The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain

by Fernfield, Rebecca

  CHAPTER FORTY

  As Joshua is driven through the forest by his need to own Rachel, Max sits on the promontory above the cave and fills his lungs with the crisp air that bites at his skin, and howls. Harsh and sorrowful, it is a call to the Others to join him.

  A large male, the blue shirt of his uniform torn where bone and muscle have grown, twisted, and transmogrified into his new form, steps out from the tree. Eyes gleaming darkest red, he snaps his jaws, tormented by the irresistible hunger for blood and flesh. As he stands several feet behind Max, another male joins them, gun belt still girdling his waist. Within a minute, the Others have gathered until the pack is ready. Crouching, and snapping, they sniff at the air, tasting the excitement to come. Below, in a clearing, flesh and bone waits to be torn. It hides among the wooden boxes, behind a tall fence, and with them is the Laura ... the One ... the She. Her name repeats in his mind ... Laura ... Laura ... Laura ... and then the anger surfs his memories: she’s running, keeping pace, her arms pumping in time to his. Beside them the Smalls, their smalls, born beneath a moon welcoming his sons into the forest. Memories flash, broken, disjointed: they’d squirmed from between her legs, breaking through the dark red caul, to lie curled on the bed of ferns; She ... Laura! ... cradling them to her breast ... Max nuzzling into her neck, his need for her sex, to feel her warm and loving legs wrap around his waist, stronger than ever ... She running ... the smalls playing, climbing on his back, jumping from his shoulder, sharing their first kill ... the spike in Laura’s neck ... the Smalls lying in an unmoving tangle of arms and legs, white fangs bared in open and soundless mouths ... his arms paralysed, his voice silenced as the third spike speared his chest. Anger riles to rage and he howls, jabbing an arm at the wooden boxes. The screamers can’t hide from Max. The forest fills with yaps, and snarls, and they run as one down the hill.

  The male with the gun belt still tied to his waist reaches the fence first. Sprinting down the hill, he jumps from a rock and up to the fence. It throws him back, and he lands with a hard thud and lies still. The stench of singed hair catches in Max’s nostrils as a second male is thrown back from the fence. Wires spark with an irritated buzz. A female, her blue shirt torn from hem to collar, jumps from a tree, and grasps the wire. Her body jerks in a juddering dance as she clings to the fence. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh rises as a tendril onto the air.

  A crack screams against Max’s eardrum and Katarina jerks as bullets spray into her body. With an angry growl, Max darts forward. Pain rips into his biceps as a bullet catches his arm. He snaps at the air. Another crack and pain seers his leg. He grasps for Katarina, pulling her into the forest.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The first male is already at the treeline as Max hauls the female behind a tree. The second male, the Red One, makes an effort to stand as bullets slam into the ground beside him. Shouts from behind the fence are followed by silence and then a whistle, and the Red One’s head disintegrates in a spray of blood and bone across the forest floor. His body slumps to the ground, chest flat against the soil, arms and legs jerking, his neck a bloody stump. Behind the fence a shout of, “Got it!”

  Max yowls, and jumps back into the forest, hiding behind the trees. Watching the male, he expects him to rise, but the body remains still, the blood pumping from his jugular in irregular bursts, stopping as his heart dies.

  The excited noise of the men behind the fence grow silent as Max crouches with the Others, Katarina clinging to his side, the blood where the bullet entered her thigh, and another on her shoulder already slowing. She squats, delves fingers into the wound, and pulls out the metal. Grunting at her, shoving her then jabbing at his own leg, she digs fingers into his flesh. Max growls, snarling at the pain, snapping his jaws at Katarina. She cowers, her fingers deep in his flesh, but scoops beneath the bullet. Her finger slips from the hole, the bullet cradled in her talon. He grunts, as it drops to the floor, and returns to watching the men behind the fence. And waits.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Faces and hair thick with mud, Sam, Rachel, and Chris make their way to the side of the stream and track its progress down the hillside. Though her heart pounds with each step, Sam keeps a stern face, cajoling Rachel, and Chris, to keep going. Rachel had been the hardest to get out of the hide, and had clung with fingernails digging into the wooden frame before Chris had managed to talk her round. Now, half an hour later, she is much more relaxed, though, understandably on edge; it is the only way to be, being complacent will get them killed.

