first slide that got him beneath the reach of the Nightshade’s wings and saved his life. He could feel the closeness of the passage of the thing’s claws as they sliced through the hair atop his head, carving a thin furrow across the surface of his scalp but penetrating no deeper.
Instantly he was back on his feet, crossing the remaining distance to the car in a half-walk, half-crawl, yanking open the door and falling inside. He slammed the door closed, locked it and grabbed for the radio with his free hand, his revolver miraculously still held tight in the other.
All of his careful police training was forgotten in his fear and need to get help as quickly as possible. He depressed the transmission switch and started yelling into the mike. 'Help! I need help! Bannerman’s dead and this thing is…'
The car door was torn violently away. The beast reached in and grabbed the deputy by the arm. Jones screamed in horror and turned to look.
For the first time he got a close look at what was attacking him.
The light from the patrol car’s interior fell on a long, narrow face with wide, upswept ears and a mouth full of several rows of needle-sharp teeth. The thing’s yellow, cat-like eyes glared at him, full of hunger and hatred. One thick, misshapen hand was clasped tightly around Jones’ upper arm as the beast dragged him out of the car. His head smacked the steering wheel, a hard, painful blow, and then hit the ground as the beast dragged him free of the patrol car.
Jones was dizzy and disoriented from the blow to his head, but could still feel the reassuring weight of his weapon in his hand. He lifted his other arm and pointed it in the general direction of the thing that was holding him.
His revolver found its voice, speaking out into the night in a succession of thunderclaps. This close, he couldn’t possibly miss.
Jones watched as each bullet struck the beast in rapid sequence, knocking it backward into the street. Its claws tore a long furrow down his arm as it did so, tearing through his uniform and the soft skin beneath with little effort. Jones could feel the sudden pain and the warm gush of flowing fluid, but he ignored it, his attention riveted on the spectacle of the six-foot winged beast before him. Blood splashed onto him, a deep purple in color, and fountained up into the night in a dark spring running from the creature’s wounds. For just an instant their gazes locked, and then the beast was knocked to the ground and the connection was broken.
His training reasserting itself, Jones whipped open the breech of his revolver and quickly slipped in another set of six rounds, never once taking his eyes off the beast.
When he was finished, he tried to stand and discovered he was already getting dizzy from loss of blood. The beast hadn’t gotten back up and he didn’t expect it to; nothing short of a grizzly could survive that much damage. He stumbled back toward the cruiser in order to radio for assistance again.
When he reached the car, he steadied himself against the doorframe and then slipped into the front seat.
Jones had just picked up the mike when a sound caught his attention.
Her turned his head.
The beast was sitting up, looking at him. Fury churned in those yellow eyes, and a double-forked tongue shot from between its lips to hiss at him in anger. Jones was not concentrating on the creature’s face however, because as he watched, the six lead slugs he had fired into the beast were slowly reversing their course, working themselves free of the creature’s flesh with a soft pop and a thin drizzle of blood which quickly stopped flowing as the slug fell free to the ground.
As Jones watched in horror, the thing climbed to its feet and shrieked a challenge into the night air.
Jones’ bladder let go suddenly, filling the air with the sharp scent of urine.
The beast seemed to smile in response.
It spread its wings, looming above him like some kind of avenging angel.
Its piercing, yellow eyes held Jones’ own for a moment and Jones found he was completely paralyzed with fear, the gun in his hand forgotten.
The beast pounced.
Jones screamed then, a long, shrill scream of complete terror as the beast seized his leg in its iron strong grip and hauled him bodily back out of the patrol car.
Back at the Sheriff’s office, the dispatchers could hear Jones’ screams through the open mike.
Eventually, they stopped.
Only to be replaced by something far worse.
The sound of a large animal feeding.
Chapter Nineteen: Warnings
While the two officers lie dying on the other side of town, Sam was seated in his swivel chair behind the nursing station with his dog-eared copy of Stephen King’s IT in his hands. He was halfway through his shift when he heard a faint scream.
He leaned forward so he could see over the counter-top and looked down the hall.
It was empty.
Silence lay thick in the air, a brooding, physical presence.
He sat there for a moment, listening, and had just convinced himself that he’d only heard the sound in his mind, a result of King’s ability to bring the written word to life, when he heard it again.
Except this time it didn’t stop. This time it continued in one long wail, a desperate sound of anguish and terror that rose in volume until it was impossible for him to believe it was anything but real.
For a split-second, Sam was paralyzed by the horror he heard in that cry.
Then his training took over and he was up and running, his rubber-soled shoes slapping against the cold linoleum floor, his book forgotten on the counter behind him.
The screaming continued.
He felt the cold dead hand of fear grasp his gut and twist it savagely.
Nausea threatened.
His mind raced ahead of him, doing its best to come up with a medical emergency that would cause a person to scream in such a fashion.
When it failed, his imagination took up the slack, conjuring up visions of dark little demons that had crossed the barrier from the Underworld, hell-born fiends that ripped and tore at frail, unprotected flesh; their razor-sharp teeth glinting wickedly in the dim lighting of the rest home.
He was halfway down the hallway now. Only a few seconds had elapsed since he’d hurtled out of his chair, but as that scream rose and fell in his ears every second felt like an eternity. Time became an exercise in slow- motion cinematography and Sam was cast as the show’s male lead. He felt like he was swimming through a river of molasses and barely making headway against the current.
His mind urged him to run faster.
The scream went on and on.
His heart was in his throat, beating a rapid-fire rhythm.
His hands were slick with sweat.
A strong urge to clamp his hands tightly over his ears to block out that chilling cry came to him then, but he ignored it. Jesus, he thought, make it stop, please, God, make it stop!
But God either didn’t care or wasn’t listening because it didn’t. It just went on, echoing off the stark institutional walls.
Sam was passing individual rooms now; 301, 302, 303, 304…
With a jolt he realized the sound was coming from the last room on the left, the one that stood all alone around the far corner of the hall.
Number 310.
Gabriel’s room.
As he swung around the corner, his feet sliding on the slick tile, his arms thrust against the walls to maintain
