The mushroom clouds had unfolded slowly above the devastation, boiling and churning in the superheated air, glowing bright orange from the reflected flames below. The nearest cloud had been so close, he could almost have reached out to touch it. It had been as thick as mud, an almost solid structure, rising solemn and sinister in the darkening sky.
The pilot had struggled with the controls, aiming to guide the crippled helicopter to a safe landing, but then the shockwave of the blast had hit them and the craft had rolled and tumbled through the sky like a child’s toy in a hurricane.
That was the last he remembered. The helicopter must have crashed in woodland somewhere to the south of London in the Surrey hills. He looked around the tangled wreckage of the craft, its metal frame twisted, yet mostly intact. The helicopter lay on its side, its rotor blades snapped off, its main door missing. The square of sky he had seen had been framed by the open doorway, now turned to face upward. He was still strapped into his seat, the safety belt pressing tightly across his chest. The glass windows of the helicopter were shattered, and smoke from the fuselage drifted through the air. But it could have been a lot worse. They might easily have gone up in flames, engulfed in a fireball, just as London itself had been.
He swept his gaze around the broken shell of the cockpit. He was alone in the rear of the helicopter, but the pilot and co-pilot were still strapped into their armoured front seats. He leaned forward and gently shook the shoulder of the pilot. The man’s head slumped down, lolling lifelessly inside his protective helmet. Griffin reached toward the co-pilot in his seat, but a sudden pain in his thigh made him flinch and gasp.
He looked down and saw that his leg was impaled on a section of the broken fuselage, a twisted metal shard protruding from his thigh. His trousers were stained red over a large area. He stayed still and called out, seeking to rouse the co-pilot, if he was still alive. But the man remained motionless.
The Colonel turned his attention to his injury. His leg was impossible to move. He had been speared by the metal rod to some depth. With his medical training, he knew that to try and free himself might easily prove fatal. If the rod had penetrated the femoral artery, then any attempt to remove it might cause him to bleed out. He could see that he had already lost a significant amount of blood.
Carefully he reached his fingers beneath his leg and explored whether the metal had passed all the way through. With some relief he concluded that it had not. Tentatively he tried to wiggle his toes, testing whether his spine had been damaged. The sudden spike in pain almost made him pass out, but at least he still had feeling and movement. It was important now to remain still and calm, to prevent further tissue damage, minimize blood loss, and to protect against spinal injury.
The correct procedure was to stay exactly where he was and await rescue. The crash site would surely be located quickly from the helicopter’s last known radar position, and an army rescue team should already have been dispatched. They would be searching for him now, sweeping the woodland for wreckage and survivors. He had only to sit and wait and very soon he would be safe.
He thought again of Chanita, who he had last seen at the western evacuation camp a couple of weeks ago. He hoped that no harm had come to her. These were dangerous times, and with the Prime Minister dead, a power vacuum would open up. Anything could happen. He had to reach her as soon as possible.
The image of London burning returned to him in a flash then, and a cold dread gripped him. A whole city annihilated. It didn’t seem possible. And yet he had seen it for himself at close quarters. The enormity of what had happened suddenly overwhelmed him, and his confidence of imminent rescue began to give way to questions and doubts. He glanced again at the two men in the front seats. He knew they were both dead, and was glad he could not see their faces.
Chanita, he thought. He pictured her face instead, concentrating on recalling every detail. He imagined her voice, her smell, her touch. The memory was powerful, and helped him forget the calamity that had unfolded.
Over his head the trees swayed gently and the birds continued to sing. The sky was lightening, as the world turned and the sun rose. If he closed his eyes, he could believe that help was on its way. If he tried really hard, he could almost convince himself that nothing bad had happened.
Chapter Five
Virginia Water, Surrey, waning moon
James Beaumont walked alone in the forest. His naked body shivered a little in the fresh morning air, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had nowhere to shelter, and no fire to keep him warm. His clothes were torn to rags and left far behind, and he had no sheets, blankets or cloth to cover his nakedness. During the night he had worn a cloak of thick fur. It had kept him warm as he ran through the trees on all fours, his tail twitching behind him, his canine teeth dripping with blood, his yellow eyes turned to the moon.
The forest was a good place for a wolf to live, but not for a human. Now his fur coat was gone, replaced by smooth, pale skin. His sharp teeth and claws were no longer the deadly weapons that he had used to kill. And most importantly of all, the moon was no longer his mistress. In the dead of night he had set himself against its dark authority, and had overthrown its power to control him. Now he was master of his own body, and could choose to be wolf or human at will.
The blood of his victims still covered his naked body, however, and he felt shame. He came to a narrow stream, gushing quickly between the trees, and he knelt in its icy water, splashing away the blood that stained his skin, and saying a short prayer of thanks to God. He shivered even more after rising clean from the water, but felt glad that he had washed away all signs of his sin.
He had no way of drying himself, no way of driving away the chilly touch of the stream. Instead he walked briskly on his bare feet, picking a path through the tall, bare trunks and the densely packed brambles and bushes that lined the forest floor.
