lowed. He was cranked to maximum volume, drowning out
Casey’s shrieks and Warwick’s screams to shoot it, Sonny,
shoot it, shoot it! But the voice of Gardener was not alone. In the background, like music from hell, came the mingled warble of many sirens as Casey’s mikes picked up a caravan of
police cruisers turning into the Sunlight Home’s drive.
“OH, THEY’RE GONNA TELL YOU IT’S ALL RIGHT TO
LOOK AT THOSE DIRTY BOOKS! THEY’RE GONNA TELL
YOU IT DON’T MATTER THAT IT’S AGAINST THE LAW TO
PRAY IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS! THEY’RE GONNA TELL
YOU IT DON’T EVEN MATTER THAT THERE ARE SIX-
TEEN U.S. REPRESENTATIVES AND TWO U.S. GOVER-
NORS WHO ARE AVOWED HOMOSEXUALS! THEY’RE
GONNA TELL YOU—”
Casey’s chair rolled back against the glass wall between
the studio and Sunlight Gardener’s office. His head turned, and for one moment they could all see his agonized, bulging eyes. Then Wolf leaped from the edge of the control panel.
His head struck Casey’s gut . . . and plowed into it. His jaws began to open and close with the speed of a cane-cutting ma-
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chine. Blood flew up and splattered the window as Casey be-
gan to convulse.
“Shoot it, Sonny, shoot the fucking thing!” Warwick whooped.
“Think I’m gonna shoot him instead,” Sonny said, looking
around at Jack. He spoke with the air of a man who has finally arrived at a great conclusion. He nodded, began to grin.
“—DAY IS COMING, BOYS! OH YES, A MIGHTY DAY,
AND ON THAT DAY THOSE COMMUNIST HUMANIST
HELLBOUND ATHEISTS ARE GONNA FIND OUT THAT
THE ROCK WILL NOT SHIELD THEM, THE DEAD TREE
WILL NOT GIVE THEM SHELTER! THEY’RE GONNA, OH
SAY HALLELUJAH, THEY’RE GONNA—”
Wolf, snarling and ripping.
Sunlight Gardener, ranting about communism and human-
ism, the hellbound dope-pushers who wanted to see that
prayer never made it back into the public schools.
Sirens from outside; slamming car doors; someone telling
someone else to take it slow, the kid had sounded scared.
“Yes, you’re the one, you made all this trouble.”
He raised the .45. The muzzle of the .45 looked as big as
the mouth of the Oatley tunnel.
The glass wall between the studio and the office blew in-
ward with a loud, coughing roar. A gray-black shaggy shape
exploded into the room, its muzzle torn nearly in two by a jag of glass, its feet bleeding. It bellowed an almost human sound, and the thought came to Jack so powerfully that it sent him reeling backward:
YOU WILL NOT HARM THE HERD!
“Wolf!” he wailed. “Look out! Look out, he got a g—”
Sonny pulled the trigger of the .45 twice. The reports were defeaning in the closed space. The bullets were not aimed at Wolf; they were aimed at Jack. But they tore into Wolf instead, because at that instant he was between the two boys, in midleap. Jack saw huge, ragged, bloody holes open in Wolf ’s side as the bullets exited. The paths of both slugs were deflected as they pulverized Wolf ’s ribs, and neither touched Jack, although he felt one whiff past his left cheek.
“Wolf!”
Wolf ’s dextrous, limber leap had turned awkward. His
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right shoulder rolled forward and he crashed into the wall, splattering blood and knocking down a framed photograph of
Sunlight Gardener in a Shriner’s fez.
Laughing, Sonny Singer turned toward Wolf, and shot him
again. He held the gun in both hands and his shoulders jerked with the recoil. Gunsmoke hung in a thick, noxious, unmoving rafter. Wolf struggled up on all fours and then rose somehow to his feet. A shattering, wounded bellow of pain
and rage overtopped Sunlight Gardener’s thundering recorded voice.
Sonny shot Wolf a fourth time. The slug tore a gaping hole
in his left arm. Blood and gristle flew.
JACKY! JACKY! OH JACKY, HURTS, THAT HURTS
ME—
Jacky shambled forward and grabbed Gardener’s digital
clock; it was simply the first thing that came to hand.
“Sonny, look out!” Warwick shouted. “Look—” Then
Wolf, his entire midsection now a gory tangle of blood-
matted hair, pounced on him. Warwick grappled with Wolf
and for a moment they appeared almost to be dancing.
