A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Nineteen

I raced through the fire doors and into the stairway which I could tell was used only occasionally by smokers, likely in the bitter cold winter months.  My footsteps echoed loudly in the dark, dusty concrete chamber as I leapt down half of the first flight of stairs.

Turning, I took several more steps, then, hand on the railing, vaulted from the midway point of the flight I was on to the midway point of the flight below.  Every second flight had an open concept access to the lower flight, allowing me to do this regularly on my descent.

I figured, hurdling and skipping half of each flight, I was buying myself precious seconds.

I was at least ten flights down when I heard the hurried footsteps of my pursuers entering somewhere above, likely back up on the sixty-second floor.

“He’s heading down,” I heard a gruff voice say.

Another voice, softer, higher pitched, spoke, likely into a radio.  “Hal and I are pursuing him down staircase C.  Get over to that exit on the lobby level and start heading up for the intercept.”

In the time that I heard these words, I was able to descend another four floors and was just passing the fifty-second floor.

Hearing the security guard mention the express elevator, I tried to remember if I’d seen Mr. Sweatypants getting into one of the express elevators or one of the regular ones.  The two express elevators, as I remember from my ascent, serviced the concourse, the lobby and the fortieth through seventieth floors.  The other two elevators, as I recall, went to every single floor in the building.

Mr. Sweatypants hadn’t taken the same elevator I’d ascended on, which had been an express one, and which had taken about two minutes.  But had he taken one of the “all stops” elevators?  If so, that meant it would take him perhaps ten or more minutes to get to the bottom.

It was a bit after 1:40, perhaps a bit too early for mid afternoon breaks; but perhaps not too early for smokers needing to sneak outside for a quick early afternoon butt.  I was hoping for a lot of those -- regardless of whether or not my quarry was on an express elevator -- because for every single floor the elevator had to stop on, it bought me precious seconds.

I launched myself down another half dozen floors, trying to imagine where the stinky elevator car might be; I allowed myself to become amused at the poor idiots who got onto that elevator car with my overly sweaty friend.  Knowing full well that my sense of smell was at least a dozen times more sensitive than the average persons, I still pitied anyone who got in that close proximity with him, particularly in such a confined space.  Short of someone with a bad head cold or infected sinus, it was likely unbearable to be that close to him for more than a minute.

I recalled the slight garlicky tinge to his sweat and marveled at how, despite how awful a person’s garlic breath could be, how much worse smelling that garlic coming out of a person’s pores were.

It was difficult to contain another series of shudders, even as I continued to launch myself down another half dozen flights in as many seconds.

As I was running, another flash from the night before hit me.

Screeching brakes.  A car door opening and closing.  But all of this from somewhere behind.  In front, a canine beast, filled with anger, with blood fury, running.

I was in pursuit.

I raced through the damp dark alleyway, a human voice calling, shouting something indistinct somewhere behind me.  A warning, a shout of anger was all I had time to interpret in it.

Ahead of me was all that interested me.

The other wolf was getting away.  And quickly.