Where was he exactly? He couldn’t be sure. He had left Melanie, Sarah and Ben at Virginia Water to the west of London, and run away from the city and into the woodland, rivers and heaths of Surrey. All night he had run as a wolf, across grasslands, rolling chalk downs and ancient forest. He had shunned villages, farms and any places of habitation, afraid of coming across people, for fear of killing them. Instead he had killed deer, cattle and other animals, slaughtering them unthinkingly, butchering them in the name of the moon. He had been wild and frenzied, and had thought only of blood and flesh, of tooth and claw, of life and death.
Now he had regained control. But it was too late. He was lost.
Still, he knew where he wanted to go. He needed to find the others again. Melanie, Sarah and Ben. They were his family now and he had sworn to protect them. He had promised to lay down his own life for them if necessary. But first he had to find them.
He stumbled through a patch of nettles that stung his bare feet and ankles, and came to the edge of the trees. Across a patch of rough grass, he glimpsed a hedge, neatly trimmed. And beyond that a house, standing proud in its own land, the only house for miles around. The building was old, something like a manor house, built from oak frames and weathered bricks. Its windows were small and of leaded glass, and its roof was crenelated and turreted, a little like a castle. A thin column of smoke twisted upward from one of its tall chimneys.
James crouched low, out of view of the windows, ignoring the prickly bushes that scratched his arms and legs. To search for his friends he needed clothes. He could survive easily enough in the forest in wolf form, but to go where humans walked, he must walk like them, and dress like them. And he would find clothes inside this house.
But he would not steal. Stealing was a sin. The moon had made him sin in all kinds of ways, and God had taken first his friend Samuel and then his parents from him as punishment. He would sin no more. Instead he would find the owner of this house and ask for clothing. If they refused, then he would leave. Unless …
If wicked people lived in the house, then perhaps he would punish them. Wicked people
deserved to suffer. And he was God’s avenging angel, bringing justice to the world. If wicked people lived here, he would find them and destroy them. He felt the hairs on his arms begin to thicken and stiffen at the thought. His heart beat stronger, pumping wolf blood through his veins. His gums began to ache, as the hunger for meat made his sharp teeth push through.
No. With great effort, he forced himself back to calmness, quietening the rage that had flared up so quickly and almost consumed him. He had no need for rage. Anger was his enemy, as much as the moon had been. He must learn to control his emotions, or he would become enslaved to them. He would take the form of a wolf only when he wished to. He studied the backs of his hands and saw that the stiff bristles had turned back into fine golden hairs. His gums stopped aching. His heart grew still. The beast was caged again.
He stood up and ran to the hedge that bounded the house and its garden. He followed it until he came to a wooden gate. It was not locked. He entered the garden, closing the gate carefully behind him.
The garden of the house was huge, even bigger than Melanie and Sarah’s house in Richmond. The lawn that surrounded the house was well tended, bisected by straight-cut hedges, the borders planted with spring-flowering bulbs. Whoever lived here cared for their garden more than Melanie and Sarah had done. He crossed the neat expanse of the lawn self-consciously, aware of his nakedness. When he reached the back door of the house, he knocked loudly.
He waited, but no one came. He knocked again. There was still no answer.
He approached the nearest window and peered through. The room beyond looked well-furnished and lived-in, but there was no one inside, and no fire in the hearth. He moved along the edge of the house, looking through each of the leaded windows, but every one showed the same. He circled the house in its entirety, but it was empty.
‘Hello!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Is there anyone home?’
No answer came.
He stepped back from the house, his feet crunching on the gravel driveway, and saw a tendril of smoke still rising from one chimney. Perhaps the owner was upstairs. Perhaps they were afraid of him.
He looked down once more at his own nakedness and felt shame again. He should go away and leave the owner of the house in peace. He had no wish to frighten anyone. And yet wherever he went the story might be the same. People would look upon him and fear him. He knew that people could become hostile when frightened. And besides, he needed clothing and shelter. He glanced again at the smoking chimney and returned to the front door. Gingerly, he turned the handle. It opened.
The door swung wide open. ‘Hello!’ he called again, but there was still no reply.
The house was warm and he slipped inside gladly. The room he had entered was a long hallway, with panelled walls and many doors leading from it, some open, some closed. He paused for a moment, then crept quietly to the winding wooden staircase that led up. He emerged a moment later on an upstairs landing, the floorboards creaking with every step. More doors led off the landing, presumably to bedrooms. He stopped and listened, but could hear nothing.
He pushed open the first door and looked inside. The room was sparsely furnished, with just a narrow unmade bed and some painted wardrobes. A cracked china basin stood in one corner. Through the windows he could see the lawn, shrubs and hedges of the garden, and beyond it the forest he had come from.
There might be clothes in the wardrobes, but he would not take them without permission. He turned back to the landing and saw an old woman standing there. She must have been about eighty years old, her hair grey and her face lined. She stood perfectly straight however, without a stoop. In her hands she held a shotgun. It was aimed at James.
Chapter Six
Gatwick Airport, West Sussex, waning moon
Liz could never have imagined that when the world ended she would find herself moving into a Hilton Hotel complete with a bar, restaurant, tea- and coffee-making facilities, and a fully-equipped fitness room. Nevertheless, here she was. The walls of the hotel room felt solid enough (though rather hollow when she rapped her knuckles against them), the carpet deep and soft, and the king-size bed wide and firmly upholstered, so she guessed it was real and not a dream.
