Savage (16 page)

“What are you doing here?” yelled a voice that Isaac realized wasn't his mother but was close by. Carefully he moved closer to the sound, only to hear the voice again, angry and insistent.

“Get out!”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the angry sky as well as his surroundings, and he saw that he was standing near the back of Sidney's house. He realized then that the voice he was hearing was coming from inside his friend's home.

And it sounded like someone needed help.

Isaac ran across the yard, toward the sounds of struggle becoming more pronounced over the raging of the storm . . .

Over the sound of the bad radio whispering horrible things in his Steve ear.

The bad, bad radio.

Dale stared into the eyes of the man who was trying to kill him.

The eyes were wrong, one bloodshot and horribly dilated, the other covered with a silvery film.

Then things started to go black, and he felt himself begin to slip away.

He tried to fight back, using every single bit of strength he could manage, but his attacker—
attackers
—were too strong.

The dog had taken hold of Dale's cane in his powerful jaws and was attempting to wrench it from his grasp. Dale held on with all his might, believing that if the cane was lost, he would most assuredly follow.

He flapped his arms wildly as his legs weakened and he began to slide down the hallway wall, the stranger's hands still wrapped tightly about his throat. He felt the fingers on his left hand begin to loosen as the dog tugged on the cane, and panic set in. The dog temporarily released the cane to take a better grip, and Dale used the moment to lash out with his leg, kicking the bulldog square in the face and driving him back. He managed to bring his cane up and swing it into the man's horribly pale, blood-covered face, hitting him right above the nose and opening a huge, oozing gash.

The man grunted, his hold on Dale's throat weakening, allowing Dale to squirm free and slide to the floor, where he began to wildly swing his cane in an attempt to keep his attackers away. The bulldog suddenly emerged from the shadows, moving lightning quick to sink his nasty teeth into the meat of Dale's left arm. Dale cried out. Reflexively, his hand opened, and he heard the sound of the cane hitting the floor. He tried to retrieve it, tried to recapture the only thing that might save his life, but the dog held tightly to his arm, dragging him away from the prize.

Berthold kicked the cane away as he lumbered closer, then dropped on Dale's back, pinning him to the floor.

Dale tried to throw the man off, bucking and thrashing wildly, but his attacker was too heavy and the bulldog still held on to his left arm, while his useless right arm flopped pathetically against the floor. He felt the man's cold, bloodstained hands wrap around his jaw from behind and begin to savagely pull upward. With intensifying horror Dale wondered which would snap first, his neck or his back.

Berthold continued to pull, and Dale screamed in agony, the tendons and muscles in his neck and back strained to the point where they would soon tear, and then the bones would—

“What are you doing to him?” a voice boomed from someplace close by. “What are you doing to Mr. Moore?”

Dale managed to twist his body to see the familiar form of his neighbor, Isaac Moss, standing soaking wet just inside the doorway. Dale tried to warn him away, but found that he was only capable of making a strangled, gargling sound as his neck was about to be broken.

“You let him go!” Isaac shouted, coming farther into the house.

The bulldog released Dale's arm and moved to jump over his prone body to get to the youth. Dale reached out as the dog leaped over him and took hold of his muscular back leg.

The dog fell, then tried to spin around, jaws snapping savagely. Dale held tight, even as the dog's razor-sharp teeth ripped the flesh from his knuckles.

Isaac rushed closer. He kicked the dog savagely, knocking him across the room.

“Get out of here, you bad dog!” he yelled. Then he grabbed hold of the man atop Dale and wrenched him back, throwing the attacker to the floor.

“And you get off Mr. Moore!”

Dale scrabbled across the floor and pushed up against the wall. He'd never realized how strong Isaac had become as he'd gotten older, still remembering the quiet youth who rarely left the house in all the years that he and Sidney had lived here.

Isaac stood, watching the man he had thrown to the floor slowly start to get back up. The bulldog was stalking in from the living room, the pair seeming to act in tandem.