“—IN A LAKE OF FIRE FOREVER! FOR THE BIBLE
SAYS—”
Jack brought the digital radio down on Sonny’s head with
all the force he could muster as Sonny began to turn around.
Plastic crunched. The numbers on the front of the clock began to blink randomly.
Sonny reeled around, trying to bring the gun up. Jack
swung the radio in a flat, rising arc that ended at Sonny’s mouth. Sonny’s lips flew back in a great funhouse grin. There was a brittle crunch as his teeth broke. His finger jerked the trigger of the gun again. The bullet went between his feet.
He hit the wall, rebounded, and grinned at Jack from his
bloody mouth. Swaying on his feet, he raised the gun.
“Hellbound—”
Wolf threw Warwick. Warwick flew through the air with
the greatest of ease and struck Sonny in the back as Sonny
fired. The bullet went wild, hitting one of the turning tapereels in the sound-studio and pulverizing it. The ranting, screaming voice of Sunlight Gardener ceased. A great bass hum of feedback began to rise from the speakers.
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Roaring, staggering, Wolf advanced on Sonny Singer.
Sonny pointed the .45 at him and pulled the trigger. There was a dry, impotent click. Sonny’s wet grin faltered.
“No,” he said mildly, and pulled the trigger again . . . and again . . . and again. As Wolf reached for him, he threw the gun and tried to run around Gardener’s big desk. The pistol bounced off Wolf ’s skull, and with a final, failing burst of strength, Wolf leaped across Sunlight Gardener’s desk after Sonny, scattering everything that had been there. Sonny
backed away, but Wolf was able to grab his arm.
“No! ” Sonny screamed. “No, you better not, you’ll go back in the Box, I’m a big man around here, I . . . I . . .
IYYYYYYYYYYYY—!”
Wolf twisted Sonny’s arm. There was a ripping sound, the
sound of a turkey drumstick being torn from the cooked bird by an overenthusiastic child. Suddenly Sonny’s arm was in
Wolf ’s big front paw. Sonny staggered away, blood jetting
from his shoulder. Jack saw a wet white knob of bone. He
turned away and was violently sick.
For a moment the whole world swam into grayness.
19
When he looked around again, Wolf was swaying in the mid-
dle of the carnage that had been Gardener’s office. His eyes guttered pale yellow, like dying candles. Something was happening to his face, to his arms and legs—he was becoming
Wolf again, Jack saw . . . and then understood fully what that meant. The old legends had lied about how only silver bullets could destroy a werewolf, but apparently about some things
they did not lie. Wolf was changing back because he was
dying.
“Wolf, no!” he wailed, and managed to get to his feet. He got halfway to Wolf, slipped in a puddle of blood, went to one knee, got up again. “No! ”
“Jacky—” The voice was low, guttural, little more than a
growl . . . but understandable.
And, incredibly, Wolf was trying to smile.
Warwick had gotten Gardener’s door open. He was back-
ing slowly up the steps, his eyes wide and shocked.
“Go on!” Jack screamed. “Go on, get outta here!”
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Andy Warwick fled like a scared rabbit.
A voice from the intercom—Franky Williams’s voice—cut
through the droning buzz of feedback. It was horrified, but filled with a terrible, sickly excitement. “Christ, lookit this!
Looks like somebody went bullshit with a meat-cleaver!
Some of you guys check the kitchen!”
“Jacky—”
Wolf collapsed like a falling tree.
Jack knelt, turned him over. The hair was melting away
from Wolf ’s cheeks with the eerie speed of time-lapse photog-raphy. His eyes had gone hazel again. And to Jack he looked horribly tired.
“Jacky—” Wolf raised a bloody hand and touched Jack’s
cheek. “Shoot . . . you? Did he . . .”
“No,” Jack said, cradling his friend’s head. “No, Wolf,
never got me. Never did.”
“I . . .” Wolf ’s eyes closed and then opened slowly again.
He smiled with incredible sweetness and spoke carefully,
enunciating each word, obviously needing to convey this if
nothing else. “I . . . kept . . . my herd . . . safe.”
“Yes, you did,” Jack said, and his tears began to flow. They hurt. He cradled Wolf ’s shaggy, tired head and wept. “You
sure did, good old Wolf—”
“Good . . . good old Jacky.”
“Wolf, I’m gonna go upstairs . . . there are cops . . . an am-bulance . . .”