The Ultimate Werewolf (37 page)

Robert E. Weinberg

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Ev
ENIN
'," said Carl Jones, the night crew manager, as Otto came tramping through the back door. "How's the weather outside?"

"Starting to snow," said Otto, punching in on the time clock. Carl liked to make small talk before leaving each night. Usually they chatted about sports or the latest political scandal. Tonight, though, the manager had other things on his mind.

"Mr. Galliano plans to stop by tomorrow morning before the store opens," he said, the words tripping out of his mouth in a rush. "He specifically asked that you stay around till he arrives."

"He wants to see me?" asked Otto, not sure he heard the other man correctly. Carefully, he hung his threadbare overcoat in his locker. He placed the paper sack containing his lunch on the floor, near his overshoes. His thermos, filled with hot coffee, went next to that. Licking his lips nervously, he added, "He say what for?"

Drawing out his uniform jacket and cap, he dressed quickly. A short, husky man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, he could barely button the snaps on his coat. He had been putting on weight the last few months.

A powerful flashlight and a nightstick completed his outfit. Some night watchmen carried guns, but not Otto. He disliked weapons of all types. The billy club was only for show. He never used it.

"Not a word," said Carl, a touch of apprehension in his voice. "The boss never came around to our section before. He always left everything to me." He shook his head. "It ain't natural. Not natural at all. I don't like it."

"You
don't like it?" said Otto, with a sigh. "He's coming to see me. I'm just a part-timer. Union rules don't protect my job. I can't even apply for membership till next week, after Christmas."

"Yeah," said Carl. "The boss always reviews a new employee's records after three months on the job," He donned his winter coat and wrapped a heavy scarf around his neck. "Seems to me you've been here that long."

" 'Bout that," said Otto. Without thought, his hands constricted into fists. "You think the old man plans to fire me? I heard he likes to hand out the pink slips himself."

"That's right," said Carl. "Mr. Galliano prides himself in delivering all the news, both good and bad. He stays on top of things."

The night watchman put on a pair of earmuffs, then covered his balding head with a fur hat. "The cleaning women all checked out a half-hour ago. See you tomorrow morning at seven. I'll keep my fingers crossed."

"Good night, Carl," said Otto, raising his nightstick in farewell. A few swirls of snow whipped into the locker room as the night manager departed. The snow outside was getting worse. "And thanks."

Otto carefully locked and bolted the rear entrance to the store. He glanced over at the time clock. It was a little before eleven p.m. For the next eight hours, until the morning crew arrived, he was the only person legally allowed in the
Big-G
department store. It was his job to keep all others out.

Most of his time he spent patrolling endless corridors, with only his thoughts for company. It was a lonely, dull routine, but Otto didn't mind. It felt good working again.

A quiet, private man, he actually enjoyed the solitude of the deserted building. He had never functioned well surrounded by people. The sounds and smells of crowds served as a constant distraction and made work difficult. Though not terribly bright, Otto recognized his limitations and tried to work around them.

Previous to this job, he had labored for thirty years on the midnight shift at the south side steel works. His wages there barely covered his living expenses. Fringe benefits consisted of a Christmas party once a year.

Last year, the company abruptly cancelled the party. On New Year's Day, a terse notice in the paper announced the mill's closing. Decades of mismanagement had thrown the corporation into bankruptcy. Hundreds of middle-aged men suddenly found themselves out of work.

The union pension fund, owed millions by the company, collapsed in ruin. Most of the members were left without a cent to their name. Otto considered himself one of the lucky ones. He owned the small cottage where he lived. Many of his old cronies lost their homes and all their possessions during the hard months that followed.

It took him eight months to find this job. Fifty years old and without any experience other than making steel, he was not qualified for most positions advertised in the newspapers. If he was terminated here, future prospects appeared grim.

Otto shrugged, as if shouldering a heavy burden. There was nothing for him to do but wait. In the meantime, he had work to be done.

Forcing the depressing thoughts from his mind, Otto began his rounds. First, he checked all the doors and windows on the first floor. Satisfied they were securely locked, he then took an elevator up to the sixth and highest floor of the store.

Patiently, he paced through the entire level, conscientiously checking behind every counter, inside every dressing room, beneath every display for intruders. He wielded his flashlight like a sword, piercing the dark shadows with its point. As expected, he found nothing out of place.

Taking the escalator down from floor to floor, he inspected each level from one end of the building to the other. The entire walk-through took a little over two hours.

Satisfied with his efforts, Otto settled down in the locker room for a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich. He made the rounds three times each night. It was one
a.m
. He had an hour free. Pulling out a well- creased crossword puzzle magazine, he turned his attention to the mysteries it contained.

Otto loved crosswords. A subscriber to a half-dozen puzzle magazines, he spent most of his free time hunting for obscure words to fit the proper clues. He relished a good pun or witty phrase. Oftentimes, he copied the best of them on small stick-it notes he posted on the refrigerator at home. He savored his favorite expressions like fine wine each time he entered the kitchen.

He was a simple man with simple pleasures. Television shows did nothing for him. On his off days, he listened to classical music on the radio while struggling with the
New York Times
crossword. Good music, a cold beer, and a challenging puzzle were all he asked from life.