“What should I do, Mr. Moore?” Isaac asked, his voice nervously high pitched.

Dale wished that he could do more to help the young man, but in his current condition he was next to useless. “We have to get them outside,” he croaked, still feeling the effects of his neck being crushed.

Berthold silently lunged at Isaac, attempting to put his hands around the teen's throat. Isaac backed away as the man grabbed for him. Dale saw that the dog was maneuvering around behind Isaac to attack and managed to bend down and snag his cane from the floor. He hobbled as quickly as he could toward the scene unfolding before him, raised the cane with his left arm, and brought it down hard on the dog's head before he could attack the boy. Dale found it incredibly strange that the bulldog barely made a sound as he collapsed to the floor and lay there motionless.

Isaac's attacker paused as the dog fell.

“Throw him out, Isaac!” Dale cried. “Grab his clothes and toss him out!”

Isaac immediately reached out, grabbing the man by the back of his shirt, spinning him around, and hurling him toward the open front door and the storm that raged outside.

The man stumbled but stopped at the doorway, appearing to collect himself as he slowly turned.

Dale made it across the hall in time to club the man in the forehead, then fell to his knees. Berthold seemed stunned by the blow, falling backward onto the outside landing, where he lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs to the soaking concrete walkway.

Dale leaned on the cane and turned to where the dog still lay prone upon the floor.

“Grab its collar, Isaac!” Dale yelled. “Drag it to the door by the collar!”

With a tentative hand Isaac grabbed the dog by the chain choke collar and began to drag him across the floor toward the door. “Like this, Mr. Moore?”

“Just like that, Isaac,” Dale said. “Quickly now.”

Dale looked out to see that Berthold was recovering on the walkway.

Isaac was almost to the door when the dog began to awaken. The animal tossed his head savagely to one side at the youth's wrist, and Isaac let out a loud squawk, letting go of the collar to avoid being bitten.

The man outside was slowly rising. They didn't have much time.

The dog's head was apparently still rattled from the hit. He attempted to climb to his feet but slumped back down to the floor.

“We have to get it out the door—fast!” Dale said.

“It'll bite me,” Isaac said.

“It'll try to kill you if it gets a chance to wake up,” Dale added, hobbling closer to the animal. Dale quickly reached down, grabbed the dog by the collar with his left hand, and tried the best he could to drag it. The dog traveled less than a foot before he was trying to bite him again.

“Damn it,” Dale hissed.

Dale looked over to see that Isaac looked very upset, one of his hands up at his ear where Dale could see that a hearing aid had been placed.

“Isaac?”

The young man's hand was at the hearing aid, his eyes locked on the dog as he started to get up again.

“The bad radio,” Isaac said, his face grimacing as if he were in pain. “The bad radio is inside my head.”

Dale didn't know what that meant but looked over toward the open door to see Berthold coming up the stairs. They had to do something right away, or things were about to get very bad once again.

The man was coming in through the doorway when Isaac lost it. The teen began to scream at the top of his lungs, going for the still-recovering dog, snatching him up from the floor, and running with him toward the doorway.

Dale barely had the chance to get out of his way, stumbling over to one side and almost hitting the floor. He watched as Isaac ran, thrusting the squat body of the dog at the man, knocking him backward, the two of them tumbling down the three brick steps to the wet sidewalk.

Isaac was wild-eyed, standing just outside the doorway panting. His hand was at the hearing aid once again, snatching at it with clawed fingers as if the device was somehow hurting him.

Dale moved as quickly as he was able, careful not to fall as he got to the door, watching as the bulldog clambered to all fours, Berthold right beside him.

“Isaac, get in!” Dale yelled.

The youth turned around slowly to look at him, and then obeyed, coming in from the landing.

Dale slammed the door closed and locked it, leaning his trembling body against it as fists pounded on the other side.

“It's the bad radio,” Isaac said. “It's all the bad radio's fault.”