  They had initially walked in silence, but now Rachel is talking a little too freely, although keeping it to a whisper, about the past few days, a sluttish-guy called Michel, and the US Coast Guard she’d fallen for over the corpse of a Frenchman. Life, Sam muses, is bizarre.

  ‘I think he was the one, Sam, and now,” Rachel sobs, “he’s a goddamned werewolf! It’s just not fair.”

  Unfair seems a ridiculous concept to use in this context, and Sam riles to the woman’s self-pity. “Oh, Rachel! Really! Now, come on. Life isn’t fair. None of us have it easy.”

  “Always look on the bright side,” Chris adds.

  “That’s right. Now, stop getting yourself down, and just focus on getting down this hill.”

  “Life’s a piece of shit,” Chris sings. “when you look at it!” He sniggers at some unfathomable joke, then shrugs his shoulder and mouths ‘What?’ as Sam silently berates him.

  “Chris! Sam’s having a moment here!”

  “Indeed, she is. Indeed.”

  “Rachel, Joshua may be gone, but you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  “But it was so intense!”

  “Sure, I get it.” She throws a glance at Chris, but he’s checking out the trees to his left. “I’ve felt something similar too ... recently.”

  “With Jerry?”

  “Pah! Not that goddamned snake! ... Sorry. I didn’t mean to ... No, not Jerry. I did love him though, once, but the man was ruled by his dick, and that ain’t something any woman should have to put up with.”

  “I guess the monsters did you a favour then.”

  Sam laughs. “That’s kind of brutal, Rachel, but yeah, I guess they did.”

  The girl makes a short gasp and then repeats ‘sorry’ at least four times, before saying, “God! That was so crass of me.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. Forget it. It was harsh but true.”

  “Rachel always did have a knack of putting her foot in it! Ay, Rachel?

  “Indeed!”

  Sam slips an arm across the girl’s shoulder. A howl erupts in the distance. The girl stiffens. Chris scours the trees.

  “They’re on the other side of the island.”

  “Near the institute.”

  Although some of the tension leaves Sam’s chest, she remains alert. They may be on the other side of the island, but that is no indicator of safety; those things could run like the wind.

  Another twenty minutes pass, and the stream takes a sudden dip and disappears beneath the rock. Increasing her pace, sweat begins to form at her hairline; she hadn’t realised that their line of safety would be broken. Ten minutes later, it reappears and she relaxes again. They had walked for as nearly as far as she’d travelled with Jerry, Caleb, and Suzy, the lodge can’t be much further.

  Another howl, again from the far distance, but close by a branch snaps, and she turns with horror to the bending of a tree. Noticing her sudden movement, Chris and Rachel stop to follow her gaze. “Don’t stop. Just keep going. We’re safe, just remember that. It won’t cross the water.”

  Rachel makes a mewling sound, and Chris’ attempt to speak sticks in his throat.

  “Just keep walking, focus on going forward.”

  Thudding feet land somewhere among the trees.

  “When we get to the beach, run to the sea.”

  Another mewl from Rachel.

  “Got it,” from Chris.

  Minutes pass, and the thudding of feet has disappeared, thou
gh the cracking of dried twigs and branches underfoot is more regular, and closer.

  Rachel freezes. “I can’t stand this! Where is it. I want to see it.”

  “Rachel!” Sam hisses, bumping into the woman. “We’ve just got to keep moving. I’m sure the lodge is just down here. We’re going to run into the sea—remember. We’ll get the boat, and then be safe.” She prods Rachel’s shoulder.

  Crack!

  All heads swivel to the noise as a huge figure lands only feet away on the other side of the stream. Rachel screams.

  Please, Lord, don’t let the water disappear again. Please! Aloud Sam says, “Just keep moving.” With quick strides, she passes Rachel and Chris to lead from the front.

