Andrew Klavan - Nightmare City

They were searching—searching for Tom.

Tom ran right toward them. It cost him every ounce of courage he had, but he ran right through the dining room, right past the dining room table and into the living room, right at the beasts. It was the fastest way to get back to the front stairs—and the stairs were the only hope of survival he had. The kitchen was filling with fog behind him. The living room was growing misty in front of him. If he stayed where he was, the creatures would come crashing in through every window till the house was full of them and he would have nowhere to make a stand. Upstairs, at least he had a chance.

The hunched, grunting creatures spotted him at once as he raced toward them. They came to attention like hunting dogs when they get the scent of game. For a second, they went rigid, their horribly distorted faces twisting, their sunken nostrils flaring. Then they let out a hollow shriek of triumph—and they charged.

They moved slowly with their slumped, lumbering, limping gaits. Tom was already racing past them and heading for the front hall as they made their move. The monster closest to him reached out, and Tom felt the tip of one of its claws brush his arm. He dodged out of its way. The terror of the near miss gave him fresh agility and speed. He was past the thing before it could try again to grab him.

There was the front door now, the front hall, the stairs. He’d almost made it. He rushed through the connecting doorway, out of the living room, into the foyer. He began to reach for the newel-post to pull himself up the steps.

But as he did, the sidelight next to the front door burst. A clawed hand shot in and grabbed hold of him.

Tom saw the furred fingers close around his wrist. He felt the long claws slashing his flesh. He saw the pocked, elongated, skull-like face of the thing pressing through the hole in the sidelight. He saw the monster’s eyes gleaming with cruelty and anticipation as it gripped him and began to pull him toward itself. Tom thought his heart would stop with sheer horror.

He tried to yank himself free, but the beast was strong—and worse than that: the creature’s touch was somehow poisonous. The minute its hand wrapped around him, the minute its claws slashed him, Tom felt a swirling darkness enter his mind. He felt himself losing strength.

The beast held him fast, trying to pull him toward the sidelight. The fog poured in around him and his mind grew foggy, too. With every second, Tom felt himself becoming weaker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the monsters in the living room humping toward him. He heard them grunting and gasping. He saw their eyes gleaming, their teeth bared.

The monster at the sidelight continued to hold him and the fog swirled around him and the dark poison swirled through his brain. Tom wasn’t even sure he wanted to fight anymore. So what if they got him? What was the worst thing that could happen, anyway? At least if they killed him, it would put an end to this day of horror and confusion…

His will was seeping away.

The beast leaning in through the window gibbered wildly and kept trying to pull the weakening Tom toward him. Tom’s legs went wobbly. His eyes rolled in his head as he began to lose consciousness. He saw the portrait on the wall, tilting and spinning. His mom. His brother. He saw the cross hanging beside it.

“Fight them! Fight them off! Despair is never an option!”

Tom shook his head, trying to clear it. Was that Burt?

“Don’t give them even half a chance. Remember the Warrior…”

It was! It was Burt! On the television set again. His voice dim, far away but still shouting up to him from the basement.

“Don’t give in! That’s just the poison talking! Come on! You’re my brother! You do not surrender! The Warrior, Tom!”

A surge of strength went through him. Tom gave a roar and pulled himself free of the monster’s grasp, ignoring the claws that sliced his arm.

At once the poison seemed to leave his body, the darkness seemed to drain out of his mind. Light and alertness flooded through him and he was fully awake again.

With the new energy surging through his muscles, he started moving. Just as the monsters clumped out of the living room into the front hall, just as they began to close in on him, he shot up the stairs as fast as he could go.

He took the stairs two and three at a time. He broke free of the fog. It fell away behind him. The shuffling, limping monsters clustered on the stairs beneath him, bumping into the walls, bumping into one another, unable to rise above the level of the mist.

Tom was at the second-floor landing—was racing down the hall toward his room. Another moment and he was through his bedroom door. He slammed it shut. Locked it. Seized hold of the dresser with both hands. Dragged it across the floor and shoved it against the door, barricading himself inside.

He was safe—for now.

Panting hard, Tom leaned against the dresser. His forearm stung from where the creature’s claws had dug into him. There was blood soaking into his sweatshirt sleeve. The fear inside him was so powerful it was sickening. For a moment, he thought he was actually going to throw up. But he remembered his brother’s voice shouting to him from the basement.

Fight them! Fight them off! Despair is never an option!

Shouting to him, calling him by name, as if it weren’t just Burt on a video but the real Burt, really there, still alive.

Remember the Warrior, Tom!

Tom didn’t know how it was possible for his brother to reach out to him from the grave like that. But right this minute, with everything so crazy, he didn’t care. Nothing made sense now, so he might as well cling to the sound of that familiar voice he missed so much. He fought off the fear and the sickness. He gritted his teeth, and his mouth twisted as a low growl of determination came out of him.

He had to do something. Now. The beasts were still out there. The fog was rising. They would rise with it, come up the stairs, down the hall. They’d be at the door soon, any second. He had to find a way out of here. Find a way to get help.

Tom looked around at his bedroom for something he could use: the computer on the desk, the window by the bed, the sports pennants on the wall, the framed newspaper pages…

“Sources: Tiger Champs Used Drugs.”

Something flashed through his mind. Some fragment of memory. Why couldn’t he grasp it? He had to think…

Go to the monastery, Tom. That’s where the answers are .

For a moment, Tom felt as if everything were on the verge of making sense…

Then the creatures reached his bedroom, and all his thoughts were scattered.

The first thud was soft, as if one of the beasts had stumbled coming down the hallway and fallen against the door. The noise was so faint Tom might have pretended to himself he hadn’t really heard it.

But then the thing started mewling. That high-pitched, weirdly echoing sound was unmistakable. Tom took an involuntary step back as a fresh wave of fear went over him. He stared at the door.

The doorknob began to turn.

Tom heard the clicking of long claws against the metal. The knob turned tentatively at first. Once this way, once that. Then again. Then it clicked back and forth harder—back and forth. Then the knob began to rattle as the creature grew frustrated. The door began to shiver on its hinges…

Tom gasped as the door leapt in its frame. One of the things started pounding on the wood, slamming the wood—it sounded like with its open hand—again and again. Then it stopped. But the next noise went up Tom’s spine and made his teeth ache. Scratching. Long claws were digging into the surface of the door, trying to rip their way through. Then there was more pounding—steady pounding now. Tom heard grunts, gasps, small animal shrieks out in the hall. How many of them were out there? He couldn’t tell.