Savage (32 page)

“What do you mean he's not coming?”

“Your dad's not coming?” Rich asked, looking up as he finished taping the knife to the wooden plunger.

“No,” she snapped, feeling her emotions start to rise. “He's not coming. How many other ways can I say it?”

Cody was stunned. “Sid, you can't be serious,” he said, and started toward the door to the garage.

“Cody, no!”

Cody stopped and turned. “I'm not going to—”

“Yes, you are,” Sidney said. “There's nothing you can do, nothing any of us can do.”

“We can force him.”

She shook her head, the tears flowing again. “I tried, I really did. But he wants to do this.”

Cody seemed to struggle with continuing on to the garage or staying with them. “Sid, I . . .”

“Forget it; we have to go,” she said, and turned her back on him, grabbing a carving knife from the table and sliding it through her belt loop. “The fastest way to my father's truck is out the front door,” she said, taking the keys from a row of hooks hanging from a bulletin board next to an old wall phone. Then she started from the kitchen to the hall leading to the front door.

“What's going to keep them from swarming us when we open the door?” Cody asked from behind her.

Part of her was glad that Cody hadn't attempted to change her father's mind, but part was also disappointed that he hadn't.

Sidney peeked through the peephole in the door to see the front yard swarming with life. The animals and insects knew they were inside and were just waiting for them to come out.

“There's a lot of them out there,” she said, pulling away from the door. “How do we drive them back?”

Cody, the spear in his hand, stepped closer. She noticed he still had the gun that was given to him at the police station stuck into the waistband of his jeans.

“I don't think our weapons will do much,” Cody said, taking a look for himself. “They'll be all over as us as soon as we open the door.

She nodded as Snowy padded down the hall with Isaac behind her.

“Hey, guys,” Rich called out from the kitchen.

They all turned toward the kitchen doorway as Rich appeared there holding a red fire extinguisher that Sidney's dad kept on the counter beside the stove. He'd put it there after a nasty grease fire she'd caused while cooking a hamburger when she was twelve.

“What about this?” Rich asked.

Sidney's gears were turning. CO
₂
, flame-suffocating chemicals—it could be just the thing to help them clear a path from the house to the truck.

“Give it,” she ordered, moving her fingers in Rich's direction. Her friend came down the hall and handed the tank to her.

“I think this might do it,” she said, hefting the extinguisher. “We spray to drive them back, and keep spraying until everybody gets to the truck.”

“Will that work?” Rich asked.

“Better than anything I can think of right now,” Sidney said.

“I'll do it,” Cody said, moving to take it from her.

“Like hell you will,” she said, stepping away from his reach.

The sounds from outside were becoming more raucous, and she could have sworn that she heard glass tinkling to the floor.

“Are we ready?” she asked.

“Keys,” Cody demanded, holding out his hand.

Sidney reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and removed the keys, handing them to him. “I'll give you that.”

“What's my job?” Rich asked.

“Make sure Snowy and Isaac get safely to the truck,” she said.

Rich nodded, patting Isaac on the shoulder. He had his meat tenderizer in one hand and his long-reach knife in the other.

They stood there for a few moments, no one really wanting to give the go-ahead. And then Sidney heard her father calling out from the garage.

“Go on,” Rich said. He put out his hands for the extinguisher.

She handed it over and trotted down the hallway, Snowy by her side. She threw open the door, certain that her father had changed his mind. Instead, she saw him still in his chair, surrounded by dynamite, wires running from the ends of the explosive sticks to the detonator he held in his hands.

Her heart sank. “I thought you had changed your mind,” she said dully.

“No,” he said firmly. “I wanted to let you know I'm ready. It's time for you to go.”

“Dad, please reconsider,” she started.

“Clock's ticking, Sidney,” he said. “Go. I love you.” Then he pressed the button to open the garage door. “Come and get me, you filthy bastards!” he cried.

The insects were first, flowing under the door as it rose, crawling onto his body.

Sidney knew she had to leave before she couldn't but chanced one final look over her shoulder as she passed into the kitchen.

Bugs were crawling up onto his neck and face. He caught her look and nodded. “Beep the horn when you're safe.”

Sidney ran through the kitchen and down the hall to her friends. “Get ready,” she said, stopping short and wrenching the fire extinguisher from Rich's hands.

“Where's your father?”

“Where he wants to be,” she said as she pulled the pin. “Open the door. We're leaving.”

Dale Moore would have been lying if he said he wasn't having second thoughts.

Nobody really ever wanted to die.

Even as he was, less than half of what he used to be, a part of him still struggled to remain. He guessed it was some primitive part of the brain that had existed to keep the species alive ever since mankind dropped down from the trees.

What if there really was nothing after this? Was that actually better than a life plagued by handicap?

Had he been wrong? Did he really want to stay alive?

Maybe he had, but now . . .

The insects were crawling under his clothes, biting and stinging his flesh. No matter how many he swatted away or crushed against his body, they were still there, an endless swarm of bugs and spiders.

He had to force himself to remain in the chair, knowing that he'd probably make it only a few feet before landing on the floor, rolling around like a turtle on its back.

No, he would hold out as long as he could for Sidney and her friends.

His grip tightened on the detonator in his lap. As soon as she beeped the horn . . .

The insects were just the first wave. He could see the cats jumping over the fence, skulking through the front yard, many wearing pretty collars, some with bells on them. If the insects failed, they'd be there to take him out. He'd never really cared for cats. He'd always been a dog person. Dale found his memory going back to a day in his childhood, his grandmother having come to stay with them for the weekend. He remembered her telling him a story of when she was a young girl in Ireland, and how new mothers were always afraid of the wild cats that were about. He had asked her why, and she had told him the cats would come into the baby's crib, perch upon the sleeping child's chest, and steal away their breath.

