Pocket Apocalypse
Page 65
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Shelby put a hand on her father’s arm. “They used to work in the open, Daddy. They used to go wherever they wanted, killing whoever they wanted, because all they had to do was point a finger and say ‘monster’ if they wanted to be believed. If we let the werewolves have Australia, the Covenant will get all that power back again. Do you want to be responsible for that?”
Riley turned and looked at her, face still expressionless. Then, calmly, he reached up and removed her hand from his arm, pushing her away before he let go. “I knew when I let you go to America that it would change you,” he said. “I assumed you’d come back a little less angry, a little wiser, a little more ready to accept your responsibilities. I thought, God forgive me, that you’d come home and help heal the wounds Jack left when he was taken from us. But all you’ve done is make things worse for yourself, and for us. You’ve been corrupted. If I can take any consolation from this situation, it’s that your brother didn’t live to see it.”
He turned away from her, leaving her white-faced and gasping, and fixed his attention on me. “We’ll do a full inventory; we’ll find the missing silver bullets, and we’ll determine how much other damage has been done. I will support whatever you propose for finding the wolves in our flock, and for resolving the threat that they pose. And then I will drive you to the airport myself. You will never come back here. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good.” He turned and strode away into the maze of shelves, heading for the distant door.
I slumped, leaning against the nearest shelf. “That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.” The lights came on as he walked, marking out his progress in a brightly lit chain of electrical reactions.
“You did threaten to call the Covenant on his country,” Shelby said, moving to lean next to me. “You can’t blame a man for being a little shirty when you hold up his worst nightmare like it’s something reasonable to threaten him with. Even if it is something reasonable; even when it’s not a threat.” She sighed deeply. “Alex, what are we going to do?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I watched the lights. “If the werewolves have decided to start some kind of organized attack, we’re in for a world of trouble. You get that, right?”
“In this particular situation, the world can go hang,” said Shelby. “I’m worried about my country. Don’t get me wrong—if Daddy is serious about manually deporting you, I’ll be coming along, and we’ll settle the ‘where are you kids going to live’ conversation the cheap and easy way. But Australia will always be my country. I can spend the rest of my life in America. I’m ready to do it, if it means staying with you. That isn’t going to change where I come from.”
I didn’t say anything. I was watching the lights, which were continuing to blink on as Riley walked across the warehouse-like room.
Shelby nudged my knee with her own. “That would be a good wedding slash engagement gift, you know. You could play St. Patrick, only do it with werewolves in Australia, instead of snakes in Ireland.”
“Hang on a second,” I said, and frowned. Something about the lights was bothering me. They were on motion sensors, but the way they were turning on and off . . .
“What?” Shelby followed my gaze to the lights. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her frown mirror my own. “Well, that’s silly. Something must be wrong in the circuitry again, we haven’t been anywhere near that corner of . . . the room . . .” Her voice trailed off as understanding struck her. It struck me in the same instant, and then the two of us were running after Riley, moving in perfectly matched silence as we raced against those changing lights.
Riley hadn’t gone anywhere near the far corner of the room, not unless he’d gotten turned around on his way to the door, but that didn’t make any sense, since there was a clear path of lights leading back the way we’d all originally come, marking his progress. No, these lights had another source. Someone else was in the room.
We ran.
Twelve
“Little pitchers have big ears, and sometimes that means they also have big guns. Be careful what you say, when you say it, and know who might be listening.”
—Alexander Healy
The underground survivalist stockroom of an isolated house in Queensland, Australia, running like hell
WHEN I WAS A child, my parents used to put my sisters and me through every kind of drill imaginable. Other kids played games. We prepared for a war everyone prayed we’d never have to fight, but that everyone involved knew wouldn’t show us any mercy if we were unprepared. We learned how to navigate by the stars, by the patterns of moss on trees, and by the calls of certain types of bird. We learned how to lay snares and dig pit traps.
And of course, we learned how to reload a gun while running full-tilt across a basement full of blind alleys and obstructed views.
I pulled the box of pilfered silver bullets from my pocket and snapped my pistol’s chamber open, slotting bullets into place as I ran. It was tricky work, but I’d done it before—those drills had been good for something after all—and I only dropped one, despite the pain in my arm. We didn’t stop running to pick it up. Our lives, and Riley’s life, were worth more than a single silver bullet.
We didn’t dare yell: if Riley was being stalked, but not actually attacked, any noise could make things worse. Not that it made a difference. We had just come around another corner and could finally see the wall when the screaming started. “Daddy!” shrieked Shelby, putting on a burst of speed that would have made any track star proud.
It was a burst of speed I couldn’t match. I did my best to catch up, putting my head down and running like hell, but the gunshots still beat me. I swung around a set of shelves, making a split-second assessment of the situation. There was Shelby, gun in her hands, standing over her father, who was crumpled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. He was clutching his left arm; the werewolf in the basement had bitten him in the same place that the one in the woods had bitten me.
The werewolf itself was about five feet from Shelby, black-furred and red-eyed and gathering itself to spring. Its lips were drawn back, revealing a jaw filled with sharp canine teeth. The drool pooling at the corners of its mouth made my heart skip a beat. Lycanthropy spreads via fluid transfer. A dry bite—like the one I’d been lucky enough to receive—won’t necessarily spread the infection. A good juicy bite, on the other hand . . .
