the topmost balcony. Highly unlikely. If he had been able to jump down there, so could the werewolf.
Wilson came to her, put his hand on her arm. “He’s had it, baby,” he said gruffly. His eyes were wet. He looked furious.
“I wish I knew for sure.”
“You know.”
“Oh, God, maybe he’s down in that alley bleeding to death!” She knew it was irrational, a man surviving a fall like that, but stranger things had happened.
“I’ll go look, Becky, but it isn’t going to tell us anything we don’t know.” He went toward the balcony, paused at the door. He pushed the curtains aside. “Just reconnoitering,” he said. He failed to notice the shape huddled against the glass almost at his feet He rolled back the sliding door.
It leaped at him through the curtains, its snarling mouth ripping the cloth. He fell back into the living room, rolled, and headed for the bedroom door. Becky was in motion behind him as the thing pulled the curtains down around itself, shook free, and came on into the apartment.
Becky and Wilson reached the bedroom, and she slammed and locked the door behind them. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a body pressing against the door.
The plywood creaked and popped, but the door held. Suddenly the handle began rattling furiously, almost as if it would be torn out at its roots. Becky put her fist to her mouth.
“Did you see?” she whispered as she fought the panic. “It’s brains are all out. It’s been horribly hurt.”
“That must be Dick’s doing.”
The door groaned. Now the beast began throwing itself against it. The hinges quaked, the damaged doorknob rattled loosely with each impact “Shoot it. Shoot through the door.”
“My gun is in my coat.” And his coat was in the kitchen.
She found her own .38 and aimed it about where she estimated the creature’s chest would be, flicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger.
There was a deafening blast, and a smoking hole splintered the door. “That’s done,”
she said in a shaky voice. She started toward the door, but Wilson’s hand grabbed her arm. “You missed,” he said.
“How could I miss—it was right there.”
“Look.”
Through the two-inch hole in the door she could see something gray—fur. And she could hear a low, deep sound of breathing.
“I didn’t even wound it” She raised the gun again. At once there was light shining through the hole. The creature had retreated.
“They’re damn smart. It must have heard and moved to avoid the shot. There’s no use trying again, it won’t be there. And we aren’t doing the door much good.”
Outside the door the Old Father moved cautiously. He had jumped to avoid the shot just in time and could still feel a hot sensation where it had passed his face. His head throbbed terribly, it was all he could do to keep the pain from making him scream in agony. He fought for control, found it somewhere within him, and forced himself to think about the situation. The most important thing was that he was in. He had heard the man walking over to the balcony door and had hidden just in time. The man had opened the door and—at last.
The next thing was to get the rest of the pack up here. He wasn’t sure that they would come if he called them, but he knew that the sounds of a fight would certainly get them climbing up the precarious balconies. Very well—he would create such sounds. He leaped into the living room, letting his hatred for his tormentors be vented in destruction. He pulled down lamps, smashed furniture, did everything he could to create a din. But only for a few moments, not enough to alert the humans in nearby apartments. Then he stopped, stood with his ears cocked. And there it was! The clatter of toes, the grunts of struggle. They were on their way up.
How he loved them! He thought of their future and his own past, and felt hope not only for them but for his whole race. The last of the enemy cowered behind a flimsy door ready for the slaughter. Soon all packs everywhere would again be safe from human interference. They, not he—for their safety he was going to trade his life.
They came rushing in, their faces full of the lust of victory.
When they saw him they stopped. Very well, let them be shocked. He knew a mortal wound when he felt it; their expressions of horror did not surprise him. He was glad to give his life for them; now they knew it.
A curtain of grief descended over them. Very well, that was to be expected. He refused to allow himself to share their grief. Memories clattered at the edge of his mind, but now was not the moment for them. There was much work and little time.
Using their language of movements, tail-wags and sounds, he quickly communicated to his family that the two behind the door had a gun and that the door must be burst. They all knew without its being said that he planned to jump first into the room, to take the impact of the gun.
His mate looked pleadingly at him.
He reminded her that he was already as good as dead. This last act—of jumping into the gunfire— would be useful to the pack. Her sorrow, or his own, must not be allowed to intervene.
Inside the bedroom Becky and Wilson listened closely. They heard a rapid series of growls of varying pitch, then the rattle of claws against the floor.
“Now they’re all out there,” Wilson whispered. “The rest of them must have come up from the alley. How many shots you have left?”
“Five.”
“They better count.” His voice was choked. It was obvious to them both that five shots would not be enough.
“The phone!” Becky grabbed it, dialed 911. Nothing. “The receiver in the living room must have been knocked off the hook.”
“We won’t make it,” he said softly.
She whirled and faced him. “We’ll make it, you bastard. If we don’t give up hope, that is.”
“I’m just being realistic, Becky.”
