The Library at Mount Char Part 20

"The lions saved you. They're the backup. Do not shoot them."

"How did you know I tried-"

The big lion roared again.

"He says there's more dogs on the way. Can you shoot? Use the gun. But be careful. How many dogs are there?"

Steve took stock. The beagle lay dead in the road, his back broken. Thane, bleeding from a wound in his a.s.s, the fur on the back of his neck high, paced back and forth in front of the lions, studying them with his eerie mismatched eyes. Behind him the other four dogs stood, growling, slightly wounded, uncertain. Three new ones, two Rottweilers and a poodle, had arrived while Steve was out of it. As he watched a golden retriever crested the hill. "I count nine."

"Shoot!" Carolyn said. "You're going to have to fight your way up the street."

Steve squeezed off a shot at the English spaniel. He missed this time too, but it was a more credible effort. The big lion glanced over his shoulder and moved farther out of Steve's field of fire.

The spaniel was growling, growling, its muzzle wrinkled back, stained red with Steve's blood. It barked, took a half step forward- -and Steve shot it right between the eyes.

The lions roared their approval. Steve glanced off to his right. The guy with the mower had completed another row and turned around. This time he waved twice as he pa.s.sed by, once at Steve and once at the lions.

Steve shot the yellow Lab in the side. It took a couple steps forward and fell on its side, ribs heaving. I'm getting the hang of this. He fired at the black dog and missed completely, then shot it in the hip. It screamed, then began limping toward him. He shot it in the breastbone and it fell down dead.

The remaining six dogs charged. Three of them attacked the female lion, swarming her. She roared with pain, but Steve didn't care because the other three charged him, bypa.s.sing the male lion. Steve didn't really blame them. It was becoming evident that he wasn't much of a shot.

He shot the poodle in the chest. Not bad...He shot at Thane, missing him completely. The shepherd, snarling and yellow-eyed, launched herself at him. He held his wounded arm up to block and she latched onto it, sharp white teeth sinking into exposed muscle. Steve screamed. He jammed the pistol into her belly and pulled the trigger. Guts showered out the other side, but the shepherd didn't let go. Now a pit bull was gnawing at the ankle that the beagle had been on.

He shot again, higher on the shepherd's body. The hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. The dog had to be nearly dead but it just wouldn't let go. The bite felt like being on fire. Steve screamed again, clubbing her in the head with the b.u.t.t of his gun.

"Yaah!" he screamed. "f.u.c.king get off me, a.s.shole!"

With a look of surprise, the shepherd fell away. Steve plopped down on his a.s.s and began kicking at the pit bull with his free foot. It growled at him and sunk its teeth in deeper. Steve screamed.

Then the two lions landed on the pit bull, a split second apart. Steve screamed again-lion attacks will do that to a person-but they didn't touch him at all. Instead they took the dog's spine in their jaws, one near the neck and one near the tail, and crunched down. Now it was the dog's turn to scream.

"Yaaah, you f.u.c.kER!"

When they dropped the dog, it didn't move.

The lions turned and stood over him, inches away now. Their yellow eyes bored into him. They were panting. He felt their breath over his wounds, the slick sweat of his brow. It smelled of blood and rotting meat. Steve held up the empty pistol, then lowered it again. The big one rumbled a little, swished his tail. He took a step back, then raised his head and looked down the street. His brow furrowed.

Not wanting to, Steve twisted to follow his gaze.

Behind him there were a dozen more dogs, ten at least. Behind them, dozens or even hundreds more were on the way. They flowed out of the woods half a mile away like a river of murder, across the hay field, down the main road. The clicking of their toenails on asphalt sounded like a stampede.

"Oh s.h.i.t," Steve whispered.

The lion roared.

Steve stood up. He fumbled at his back. Carolyn had duct taped the two extra magazines there, like Bruce Willis did in the original Die Hard. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when he grabbed at one of the magazines it wouldn't come unstuck. He pulled again, harder this time. This time it came loose, but the magazines Carolyn had given him were slick with gun oil. It slipped out of his grip and clattered across the road, coming to rest not far from the streetlamp.

"Oh s.h.i.t!" Steve said again.

"What happened? What's going on?"

"They're coming! There's hundreds of them! And...and I dropped the f.u.c.king magazine." As he spoke he reached around, carefully this time, and put his hands on the final magazine taped to his back. He wrapped his fingers around it, gently but firmly, and pulled it free.

Carolyn exhaled softly. "You have to get indoors," she said. "Get inside, Steve! Get inside!"

"Where?"

"Anywhere! Whatever's closest! They're not locked! Go!"

Steve took off, limping as best he was able across the half-mowed yard. As he moved, he took the duct tape still clinging to the full magazine in his teeth and pulled. It came off.

Behind him he heard the thunder of running dogs, a hundred more reinforcements coming to join the dozens already standing shoulder to shoulder twenty yards away. Only the lions stood between them and him. The old guy mowing the yard waved again.

"You're an a.s.shole!" Steve screamed.