Dale heard the ringing of a bell as the first of the cats pounced upon his chest, its claws piercing his shirt to hook into the tender flesh beneath. He cried out in pain, swatting the silent beast away, before the others leaped upon him, scrambling up his body to get to his face.

To steal his breath away.

Cody threw open the door, and Sidney stepped out, spraying a cloud of choking CO
₂
at the animals swarming upon the porch.

“Run!” she screamed, relieved to see that she had been right, the cold blast from the fire extinguisher actually driving the animals back. She fired more of the chilling CO
₂
and chanced a quick look over her shoulder to see Rich, Snowy, and Isaac following Cody to the driveway and the waiting truck. She sprayed one more arc of the choking white chemical, then darted off the porch to the left.

And slammed into somebody standing in the cold, swirling mist.

Sidney let out a yelp, falling backward and dropping the red canister. It took a moment for her brain to process what she was seeing: the man who had tried to kill her. He glared at her with horrible mismatched eyes, a bloody smile upon his face. Alfred the nasty French bulldog stood by his side.

She frantically reached for the extinguisher while keeping an eye on the man as he lumbered toward her.

Multiple stings of burning pain caused her to cry out, and she yanked her hand back as a cloud of wasps swarmed around her salvation. She scrambled to her feet, ducking beneath Berthold's filthy hands as they reached for her. Alfred decided to help then, lunging forward and sinking his nasty, bulldog teeth into the meat of her thigh.

She pitched forward, landing hard on her side. Then quickly rolling over onto her back, she managed to wrench the dog off of her, losing a chunk of her leg in the process and flipping him backward. The pain was intense, her vision swimming as she struggled to get to her feet.

Remembering her weapon, she reached to her side, found the carving knife's wooden handle, and yanked it from her belt.

Alfred was back, and all she could see was his open, slavering maw as it came at her. She stabbed at the French bulldog's face, the point of the knife entering his jowls and scraping across his gums and teeth. There was suddenly blood, lots of blood, as she pulled back on the blade, ready to stab at the dog again.

But now Berthold was crawling on all fours toward her like some kind of animal. He reached out and grabbed her ankle, dragging her back down to the waterlogged lawn. She dropped her knife and found herself staring up into the man's leering face as he bore down upon her, his filthy hands closing around her throat.

And starting to squeeze.

Isaac had started to slow down, his hands again going up to his head.

That's all I need,
Rich thought, turning and grabbing the kid. “C'mon, Isaac! We have to get in the truck.”

“It's getting loud again,” Isaac whined. “The bad radio is getting loud again.”

“Maybe it won't be so loud in the truck,” Rich said as Cody reached around from the driver's seat to open the back passenger door.

Rich pushed Isaac inside, then turned and gestured for Snowy to climb in as well.

The German shepherd looked at him, and then turned around to stare in the direction they'd just come from. Exasperated, Rich ran to her and picked her up.

“She'll be right here, girl,” he said, even though he knew she couldn't hear. He hefted Snowy onto the backseat beside Isaac and slammed the door closed. Then he raced around the truck to the front passenger door. He stopped, hand on the door handle, staring off in the direction of the house. Animals were coming across the side lawn toward them, probably drawn to their movement, their life. Some were still coated in powdery white from the fire extinguisher.

Where is she?
he wondered, staring ahead, hoping to see her coming around the corner.

But Sidney didn't come.

“Get in the truck!” Cody yelled, and Rich ignored him, waiting.

“Rich, get in the truck, you stupid—”

“Where is she?” Rich asked, opening the door and leaning in toward Cody.

Cody looked nervous, antsy, his hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. “I don't know. Get in the truck before—”

“Something's wrong,” Rich said, standing up to look toward the front of the house again.

Isaac was grabbing at his head and moaning, rocking back and forth, muttering beneath his breath, and Snowy whined pitifully.

A rottweiler the size of a hippopotamus suddenly lunged around the truck at Rich. Rich managed to duck into the truck and slam the door closed just as the dog hit it.

Furious, it leaped against the truck, its slathering jaws biting at the window.

“Where is she?” Rich asked again.

Cody looked like he was going to jump out of his skin.

“She's coming,” he said, looking out his window that was now being assaulted by stinging insects slamming against the glass. “She's coming.”

The rottweiler leaped against the door, scratching with its large paws, trying to get in.

Rich looked at Cody. He could see that he was scared as well. Terrified that something had happened.

Where is she?

Rich suddenly slid across the seat, slamming his hand down in the center of the steering wheel and leaving it there.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Dale Moore was waiting to die.

He was definitely ready, but he had to wait . . . he had to hold on until it was time.

The animals were all over him, the cats doing the most damage as a pack of dogs sat passively on the sidelines, waiting to see if they would be needed.

The pain really wasn't quite so bad anymore, most of his body having gone coldly numb. It wasn't too different than after the stroke.

He kept his eyes shut, feeling the insects on his lids, biting—gnawing.

He wasn't sure how much time he had left. He was losing a lot of blood for sure and could feel his hold on his poor tortured body beginning to slip away.

But he could not go yet; he had to fight the pull of the end. He had to be sure that she was safe. He needed to be sure that she had reached the safety of the truck before . . .

Something large, and far heavier than bugs or cats, leaped up onto his lap and sank its teeth into his neck. Dale's eyes shot open as his throat was at first crushed and then torn open. He could see his own dying reflection in the silvery coating that covered the dog's right eye.

It must be time for the second shift,
he thought, feeling the blood pump from the gaping wound in his neck and down the front of his shirt, the pull of death even more forceful now.

Then thankfully, he heard the blare of his truck's horn. Sidney was safe, and it was time for him to go.