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