Riley turned and looked at her, face still expressionless. Then, calmly, he reached up and removed her hand from his arm, pushing her away before he let go. “I knew when I let you go to America that it would change you,” he said. “I assumed you’d come back a little less angry, a little wiser, a little more ready to accept your responsibilities. I thought, God forgive me, that you’d come home and help heal the wounds Jack left when he was taken from us. But all you’ve done is make things worse for yourself, and for us. You’ve been corrupted. If I can take any consolation from this situation, it’s that your brother didn’t live to see it.”
He turned away from her, leaving her white-faced and gasping, and fixed his attention on me. “We’ll do a full inventory; we’ll find the missing silver bullets, and we’ll determine how much other damage has been done. I will support whatever you propose for finding the wolves in our flock, and for resolving the threat that they pose. And then I will drive you to the airport myself. You will never come back here. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good.” He turned and strode away into the maze of shelves, heading for the distant door.
I slumped, leaning against the nearest shelf. “That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.” The lights came on as he walked, marking out his progress in a brightly lit chain of electrical reactions.
“You did threaten to call the Covenant on his country,” Shelby said, moving to lean next to me. “You can’t blame a man for being a little shirty when you hold up his worst nightmare like it’s something reasonable to threaten him with. Even if it is something reasonable; even when it’s not a threat.” She sighed deeply. “Alex, what are we going to do?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I watched the lights. “If the werewolves have decided to start some kind of organized attack, we’re in for a world of trouble. You get that, right?”
“In this particular situation, the world can go hang,” said Shelby. “I’m worried about my country. Don’t get me wrong—if Daddy is serious about manually deporting you, I’ll be coming along, and we’ll settle the ‘where are you kids going to live’ conversation the cheap and easy way. But Australia will always be my country. I can spend the rest of my life in America. I’m ready to do it, if it means staying with you. That isn’t going to change where I come from.”
I didn’t say anything. I was watching the lights, which were continuing to blink on as Riley walked across the warehouse-like room.
Shelby nudged my knee with her own. “That would be a good wedding slash engagement gift, you know. You could play St. Patrick, only do it with werewolves in Australia, instead of snakes in Ireland.”
“Hang on a second,” I said, and frowned. Something about the lights was bothering me. They were on motion sensors, but the way they were turning on and off . . .
“What?” Shelby followed my gaze to the lights. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her frown mirror my own. “Well, that’s silly. Something must be wrong in the circuitry again, we haven’t been anywhere near that corner of . . . the room . . .” Her voice trailed off as understanding struck her. It struck me in the same instant, and then the two of us were running after Riley, moving in perfectly matched silence as we raced against those changing lights.
Riley hadn’t gone anywhere near the far corner of the room, not unless he’d gotten turned around on his way to the door, but that didn’t make any sense, since there was a clear path of lights leading back the way we’d all originally come, marking his progress. No, these lights had another source. Someone else was in the room.
We ran.
Twelve
“Little pitchers have big ears, and sometimes that means they also have big guns. Be careful what you say, when you say it, and know who might be listening.”
—Alexander Healy
The underground survivalist stockroom of an isolated house in Queensland, Australia, running like hell
WHEN I WAS A child, my parents used to put my sisters and me through every kind of drill imaginable. Other kids played games. We prepared for a war everyone prayed we’d never have to fight, but that everyone involved knew wouldn’t show us any mercy if we were unprepared. We learned how to navigate by the stars, by the patterns of moss on trees, and by the calls of certain types of bird. We learned how to lay snares and dig pit traps.
And of course, we learned how to reload a gun while running full-tilt across a basement full of blind alleys and obstructed views.
I pulled the box of pilfered silver bullets from my pocket and snapped my pistol’s chamber open, slotting bullets into place as I ran. It was tricky work, but I’d done it before—those drills had been good for something after all—and I only dropped one, despite the pain in my arm. We didn’t stop running to pick it up. Our lives, and Riley’s life, were worth more than a single silver bullet.
We didn’t dare yell: if Riley was being stalked, but not actually attacked, any noise could make things worse. Not that it made a difference. We had just come around another corner and could finally see the wall when the screaming started. “Daddy!” shrieked Shelby, putting on a burst of speed that would have made any track star proud.
It was a burst of speed I couldn’t match. I did my best to catch up, putting my head down and running like hell, but the gunshots still beat me. I swung around a set of shelves, making a split-second assessment of the situation. There was Shelby, gun in her hands, standing over her father, who was crumpled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. He was clutching his left arm; the werewolf in the basement had bitten him in the same place that the one in the woods had bitten me.
The werewolf itself was about five feet from Shelby, black-furred and red-eyed and gathering itself to spring. Its lips were drawn back, revealing a jaw filled with sharp canine teeth. The drool pooling at the corners of its mouth made my heart skip a beat. Lycanthropy spreads via fluid transfer. A dry bite—like the one I’d been lucky enough to receive—won’t necessarily spread the infection. A good juicy bite, on the other hand . . .