“Speak for yourself.” She held her gun in both hands, pointed straight at the door. Not even the fact that Wilson was trying to kiss her cheek caused her to move.
“Your timing stinks,” she said.
“It’s probably my last chance.”
“Shut up and watch the door.”
The Old Father had gathered the pack well clear of the door but in sight of it. He told them what they would do, assuming his accustomed role. Nobody questioned him, nobody dared. He had gotten them this far, they could not but listen to him.
They would go in low, burst the door. Then he would make his rush. He would do it alone, hoping that the gun would be emptied into him. Then the others could destroy them, consume his body, and leave without a trace of themselves remaining. Man would not understand how these tragedies had occurred, and the secret of the packs would be safe once more.
He snapped his jaw, a sound that brought them all to immediate attention. Now they prepared themselves.
They all quivered with the desire to speak but said nothing. There were no words for what the pack now had to face, for the sorrow that they all felt. Despite his loss of the right to lead, he had nonetheless founded this pack, had built it through his strength and effort. Now in death he received its respect.
“You hear anything?” Becky asked. Wilson was standing near the door.
“They’re in the living room. Maybe we could make a break.”
“We wouldn’t get three feet. Just stay put and think.”
The phone lay on the floor, a tiny voice telling them again and again that a receiver had been left off the hook on the line. Becky felt like ripping the damn thing out of the wall and tossing it through the window. “Hey, wait a minute—” She went over to the window and peered down. “Listen, why don’t we toss the Goddamn bed out the window. That’ll bring somebody up to investigate.”
“So the poor soul opens the door and gets torn apart. Meanwhile, we’re already dead.”
“You got a pen?”
“Yeah, but what—”
“So we write on the sheet. Gimme—” She took the pen, threw the covers off the bed and started scratching big letters on the fitted bottom sheet. In a few moments there was a rough message, “SEND ARMED COPS 16G. MURDER. GREAT DANGER. BREAK IN. CAREFUL OF AMBUSH!”
They pulled open the window, finding that it was not big enough to accommodate the mattress. Becky stationed Wilson at the door with the .38 and wrapped the quilt around her right arm. She looked down to make sure the street below was empty, then smashed the window with her fist. “OK, give me a hand again, let’s get this thing out.” Together they pushed and struggled until the mattress fell from the window. It tumbled end over end and hit squarely on the sidewalk. It must have made a noise, but the sound was lost in the wind.
Then there came scratching at the door. “They’re onto the lock again,” Wilson said. His voice was strained. He looked desperately at Becky.
“Get the dresser over there—move it!” He obediently shoved it against the door while she held the pistol. A moment later there was a tremendous bang, and the door sprung on its hinges. A crack appeared down the center. “Lean against that dresser,” Becky said to Wilson, who had cringed away toward the bathroom. Now he came forward again, pressing his back against the dresser. The door shook with the onslaught of the strength behind it.
Across the street the two plainclothesmen had heard the thud when the mattress hit the sidewalk. Both of them peered out the closed windows of their car, toward the sound.
“Somethin’ hit the sidewalk.”
“Yeah.”
Silence for a moment. “You wanna take a look?”
“Nah. You go if you’re curious.”
“I’m not curious.”
They settled back to wait out the end of the shift. Another hour and they would be able to hand off to the next crew and get a hot shower. Despite the car heater the cold got to you on these long gigs.
“What do you suppose Neff is doin’?” one of them said to break the monotony.
“Sleeping in his bed like all smart people this time of night.”
They said nothing further.
The door smashed into three pieces, which came flying in over the dresser. One of the creatures was there, pulling itself in through the space above the dresser. Becky shot as it leaped at her. The bullet smashed into its head, and it dropped to the floor. Wilson had been thrown aside by the assault on the door and now scrambled to his feet. Despite its head-wound and the blood bubbling out of a new two-inch hole in its chest, the thing jumped on him, clawing into him with its vicious paws. He gasped, his eyes widening, and screamed in agony. She shot again. It had to be dead now, but still the claws worked, the jaws cut into Wilson’s neck and his screams pealed out.
Then the thing slumped away from Wilson. The only sound in the room was its ragged breathing. Wilson started to stagger away, his whole front ripped and streaming with blood. She stumbled to help him—and a paw grabbed her ankle. Agony pierced her leg as the sharply pointed claws penetrated. She put her hands to her head and shrieked, kicking frantically with her free foot. The blows landed again and again, but the grip would not release.
Becky’s whole being wanted to shoot it again, to shoot it and shoot it, but she did not.
The bullets must be saved.
Then the grip faded.
She slumped back to a sitting position on the bedframe and pointed her pistol at the broken door, at the apparitions that were gathering there. There were four of them, obviously very unsure about her weapon. She had two shots left. Wilson, now huddled moaning on the floor beside the body of the werewolf, was beyond helping her. She was alone and in agony, fighting unconsciousness.
