Exposed: A Book Bite

of those people are on the second floor. None of the windows on the second floor open, and are made of thick, triple-paned glass.
That makes the two stairwells and single elevator the only way to reach one of the three exit doors.
Without wasting any more time, I take Lucy’s hand and begin pulling her toward the stairwell that is the furthest from where we’d last heard the gunshots. Lazarus pokes his little horned head out of her shirt pocket, his small, diamond-shaped eyes glittering at the excitement.
George follows us without saying a word. So does Mary Ann.
Karen asks, “Where are you guys going?”
Tense situations just seem to make some people absolutely idiotic.
I stare out over the cube farm. Six rows of ten. Nearly all of them full. And maybe thirty more people in the offices lining the hallways to get to the farm.
I realize with a sinking heart that some of these people might not make it home today. Then I shove the emotions away, because there is no place for them in the immediate situation.
“There’s a shooter in the building, everyone,” I say. “I’m getting out of here. Come if you want, but be quiet if you do.”
Several people join my little group, while others blink blankly, and others still run off on their own. My heart is beating fast, but the sound of it is drowned out by the rapid pounding of those of my companions.
Lucy and I take the lead, and I think about the fact that some of the people in my group were among those giving me the side-eye all day as a result of learning about my supernatural status.
Then there’s a scream, followed by another two gunshots, which cut off the cry abruptly. The shots are closer than they were only a moment ago.
Lucy and I pick up our pace, making it to the door to the rear stairwell with six other employees in tow.
Gods help the rest of the poor bastards, but I’m not dying here today. Fuck that.
I pause at the door, putting an ear to it, picking up all the minute sounds on the other side. I’m just about to reach for the knob when someone draws my attention down the hall.
“You,” Mark Humphrey says in a tone that can be called nothing but accusatory, “what’s going on here?”
I consider ignoring his dumb ass under the circumstances, but if I do make it out of here, I’ll still need this stupid job tomorrow.
“I think there’s a shooter in the building, Mr. Humphrey,” I say.
His eyes narrow, as if he just knows I’m somehow responsible. His face is so full of distain that I think for a moment that he will actually make the accusation verbal, but then, another gunshot sounds—How many is that now? Five? Six?—and he hurries over to us.
I ignore his ignorance and go for the doorknob—only to find it won’t budge.
“What’s going on?” someone asks.
“It’s locked,” Lucy replies, trying the knob herself with no success.
“How can that be?” Karen says, pushing her way to the front and trying the knob herself, as if Lucy and I must’ve forgotten how doors work. “These doors are electronic. They’re controlled by security down on the main floor.”
I pause before stating what to me is obvious, the very idea of speaking the words going against my nature.
“I can break the lock,” I say.
Everyone except for Lucy stares at me dumbfounded for what seems a long moment.
“Break it,” George says.
“Well, hold on—,” Mr. Humphrey starts, and is cut off by the sound of a scream.
The fear leaking out of the Big Bad Bossman is pungent in its potency.
“Break it,” Mr. Humphrey mumbles.
I can’t help but be hyperaware of the eyes of my coworkers as I grip the metal knob and give a sharp twist.
The lock is no match for my supernatural strength. I give the door a push, and it swings open. The stairwell yawns before us. No one makes a move to go down.
Because there’s a crazy mofo with a gun down there somewhere.
I glance back at Mark Humphrey, the man who runs this place, the head honcho whose hobbies include taking out the general discontent with his life on the helpless employees arranged below him in the org chart. The same dude who’s quick to point out your mistakes and publicly ream your ass for them. A veritable corporate pit-bull, all five-foot-five inches of him.
But now the big dog won’t meet my eyes. Seems his balls only drop as far as the conference room. He’s not going to be first down the stairwell.
Nah, it’s gonna be me, who earns probably more than one hundred and fifty grand less than Mr. Humphrey a year. I’m going to go first.
I’ve gone halfway down the stairwell when the door at the bottom that lets out onto the first floor swings open, a wide shadow falling over the stairwell from the other side.

9 3:23 p.m.
The smell of blood hits me first, the scent of fear following quickly after.
Then another feeling. One that I’m not sure humans possess in qualifying proportions. A sixth sense that lets the predator in me know that another predator is near. The hair on the back of my neck pricks, my other senses perking as well.
I hear him breathing. I know it’s a him because of the capacity of his lungs, the pace of his pulse, and the scent coming off him. It’s laced with testosterone, aggression, and anger.
It’s different from when I face another predator in the woods, like when I’m in my wolf form and come across the occasional cougar or bobcat. Those predators kill out of necessity, whereas the one in the stairwell below me does so out of hatred—the ugliest of the human emotions.
All of this passes through my mind in a handful of heartbeats, and then I’m easing the door shut again, putting my back to it, turning to face the others.
The question is on their faces.
“We can’t go that way,” I whisper. “He’s