  The creature snaps its jaws, keeping their quickened pace with ease, the contours of its huge muscles obvious even beneath the covering of dark hair.

  “It’s Joshua!”

  Sam turns to scrutinize the monster. Massively broad and muscular shoulders sit above a narrow waist, and it is easily as big, if not bigger, than the male that had killed Jerry. Though the hair is black.

  “What ... um ... race was Joshua?”

  “I’m not sure. He was beautiful. Kind of like a cross between Jason Mamoa and The Rock.”

  Sam understands the attraction, and as the creature continues to stalk them beside the water, she can see the remnants of the face that had entranced Rachel.

  “It is him!”

  “You may be right, Rachel, but-”

  “It is! I just know it.”

  “Well, he does seem particularly interested in you.”

  “He does?”

  The stream begins to dip, and with it, Sam’s gut.

  “Just keep walking.”

  Ahead, instead of disappearing as Sam had feared, the stream widens and in the next minute, the shore comes into sight. Mobile in hand, she makes a last effort to contact the lodge and beg for help.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Max waits.

  As time passes, and the light around him grows dim, bright light shines through the fence, and the men and buildings disappear behind it. Trunks cast dark shadows as the light catches on their bark, the floor silver. Max waits until the forest beyond the light is deepest black.

  Movement at the gate. He sniffs, taking in the particles of their stench, the sourness of their fear, and the oil ... petrol ... diesel. An engine growls into life. Voices mingle with the noise. A man shouts. Another returns his call. The leader calling his pack. The heavy clink of metal is followed by scraping of metal against metal. From the light, a truck rolls. Metal clinks, rolls, then clanks, and the buzz of the fence continues.

  Max waits.

  The sky above is spattered with light. The forest is black. The Others wait too, their excited chitter interspersed with hisses as they grow impatient, but he wants them to be hungry, desperate for the warm life-blood of the Screamers inside the fence. Their offal ... their liver ... their life-giving kidneys. Memories of flesh sliding down his throat, the blood warm, trickling down his chin, intestines slipping across his chest as he bites through them, rouse his hunger. He pushes the need down, scratching long talons against a trunk—they have to wait.

  Minutes pass to hours and the noise of the engine returns. He growls, kicking at a large male as it lies curled, its arm around a female. He kicks again. The male growls. Max returns the growl, pouncing on the male, biting down on its throat. The male lies still, the female lowering her eyes, submitting. Max growls again, pulling another male from his crouch. The engine grows louder as the pack assembles. Muscular and alert, yearning to gnash their teeth and tear at flesh, they stand ready, and wait at the edge of the light, unseen. As the vehicle approaches, and the grating metal screeches in his ears, Max gives the signal, and the beasts, driven by the need to tear into flesh, burst from the shadows, and descend on the truck as the gate opens.

  ***

  “Fire!”

  As the horde of wolfmen descend from the trees, and the empty truck sits idling at the gates, Kendrick gives the order for his men to fire. This time, at Dr. Steward’s insistence, there are no bullets. The electrified gate, which had been opened partially to give the impression that it was allowing the vehicle access, slams with a grinding of gears and clash of metal.

  “All secure,” the guard calls as the men positioned across the entrance open fire on the advancing horde. Each one a highly trained marksman, some with sniper experience, focus on an individual and fire. As soon as one dart is fired, the spotter passes a loaded rifle, reloading the first. Within seconds, each of the wolfmen has been hit, and their terrifying onslaught slowed to a stumble. Only one manages to make it to the fence, and she is thrown back to the forest floor by the explosive force of the electric shock riding through her body at a current that would kill a normal man. As the volley of shots slows to zero, silence falls, and the only sound Kendrick notices is the heavy breathing of the man beside him.

  “How many did we get?” Night vision goggles on, Kendrick counts the glowing orange shapes beyond the gate. “Hot damn!”

  “Is that them all?”

  “It matches the list of the infected and the missing.”

  Gillespie whistles. “We’re on fire!” he exclaims.

  “Je-sus! That was A for fucking awesome!”

  “Did you see them go down? It was like they were running in slow motion.”