Downstairs the doorman was staring at a patrol car that had pulled up in front of the building. Two cops, the collars of their heavy winter coats turned up against the wind, got out and entered the lobby. “Help you?”
“Yeah. We gotta check out a disturbance. You “got a disturbance?”
“Nah. It’s quiet.”
“Sixteenth floor. People been callin’ the precinct. Screams, furniture breakin’. You got any complaints?”
“This is a quiet building. You sure you got the right place?”
They nodded, heading for the elevator. This looked like a standard family disturbance situation— no arrests, just a lot of argument and maybe a little fight to break up. You spent half your time on family disturbances, the other half on paperwork. Real crime, forget it.
“Lessee, sixteen.” One of the patrolmen punched the button, and the elevator began to ascend. After a few moments the door slid open revealing a long, dimly lit hallway. The two cops looked up and down. Nobody was visible. Aside from the sound of a couple of TVs it was quiet. They proceeded into the hall. Apartment 16-G had been the source of the disturbance. They would ring the bell.
The creatures were watching Becky by lifting their heads briefly above the edge of the dresser that stood in the doorway. Though she kept the gun aimed she wasn’t fast enough to get a shot off at one of those darting heads.
Then they became quiet. They could jump right over the dresser and get at her throat, she was sure of that. She hobbled to the window, wishing that she could somehow protect Wilson, who had lapsed into unconsciousness. But she couldn’t. If the creatures came at her she planned to jump. Death by falling was to be preferred a thousand times to disembowelment by those monstrosities.
A head appeared above the dresser, paused for a long moment, then was gone. That pause had been longer than the rest. Becky braced herself. Still nothing happened. They were being very careful. They knew what a gun could do. The doorbell rang.
One of the creatures sailed across the dresser, its teeth bared, its claws extended toward her throat.
It took Becky’s last two slugs in the muzzle and dropped at her feet. The claws went to the face and the body hunched, its muscles standing out like twisted ropes. Then it collapsed into a widening pool of blood Becky watched it with a mixture of horror and sadness. Her ankle was almost useless; she could barely support herself on the windowsill with her hands. The wind was whipping her hair around her face, biting into her back. She looked across the carnage in the room. There were three hideous faces staring at her over the dresser that still blocked the doorway. With trembling hands she lifted her .38 in their direction. Without her hands on the windowsill, balance was precarious. The wind buffeted her, threatening at any moment to make her fall. But the creatures hesitated before the gun. Then one of them made a low, strange sound… almost of grief. It closed its eyes, tensed its muscles—and suddenly turned away from the bedroom. Now all three of them disappeared below the edge of the dresser.
Then there came a knock on the door. “Police,” said a young voice.
“No! Don’t open that door!”
The knock came again, louder. “Police! Open up!”
“Stay out! Stay—”
With a crash the door flew open. The two cops who were standing there didn’t even have a chance to scream. All Becky heard was a series of thuds.
Then there was a silence.
Becky was crying now. Still with the gun held in both hands she moved forward. But she could not go on. She sank to the bed. Her pistol fell to the floor. Any moment now the werewolves would be back to kill her.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on in here?”
She looked up through a haze of tears. Two patrolmen were standing on the other side of the dresser with guns drawn. She sat stunned, hardly believing what she saw. “I—I’ve got a wounded man in here,” she heard herself whisper.
The patrolmen pushed the dresser aside. Ignoring the two werewolves, one of them went to Wilson. “Breathin’,” he said even as the other was calling for assistance on his radio.
“What’s the story, lady?”
“I’m Neff, Detective Sergeant Neff. That’s Detective Wilson.”
“Yeah, good. But what the hell are those?”
“Werewolves.” Becky heard herself say the word from far, far away. Strong arms eased around her, laid her back on the bed. But still she fought unconsciousness. There was more to do, no time to sleep.
In the distance there were sirens, then a few minutes later voices in the hall. Then light, flashbulbs popping as police photographers recorded the scene. She raised her head far enough to see Wilson being carried out on a stretcher. “O-positive blood,” she called weakly.
Then somebody was beside her, looking at her, a half smile on his tired face. “Hello, Mrs. Neff.” He moved aside as medical orderlies slid her onto a stretcher. “Mrs. Neff, do you want to make a statement to the press?”
“You’re the man from the Post, aren’t you?”
“I’m Garner, ma’am.”
She smiled, closed her eyes. They were moving her now, the lights of the hallway passing above her face. Sam Garner hurried along beside her, trying to hold a tape recorder microphone in her face.
“It’s a big story, isn’t it?” he said breathlessly.
“A big story,” she said. Sam Garner smiled again, elbowed his way into the elevator already crowded with medical orderlies and her stretcher. Her leg throbbed with agony, she felt exhausted, she wanted to close her eyes, to forget. But she gave Garner his story.