‘Is nice room,’ said Mihai. ‘Is very comfy bed.’ He slung his travelling bag onto the floor and stretched out across the vast expanse of the bed.
‘Not bad,’ agreed Kevin, regarding the room’s plush decor with suspicion. ‘Not bad at all.’
The lights in the room didn’t work, however. Nor did the complimentary Wi-Fi, or the kettle. In fact, neither did the TV, the air-conditioning, the mini-bar nor even the elevator. The electrical power was down everywhere, and no one seemed to have any idea when it might be restored. According to one rumour, the nuclear explosions had caused the transformers to burn out at the electricity substations. There was no natural gas in the pipelines either, and no running water. Corporal Jones would have to wait for his cooked breakfast and his hot bath. He might have to wait a very long time.
Her conversation with him at the gate hadn’t gone exactly as she’d hoped. But what had she expected? For him to give her a big hug and tell her everything was going to be okay? That being a vampire was no big deal?
Yeah. That was exactly what she’d been expecting. Llewelyn’s reaction had felt like a slap to the face. She was obviously going to have to adjust her expectations. One thing she knew – she couldn’t allow anyone to kill her now. Too many people depended on her for their safety.
After arriving at the airport, they’d been met by emergency workers and had their needs assessed. Owing to Samantha’s late-stage pregnancy, Liz’s group had been allocated a family suite in the hotel next to the airport’s south terminal. The Hilton was certainly convenient and well appointed. Just a few minutes’ walk from the check-in desks, it would have been ideal if they’d been planning to jet off on a flight to the sun. But no planes were flying anywhere now. It was hard to believe that any modern technology would ever work again.
Liz led Samantha into the room. Her baby was due in a few weeks, and she was suffering from high blood pressure, leg cramps and back pain. Pre-eclampsia, the doctor had called it. A very serious condition. Samantha had been told to stay in bed and avoid stress. The walk up three flights of stairs had left her ready to drop. Liz dreaded to think what effect Dean’s death might have on her.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Liz, helping her to a seat where she sat exhausted, holding Lily firmly by the hand. In turn, Lily clutched her toy elephant tightly against her chest.
Kevin was prowling around the hotel room, looking inside the desk drawers, lifting the paintings on the walls to examine behind them. ‘This place seems okay, I suppose, even if the bastards at the gate did steal my gun.’
The soldiers at the checkpoint had carried out a thorough search of everyone before letting them enter the camp. They had confiscated Kevin’s newly acquired assault rifle, despite his loud and foul-mouthed protests.
‘No weapons inside the evacuation centre,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Sign here and you can collect it when it’s time for you to leave.’
‘Bastards,’ Kevin had hissed under his breath. ‘I didn’t even get a chance to use it.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ Liz told him. ‘Anyway, we ought to be safe enough inside the camp.’
‘Huh,’ said Kevin. ‘Maybe.’
But when they tried to take her own gun from her, she refused to let it go. Dean had given her the Glock pistol and taught her how to use it, and although she had yet to fire it in anger, there was no way she would let anyone take it from her. ‘I’m a police officer,’ she protested angrily. ‘You can’t take my weapon away.’
She showed them her warrant card, and no doubt it helped that she was still kitted out in her full police uniform, complete with stab-proof vest.
‘All right, ma’am,’ agreed the sergeant at the gate eventually. ‘Just be sure to keep the gun on you at all times.’
‘I won’
t let it out of my sight,’ she promised.
The last thing the soldiers had done before allowing them inside was to bring the sniffer dogs over to check them out. Liz had stood stock still as the two dogs snuffled around her feet, lingering noticeably longer over her than any of the others. She remembered how Rock, the Dogman’s German shepherd dog, had been confused at first by her scent. It had taken him a good while to decide that he really didn’t like the smell of her. Unlike werewolves, it seemed that vampires didn’t carry a very strong scent. Eventually the dogs had moved away and the soldiers waved them through.
Corporal Jones and the other Welsh Guards had been sent to join the military camp in tents close to the airport runways, and Liz’s group had been directed to the Hilton. She wasn’t sorry to see the back of the soldiers, especially after what Llewelyn had told her about them wanting her dead. But somehow she felt she’d be seeing them again soon.
The hotel suite was a large room with an en-suite bathroom, a king-size bed, twin beds and a crib. It was intended to accommodate a family with two children and an infant. But Liz’s group comprised six adults, three teenagers, a boy of ten and a little girl. Eleven in total.
They all crowded into the room now. The Singh family consisted of Vijay and Aasha, their parents and grandmother, plus Drake Cooper who was Aasha’s boyfriend and seemed to have become part of the family unit.
Vijay’s grandmother was elderly and frail, and Liz tried to help her sit down, but the old woman had a fierce independence and brushed her aside with thin bony fingers. ‘I can manage perfectly well,’ she said. ‘If I need help, then mark my words, I will ask for it quickly enough.’
Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf] Page 3