The old guy cupped a hand to his ear, then pointed at the mower and shook his head.

"Steve, get indoors!" Carolyn's voice was thick with tension. "You have to get indoors now."

Still moving, Steve ejected the spent magazine, let it drop into the gra.s.s. I hope it messes up his mower blade. He slammed the full magazine home and jacked the slide back, c.o.c.king the gun. Now he was on the porch. He put his hand on the k.n.o.b, fully prepared to shoot it if it was locked. Surely that would work? It always does in the movies. But the door opened easily into an unremarkable foyer-linoleum floor, floral wallpaper, dusty umbrella stand.

"What about the lions?"

"Leave them. They're disposable. Just get indoors."

Steve lurched inside, shutting the door behind him. "I'm in."

"OK, you're safe. Which house are you in?"

"Uhh...the outside is white brick?"

"Perfect. There's food, water, and medical supplies in the living room. Stay there. You'll be safe inside. I'll get you out of there as soon as I can, but it may be a day or two." She hung up.

III.

"s.h.i.t," Carolyn said in Pelapi as she hung up the phone. She, Jennifer, David, Margaret, Rachel, and Peter were sitting around Mrs. McGillicutty's kitchen table.

The others could tell from her tone that things had gone bad, but none of them understood more than a smattering of English.

"What happened?" David rumbled.

"He ducked in to one of the houses." She stood and walked over to the wall, where the phone's cradle hung. When she seated the phone she also unplugged the jack. No one noticed. The librarians weren't much good with technology, nor was Mrs. McGillicutty. Nor was she, for that matter, but she'd had time to read up on telephones. The other phone jacks in the house were already unplugged.

"Well," David said reflectively, "I suppose it was going to be one of the two. Margaret, which do you think would be worse? Ripped apart by dogs, or gummed to death by the dead ones?" He tickled her. She giggled and squirmed, unsettling a small cloud of flies. "You'd know, wouldn't you?" She giggled again.

Jennifer slapped her forehead. "Oh, no! Didn't you warn him? Are you going to want him back, Carolyn? Because that's going to be a real mess." The dead ones would be friendly to strangers they encountered outside their houses, if somewhat odd. But on the rare occasion that some unfortunate soul from the outside world made it indoors, they fell on him with teeth, hands, clubs, kitchen tools, whatever was handy. Unless someone intervened quickly, there usually wasn't much left.

Carolyn shrugged. "He's disposable. If we get in there in the next little bit, maybe. Otherwise, as far as I'm concerned he can stay dead."

"So...new plan?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think the basic plan is solid. The problem was that he didn't ignore the sentries."

"What did he do?"

"He spoke to Thane, almost first thing."

Jennifer winced.

Carolyn felt her index finger about to tremble. "It never occurred to me to warn him." This was plausible. Most of the librarians had a horror of the neighborhood dogs that dated back to childhood. Even Michael tended to keep his distance. But Americans, for some reason, seemed to love the furry little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. It was one of their unfathomable quirks.

"So, what then?"

"Unless anybody can think of something better, I guess I'll go out and see if I can round up another American," she lied. "David? Does that suit you?"

David, perhaps thinking of the bloodbath at the jail, blessed this with a shallow nod.

"When will you go?" Jennifer asked.

Carolyn thought about it. "Now, I suppose."

"Want to wait a bit? There will be food soon." Mrs. McGillicutty was bustling in the kitchen.

Carolyn groaned. "No! I've already eaten twice today. And I may have to do bar snacks. Has anyone seen those boots I had on? And the blue duffel bag with all the green paper? I'll need it as bait."

Carolyn collected her things and emerged into the afternoon sunshine. That went rather well, she thought. Mission accomplished, and Steve is in a safe place. It was true that the dead ones were fierce defenders of their quarters. It had to be that way. Their private lives could not bear much inspection. But there were exceptions. The librarians could come and go as they pleased, as could others who had been resurrected.

Steve would be fine.

The others did not know this, of course.

IV.

Steve gave the interior of the house a quick glance-weirdly empty-and turned to the door. It had one of those little peephole things that gave a fish-eye view of the outside. The two lions were about five yards from the porch, backing up slowly.

It wasn't hard to see why. Now there were at least a hundred dogs in the street of all sizes and description-Dobermans; Jack Russell terriers; poodles both large and small; German shepherds; Labs of the chocolate, yellow, and black variety; dozens of other breeds. They were advancing on the lions.

The big male looked back and forth over the a.s.sembled dogs and gave a full-throated roar. The sound echoed down the street, bouncing off the houses of Garrison Oaks. The female looked over her shoulder at the door. Her gaze seemed to bore into Steve.

The look in her eyes reminded Steve of something, but he couldn't quite think what.

f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. What do I do here? The lions had saved him. But, y'know, they're f.u.c.king lions. Still, he had been down for the count, barely conscious as the dogs tore into him.

That reminds me-he looked down. He was dripping blood on the floor, but not actually spraying it, as far as he could tell. That was probably good. And Carolyn had said there were medical supplies. "Medical supplies?" That's suspiciously convenient. Then, G.o.d, I hate her. A lot.

