“I wish I knew for sure.”
“You know.”
“Oh, God, maybe he’s down in that alley bleeding to death!” She knew it was irrational, a man surviving a fall like that, but stranger things had happened.
“I’ll go look, Becky, but it isn’t going to tell us anything we don’t know.” He went toward the balcony, paused at the door. He pushed the curtains aside. “Just reconnoitering,” he said. He failed to notice the shape huddled against the glass almost at his feet He rolled back the sliding door.
It leaped at him through the curtains, its snarling mouth ripping the cloth. He fell back into the living room, rolled, and headed for the bedroom door. Becky was in motion behind him as the thing pulled the curtains down around itself, shook free, and came on into the apartment.
Becky and Wilson reached the bedroom, and she slammed and locked the door behind them. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a body pressing against the door. The plywood creaked and popped, but the door held. Suddenly the handle began rattling furiously, almost as if it would be torn out at its roots. Becky put her fist to her mouth. “Did you see?” she whispered as she fought the panic. “It’s brains are all out. It’s been horribly hurt.”
“That must be Dick’s doing.”
The door groaned. Now the beast began throwing itself against it. The hinges quaked, the damaged doorknob rattled loosely with each impact “Shoot it. Shoot through the door.”
“My gun is in my coat.” And his coat was in the kitchen.
She found her own .38 and aimed it about where she estimated the creature’s chest would be, flicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger.
There was a deafening blast, and a smoking hole splintered the door. “That’s done,” she said in a shaky voice. She started toward the door, but Wilson’s hand grabbed her arm. “You missed,” he said.
“How could I miss—it was right there.”
“Look.”
Through the two-inch hole in the door she could see something gray—fur. And she could hear a low, deep sound of breathing.
“I didn’t even wound it” She raised the gun again. At once there was light shining through the hole. The creature had retreated.
“They’re damn smart. It must have heard and moved to avoid the shot. There’s no use trying again, it won’t be there. And we aren’t doing the door much good.”
Outside the door the Old Father moved cautiously. He had jumped to avoid the shot just in time and could still feel a hot sensation where it had passed his face. His head throbbed terribly, it was all he could do to keep the pain from making him scream in agony. He fought for control, found it somewhere within him, and forced himself to think about the situation. The most important thing was that he was in. He had heard the man walking over to the balcony door and had hidden just in time. The man had opened the door and—at last.
The next thing was to get the rest of the pack up here. He wasn’t sure that they would come if he called them, but he knew that the sounds of a fight would certainly get them climbing up the precarious balconies. Very well—he would create such sounds. He leaped into the living room, letting his hatred for his tormentors be vented in destruction. He pulled down lamps, smashed furniture, did everything he could to create a din. But only for a few moments, not enough to alert the humans in nearby apartments. Then he stopped, stood with his ears cocked. And there it was! The clatter of toes, the grunts of struggle. They were on their way up.
How he loved them! He thought of their future and his own past, and felt hope not only for them but for his whole race. The last of the enemy cowered behind a flimsy door ready for the slaughter. Soon all packs everywhere would again be safe from human interference. They, not he—for their safety he was going to trade his life.
They came rushing in, their faces full of the lust of victory.
When they saw him they stopped. Very well, let them be shocked. He knew a mortal wound when he felt it; their expressions of horror did not surprise him. He was glad to give his life for them; now they knew it.
A curtain of grief descended over them. Very well, that was to be expected. He refused to allow himself to share their grief. Memories clattered at the edge of his mind, but now was not the moment for them. There was much work and little time.
Using their language of movements, tail-wags and sounds, he quickly communicated to his family that the two behind the door had a gun and that the door must be burst. They all knew without its being said that he planned to jump first into the room, to take the impact of the gun.
His mate looked pleadingly at him.
He reminded her that he was already as good as dead. This last act—of jumping into the gunfire— would be useful to the pack. Her sorrow, or his own, must not be allowed to intervene.
Inside the bedroom Becky and Wilson listened closely. They heard a rapid series of growls of varying pitch, then the rattle of claws against the floor.
“Now they’re all out there,” Wilson whispered. “The rest of them must have come up from the alley. How many shots you have left?”
“Five.”
“They better count.” His voice was choked. It was obvious to them both that five shots would not be enough.
“The phone!” Becky grabbed it, dialed 911. Nothing. “The receiver in the living room must have been knocked off the hook.”
“We won’t make it,” he said softly.
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!”