Patty pulled Gayle down the hall toward the door to the basement.
“Run!” she yelled, and they both clattered down the steps. The basement was damp and there were puddles of rainwater. Old boxes of stuff left over by previous tenants moldered in stacks, and some had fallen over, blocking the back door.
“Help me,” cried Patty as she grabbed one box. It was soaked and crawling with roaches, but she flung it aside. Gayle grabbed the next and in seconds they had the door free. And Patty jolted to a stop, staring at the lock. At the double deadbolt.
“Where’s the key?” asked Gayle, terror rising in her voice.
Patty felt her heart sink. “It’s upstairs.” She could see it in her mind, a sturdy Yale on a ring hanging from a hook by the cash register. Up where the fighting was raging so loud it muted the thunder.
Gayle pulled out her cell and punched in 911.
Before the call even went through there was a massive whump! against the door. The blow was so heavy it shook the hardwood panel in its frame. Patty pressed her eye to the peephole and saw that the tiny yard was crowded with Cyke-Lones. One of them, a monstrous man with a bald head, a wild red-gold beard, and skulls tattooed on his forehead, had his foot raised for another kick.
Gayle was now screaming into her phone, but Patty knew it didn’t matter. Even if the dispatcher sent every cop in town right now they would never get there fast enough.
They were going to die down here.
The image of a laughing little girl appeared in her mind. Faded but recognizable.
“I’m sorry, baby,” murmured Patty. “Mommy’s so sorry.”
The next kick tore the whole lock out of the frame with a spray of wood splinters.