Outside the door a low rumble was building, the sound of a hundred dogs growling at once. Over that, the lawn mower. The female lion stood in the old man's path, teeth bared, fur up. He just steered around her. He didn't seem to notice the dogs at all.

The male lion took another half-step back. Thane advanced two steps, the rest of the dogs close behind him. One of the Rottweilers barked mechanically, over and over, spraying flecks of white foam. The yard was a sea of wrinkled muzzles, fangs, savage eyes.

Yeah, they're f.u.c.ked. Even if the lions had somewhere to run, which they didn't-they had cornered themselves covering Steve's retreat-he had no doubt that at least some of the dogs could outrun them. And there were so many. Steve pounded the wall. "f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k!"

He thought about dialing Carolyn back, but there wasn't time. The big lion took another step back, roared again. The Rottweiler charged him and he swatted it, sent it flying into the crowd. The female looked over her shoulder again. Steve would have sworn he saw reproach in those eyes. Wasn't there a thing on YouTube a couple of years back about lions and some English dudes buddying up? Steve thought hysterically. Ah, f.u.c.k it.

He opened the door.

The female lion looked at him. Possibly he was kidding himself, but he thought she looked grateful. "Get in here! What are you waiting for?"

She tried to bound, but her hind leg wasn't quite up to it. She did a belly flop onto the brick porch steps, then scrambled up. The male wasn't wounded, but he waited for her to get inside. Some of the dogs were just inches from him. He held them at bay with swipes of his paw and, Steve thought, the force of his personality.

"Come on!"

The male spun and was through the door in two quick leaps. Steve, standing behind the door, tried to slam it shut, but was thwarted by the dogs. Two of them, both greyhounds, were pinned neck-deep between the door and the jamb. They snarled, snapped. Steve kicked at their heads with his good leg, holding himself up with the door. He kicked the top greyhound unconscious, or possibly to death. When he let the pressure off the door the other one backed out. He was able to shut the door then; there were a lot of dogs outside, but for whatever reason only a couple of them had come onto the porch. They scrabbled ineffectually against the door with their toenails.

He made extra-special sure that the latch caught, then released the handle. He locked it, then threw the deadbolt for good measure. The dogs outside clambered at the door, barking. Steve leaned against the wall and turned to see if the lions would eat him now.

They didn't. They ignored him completely, actually. The female had collapsed in the living room. She had a biggish chunk missing from her left rear leg. Blood wasn't spurting from the wound, but it oozed out in a steady stream. A red trail led from the foyer to where she lay.

Right, Steve thought. Medical supplies. Carefully, keeping one eye on the lions, he limped into the living room. It was still bright outside, but in the house it felt like twilight. Thick curtains hung over all the windows, and there were no lights on. He fumbled around on the wall until he found a row of switches and flipped them at random until one worked. A single anemic bulb came on overhead, its dull ochre glow further diluted by the husks of dead insects in the fixture.

"Whoa," Steve said.

The living room was flat, empty s.p.a.ce about the size of a two-car garage. All the furniture was heaped in the corner-couch standing on one end, squished lamp shade poking out from a splintered bookcase, end-table legs jutting up like skeletal fingers. The ghost of the couch lingered as a cleaner spot on filthy carpet.

The framed photographs and art were in the pile as well, but the room was not undecorated. Most of the wall s.p.a.ce was covered with crude paintings that looked like the work of a talented kindergartener. No, Steve thought. That's not quite right. They look like cave paintings.

These images had the same crude style, but they were not of animals. Well, mostly not. He saw a few four-legged beasties here and there, possibly dogs. But mostly these cave paintings were of modern things-he recognized the square brown of a UPS truck, a small car with a sign on the roof, a stick-figure man bearing pizza beside it. A mail truck. A basketball hoop. A bicycle. But among the recognizable and commonplace stuff of American life, there were inexplicable things as well-a black pyramid, a yellow bull standing in a fire, angry calamari bobbing in green waves.

He found the supplies Carolyn had mentioned stacked neatly in the corner opposite the furniture-two cases of Dasani water, a case of Johnson & Johnson sterile gauze, two industrial-sized boxes of Band-Aids, a plastic bag full of beef jerky, what looked like a tackle box with a red cross stenciled on it. A plain white box held a collection of less-familiar things, neatly wrapped in an old wedding dress; three clay pots, a Styrofoam tray of gla.s.s ampoules, tiny bowls of powder. This stuff's fresh, looks like. It's been here a day or two at most. Steve walked over and spun the cap off a Dasani, guzzled it. He opened a Band-Aid box, peeled one, and stuck it over a small bite mark on his finger. Another box said AMOXICILLIN. He opened it and found a dozen syringes.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo!"

Steve started, spun around. It was an older woman, mid-sixties, in a flower-print skirt-and-pants combo, mostly purple. She herself was very pale, her lips a cyanotic blue. "How lovely to see you! Won't you come in? May I take your coat?"