Dale had no idea what the young man was talking about as he leaned his aching body back against the wall, but as far as he was concerned, it sounded like as good of a reason as any.

If it was fifteen years before Sidney saw another bug, it would still be way too soon.

It amazed her how they could get themselves through the smallest cracks. Almost immediately, spiders, ants, and centipedes began to find their way under the bathroom door, heading to the first person in line, which was her.

“Give me some towels,” she ordered. She'd dropped the trashbag with the raccoon inside by the tub and was crushing the next wave of attacking insects beneath her sneakered feet.

Rich reached into a small cabinet above the toilet and pulled some out before tossing them to her.

She began to shove them tightly against the bottom of the door. She yelped as a centipede slithered over her sneaker and under the cuff of her jeans, and she stomped her feet and swatted at the leg of her pants until the thing dropped out. Half of its body was crushed, but that didn't stop it from trying to get at her again.

“So now what?” Cody asked as Sidney jammed the last of the towels against the door.

“Now they won't be getting in,” she said, double-checking her handiwork.

“Sure,” Cody agreed. “But in case you haven't noticed, it's a little cramped in here.”

Sidney stood and gave the bathroom a good looking over. She noticed the frosted glass window directly opposite the door.

“Where does that go?” she asked Rich.

“Backyard,” he answered.

Something larger than an insect pounded on the door.

They looked at each other, a spark of fear evident on all their faces.

Whatever was outside the door hit it again, causing it to shake. And then it began to scrape on the door, claws scratching furiously at the cheap wood.

“That door isn't going to last,” Sidney said matter-of-factly. “We're going to have to go out the window.” She pushed past Rich and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. She checked to see if it was locked and found that years of paint had made the latch inoperable. She turned to look at Rich.

“We never opened it”—he shrugged—“so when Dad painted—”

He was interrupted by the sound of splintering wood.

“We have to break it.” Sidney's eyes scanned the bathroom and stopped on the metal towel rack attached to the wall. “This'll do,” she said, grabbing the rack in both hands and giving a savage yank.

“Hey!” Rich objected as she pulled it again. “You're wrecking the place.”

The rack came loose, plaster raining down to the tile floor. “Seriously, Rich?”

“Guys!” Cody's gaze was fixed on the bottom of the door, where the wood had started to pock and crack above the barrier of towels.

Snowy sniffed at the towels, then barked wildly. The noises on the other side of the door stopped for only a moment before beginning again all the more furiously.

“You were saying?” Sidney said to Rich as she began to bang on the center of the window with the end of the towel rack. She was surprised it didn't break. In fact, she was barely scratching it.

“Let me try,” Rich said, taking the metal rack from her. He hit the window squarely in the middle, and a fine crack appeared. “It's all about the muscle,” he said, hitting it again. More cracks spiderwebbed through it, but still it didn't break.

Snowy was barking again, her snout jammed into the towels at the bottom of the door, where pieces of wood were beginning to fleck away.

“What the hell is this made of?” Rich asked, preparing to strike the window again, but Sidney was too impatient.

“Give it to me,” she said, yanking the towel rack away from his hands.

Rich looked shocked and maybe even a little hurt, but she didn't care. Time was running short.

She planted her feet and mustered all of her strength before swinging the end of the rack into the window like a baseball bat. The glass splintered, and several pieces fell away into the yard outside. Wind and rain whistled through the opening as she continued to bang away at the glass.

“Hold off,” Rich said, reaching to carefully pry away the jagged glass with his fingers. Sidney handed him the towel rack and went to see what she could do about the door.

She couldn't do much. The bottom of the door was being gradually broken away. From the sounds of it, there was more gnawing now than digging.

This was getting way too freaky for her.

“Whatever is on the other side is going to be able to get under there soon,” Cody warned. He nudged the towels farther beneath the door with the toe of his shoe.

“Yeah,” Sidney agreed, looking behind her to the window. Rich was doing a good job, and almost all the glass was gone from the frame, but the opening looked much smaller now.