Monsters (Page 89)

Probably hooked him first, then ripped. Teeth and nails, she guessed, which meant that Wolf ’s group had gotten into it with that pack on their heels. She watched as a bubbler of blood surged in a bright fresh fountain. Tagged an artery, for sure. Well, this kid wouldn’t have to worry about getting an infection from all that torn bowel. The bowl of his belly was overflowing, his lips paling as his arteries emptied. A clammy sweat filmed his face and neck, and the boy was starting to shudder with shock.

Her eyes tracked to that lumpy, blood-soaked sack. From the smell, the body inside was a man’s this time, and there was a lot of blood. But no guts. Which was wrong. From experience, she knew that Wolf and his crew liked liver, loved the heart, tolerated kidneys, didn’t much care for tripe. Much more to the point, though, Wolf never butchered or sank his teeth into a kill until he and his crew made it to safety. She understood why. Once upon a time and in a different life, her dad always hung their food well off the ground in a bear bag, same as Wolf and his crew secured their supplies in that stuff sack. When you were on the trail, you didn’t want unwelcome visitors making off with your stash. (Why more Changed didn’t flock to Wolf ’s little hideaway, like ants to spilled sugar, she didn’t know. They had to smell the meat. She sure did.)

But the body in that sack, this man, was in pieces. He was missing several more, and here was Ernie, ripped to shreds, and other Changed out for Wolf ’s blood.

“You stole it from them? They caught you stealing?” And she’d been worried he was hurt? Wolf was tight-lipped, ashen, but his dark eyes—Chris’s eyes—blazed. Bert, Ernie’s brother, was hustling across the great room with his shotgun in one hand and her medic’s pack swinging from the other. From the corner of her eye, she saw Darth lurch from the door, heading past the window for the far side of the room in an awkward crouch. For a fraction of a second, she almost bawled, Get down, you idiot! Darth would be as tempting a target as a metal duck in a midway: Three hits, and the little lady gets a stuffed pig.

mo ns ters Instead, she snatched her medic’s pack from Bert and shouted, “Wolf, what do you expect me to do? I can’t fix—” The picture window imploded in an enormous, glassy splash. Darth’s head was there one instant and red mist the next. Gasping, Alex ducked as fléchettes of razor glass whizzed overhead. An instant later, someone let out a choking screech. She jerked her head around and saw Bert’s hands flying for his face. A splinter of glass, as long as her pinky, juddered from the ruin of his right socket. Another jagged dagger had driven into the soft underbelly of his jaw.

“Bert!” Horrified, she was pushing Wolf aside even as her last snippet of common sense clamored: Get down, stay down! She started for the boy. “Bert, Bert, don’t touch it, don’t—”

Bert let go of another blubbering shriek—and his shotgun. She saw the disaster unfold in slo-mo: the jets of Bert’s blood dividing into individual drops, the flash and shiver of glass, even the shotgun spiraling in a strange arabesque. Then time sped up; the eye of the barrel was looking at her, and her brain was shrieking, Down, get down!

A fraction of a second too late.

The shotgun hit just as something crashed into her and knocked her flat. Wolf covered her up as the shotgun roared a thunderous baROOM! The slug brrred over Wolf ’s head, trailing hot brass and burnt powder before smashing into drywall with a heavy thunk. More shots jetted through the shattered window. Craning past Wolf ’s shoulder, she saw Bert’s body jitter in a spastic little dance, then drop, face-first. Even with the cottony buzz in her ears, she heard the crunch as the glass dagger punched bone and then brain. Bert’s arms and legs shot straight out, like those of a little kid yelling surprise, then went limp.

At the window, Marley was springing up and down, firing wild over the sill. From the pock-pock of return fire and spangs as bullets ricocheted off the cast-iron woodstove, she didn’t think he hit much.

Got to hope those sparks don’t ignite all that pine. Fire’s the last thing we need. Ernie was a waxen doll in a blood lake. In the kitchen, Penny was screaming.

“You have to get her out.” She was still pinned under Wolf, their faces only inches apart, his wolf skin so close she smelled the musty tang of the animal that had once worn it. She read his panic, smelled the sizzle of fear on his skin. If she could only get across her meaning! For a moment, she thought, Alex, relax; let the monster out; let it help you. She roped back the impulse. That would be insane. Instead, she put her hands on Wolf ’s shoulders and grabbed his eyes with her own. “Give me a gun, Wolf. Let me help—”

There was another huge ka-BANG, a flash of orange light as something exploded outside. A second later, a cyclone of pulverized earth and superheated air blasted through the ruined window, knocking Marley off his feet. The room was suddenly so hot, scorching, Alex felt the burn in her throat and lungs. Above her, Wolf ’s body went rigid, his face tightening in a pained grimace. The air inside and out dripped with sounds and smells and sensations: the peppery sting of spent explosives, an isolated scream from beyond the window, the mucky rain of smoking globs of quivering flesh, the stutter of weapons fire.

Then there was a silence, as if time had decided to take a very deep breath . . . and that was when Alex remembered what she had forgotten, because, now, she felt the sudden flare in the center of her brain: Go-go. Push-push.

The red storm—that strange mind—was here.

72

For three seconds, all Chris knew was he was facedown, on the floor, hacking and trying to breathe through a throat that felt as if a boot had planted itself on his windpipe and ground it to pulp. Blood from the rip on his forehead was dripping into his eyes and coursing down his cheeks. His mouth was coppery from where he’d bitten himself, and his right hand was slick, too, the fingers beginning to burn. Over the thin, airy shrieks whistling in and out of his throat, he could hear a guttural awww, awww. Not coming from him, though. Blinking against blood, he managed to turn his head—and felt his heart try to fail.

Propped against a far wall was a boy, glittery-eyed, shaggy. A giant. Chris was tall, just an inch shy of six feet, but this kid had him beat by at least four. The kid was big as a barrel, and most of that was muscle. Someone or something had gotten to the kid, though. Huge gashes scored most of the Changed’s face and oozed pus. His lower lip was ripped in two, the flaps drooping to expose dusky blue gums and stained teeth.