Twenty minutes passed without. Then, suddenly restless, he looked up, sensing something was amiss. In the absolute quiet of the empty building, the slightest sound echoed like a church bell. Oftentimes, his subconscious mind picked up noises that his normal hearing missed.

Rising out of his chair, Otto walked over to the metal lockers and placed one ear against the cold steel. In seconds, the vibrations in the locker door confirmed his suspicions. There were intruders in the store.

Sighing, Otto returned to the table and cleaned off the remains of his lunch. The puzzle magazine and his thermos went to the rear of the locker. Picking up the flashlight, he pushed open the door to the main floor. The nightstick he left on the table, preferring not to carry it when trouble threatened. The heavy club only got in the way.

Moving silently, he checked the locks and alarms on each entrance. Nothing seemed amiss. Puzzled, he stepped back. Maybe he had been mistaken.

Angrily, he shook his head. Maybe he wasn't the best night watchman around, but he didn't hear imaginary noises. Eyes narrowed in concentration, Otto checked the doors again. This time, he found the telltale marks of a break-in. The third bolt showed definite signs of tampering. The door was still locked, but tiny scratches on the metal indicated that it had been forced opened, then closed.

Investigating further, he soon discovered that the photo-electric cells protecting the entrance no longer worked. The system appeared fine, but none of the alarms were working. Otto grimaced. The equipment was pretty old. He wasn't sure if the devices had ever worked. Professional thieves might have forced their way into the store. But it was equally likely that the intruders were of a different sort.

Most of his problems with break-ins focused on elderly street people looking for shelter from the harsh night winds. Otto oftentimes permitted them to stay in the locker room for the night. It was all too easy imagining himself in the same situation. In the morning, before the day crew arrived, he sent them on their way with a stern warning, a few dollars of his own money, and directions to the nearest shelter for the homeless. Otto hated admitting it, but he was a soft touch.

Teenagers presented a different sort of problem. Otto caught at least two or three a week trying to hide in the store after hours. Drug addicts, hoping for a big score, caused him the most trouble. To them, the world consisted of two camps—themselves and everyone else.

When apprehended, they fought, pleaded, threatened and screamed trying to escape. The girls, and sometimes the boys, usually offered their bodies in payment for Otto's cooperation. One and all he turned over to the police. He wanted no trouble with the authorities.

Not sure who had invaded his building or for what reason. Otto headed for the locker room. Located there were the main fuse boxes for the entire complex. He knew exactly which switches to throw. It only took a few seconds to cut the power to the elevators, escalators and police alarm system. By doing so, he completely isolated the store from the outside world. Only the pitch-dark emergency stairs provided escape from the upper floors. Now he could investigate without any fear of interruption.

He sat down and removed his boots. A naturally cautious man, Otto never took any chances. No reason to warn the criminals to his presence by a heel scuffing on the floor or a squeaky shoe. Besides, he liked the feel of his naked feet on the bare floor.

Moving without a sound, he cautiously ascended the unmoving metal steps of the escalator. The flashlight dangled from his belt unused. He knew the layout of the entire store by memory.

Otto discovered the burglars in the jewelry department on the fourth floor. They clustered around the display counters housing the expensive watches and diamond bracelets: four men, dressed in black, each carrying a heavy-duty, high-intensity flashlight. They whispered softly among themselves. Otto strained to hear what they were saying.

"Alarm system ain't worth a damn," declared one man. "A ten-year- old kid could take it out with a toothpick."

"I told you so," replied another. "The Old Man never replaced any of the equipment the entire time I worked for the store."

Otto recognized that voice immediately. It belonged to Jim Patrick, the ex-manager for this very department, fired only a few weeks ago for drinking on the job. Otto sucked in a deep breath and shook his head in dismay. Company loyalty meant nothing anymore. Only old-timers like him felt an obligation to their employers, even long after they ceased working for the business.

"You almost done?" asked a third man. "We don't got all night."

"Keep your shirt on," said Patrick. "That old buzzard they use as a night watchman won't cause any trouble. He's slow and stupid and doesn't carry a gun."

"No gun?" said the first man, rummaging through a small black bag on the counter. After a few seconds, he pulled out a small glass cutter. "How can you be a night watchman without a gun?"

Otto didn't stay around to answer the question. Silently, he crept away to the men's department at the other end of the floor. None of the intruders ever realized the truth until much too late. He didn't use a gun because he didn't need one.

Carefully, he undressed, folding his clothes neatly into a stack by the door to the dressing rooms. Standing completely naked in the center of a sea of shirts, slacks, belts and socks, Otto recited the spell that called forth the monster that dwelt within his soul.

One after another, he repeated the mystic words of power taught to him many years ago by his father. His was an old family tradition, stretching back hundreds of years to the mountains of Transylvania. Moonlight and wolfbane had nothing to do with the change that turned man into beast. All that was necessary was the proper sorcery and the necessary will. Otto possessed both.

The instant he completed the chant, a powerful surge of energy slashed through his body. Otto sighed with relief. No matter how many times he used the formula, he still experienced a brief instant of doubt before it took effect. He was much too pragmatic for his own good.