  “Did you see those titties jiggle?” Johnson snorts with laughter.

  “Shut it, Johnson! You clown.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Why would they be dead?”

  “Well, we pumped them full of enough anaesthetic to kill an elephant.”

  “Three each, that’s the minimum. If some are dead, then that’s the price Steward will have to pay.”

  Johnson nods. “Psycho bitch.”

  “Watch your language, Kipper. There are ears everywhere around here.”

  Kipper scans the other men. “Them?”

  “Who knows. Just do the job you’ve been assigned and keep your trap shut.” Kendrick climbs down. “We’ve got an hour before they need another dose.” He says as the men gather around. Behind him a truck backs up. Inside a container has been converted into a cage. “Check that each one has at least three darts that have been fully emptied. If not, give them another shot. Now, to it. We’ve lost ...” he checks his watch. “Precisely three minutes and ten seconds so far. Move it!” The decoy vehicle is pulled into the compound, and the men thread through the small gap left open between the gates. “Anyone not back here by twenty hundred hours precisely, will be locked out, and shot.”

  In the next twenty minutes, all the wolfmen are dragged back inside the compound and thrown up into the cage.

  Unseen, beneath the decoy car, Max grips the metal undercarriage, and waits.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Marta sits straight in her chair, a cup of black tea cold before her. She fingers her pen, pressure along its barrel making the tips white. Kendrick stands before her, greasy sweat glowing at his forehead. The pungent aroma of stale sweat hovers around him, polluting her perfumed space. The self-satisfied grin on his face scratches against her nerves.

  “I told you that I wanted all of them brought back alive. Not with their heads blown off.” He makes no reaction to the terseness of her voice. That irritates her too.

  “That order came after we used those bullets. The other ammo had no impact. My men did their best to protect the compound, and you, Doctor Steward.”

  She sits back in her chair. “It wasn’t Max you killed ... was it?”

  A flicker of reaction. “No.”

  “But you have him?”

  “We have all of the wolfmen that are alive on the island sedated. We haven’t been able to identify them all ... yet.”

  “I need to know that Max is among them.” She can hear the wheedling in her voice, the pen bends beneath her fingers.

  “He will be.”

  She locks his gaze for
emphasis. “I want the evidence, Kendrick.” He returns her gaze then drops it. “Understood?”

  “Yes. But ... how exactly can we identify him among the others?”

  “How? He’s the alpha.”

  “But they all look very similar ... Most of them are very muscular. There are differences in colour of ... coat, and obviously gender, but other than that, they look the same. Does he have any identifying marks?”

  “He has a tattoo. On his left buttock.”

  “... I see.”

  “Go look, then!”

  With a stiff bow as though he is still in the army, Kendrick swivels on his heels and leaves the room. The band of tension across Marta’s shoulders increases, and the headache she medicated against this morning has returned. “Now see what you’ve done, Kendrick,” she says to the empty room. “You’ve made me feel unwell.” She rubs fingertips at her temples then sits back in her chair. The leather padding is comforting, but her eyes burn with tiredness; since Max had escaped, she has barely been able to sleep.

  Her telephone rings. ‘Blake Dalton’ is printed on the screen and the pain in her stomach twists; their last conversation hadn’t been easy. She allows it to ring several more times before answering and, after the initial greetings, sits back to listen. The pen snaps in her fingers and she throws herself forward. Tea spills as she knocks the desk; they’ve pulled the plug! The senseless, blinkered idiots have cancelled her project!

  “They’re already begun collecting the stronger specimens from Kielder.”

  “What the hell! What the very hell!”

  “It’s out of my hands, Marta. I told you before that our sponsors were getting tired of waiting, and this current security breach-”

  A sharp intake of breath. “It is all under control! Max has been captured. We can see this as a success, Blake. Max was allowed to roam free for a short time during which we monitored his every move, and then brought him back in. The tracking device worked perfectly, as did the retrieval protocols. Max will be back, sedated, secure, and ready to continue trials within the hour. In fact, there was no security breach, this was all a planned exercise.”