Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf]

by Morris, Steve

  No. For now, they must content themselves with skirmishes and ambushes. He would pick his enemies off one by one as they ventured out of the safety of their camp. His forces would grow as news of Leanna’s return spread among the surviving werewolves. They would come to her, drawn by hunger, greed, or lust for glory. He would train them in the arts of fighting, and instil an iron discipline. And they would gather real weapons. Tanks, armoured cars, anti-aircraft guns, rocket launchers. Why stop at that? Somewhere, there were bigger weapons still. Helicopters, combat aircraft, frigates, destroyers.

  Oh yes. Why stop at General Canning when he could be Air Chief Marshal Canning and Admiral Canning too?

  High above him, the Royal Standard snapped in the wind. The flag was traditionally flown only when the ruling monarch was in residence at the castle. Well she was here now, a mad queen maybe, but a ruthless genius, determined to rule at all costs. And he had pinned his future prospects on her success. What did that make him? He preferred not to think about it. He had made his choice.

  ‘Better to serve a mad queen than to hide in a sewer with only rats and spiders for friends,’ he told the crows that fluttered around the top of the tower.

  Not that he had any friends now. Leanna was no friend, merely an ally of convenience. A general must walk alone. Well, he was used to that. It had been no different when he had been headmaster. Friends, he could scarcely remember a time when he had last had one. Enemies, on the other hand, he had never been short of. But now he had the means to vanquish them. One by one they would fall. And then … yes, one day, he might dispose of his final enemy, the mad queen herself. Then he could claim her throne. King Canning. It had a certain ring to it, did it not?

  But until that time he would be unswervingly loyal.

  He leaned out over the battlements and shouted across the courtyard of the Lower Ward. ‘God save the Queen! Long live our noble Queen!’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Gatwick Airport, West Sussex, crescent moon

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Kevin, raising the bottle of Fullers London Pride to his mouth. He swigged back the ale, just nicely at room temperature, and belched magnificently. Was this happiness? It was as near as damn as he’d come to it in a good while. Sitting on the open grass on a sunny afternoon in April in the company of a crate of beer and some mates. If there was a better life, he had never seen it.

  The Welsh Guards were a decent bunch of blokes, even though he could only understand half of what they said and couldn’t pronounce any of their first names. ‘Call me Clue-Ellin,’ Llewelyn had said, but Kevin couldn’t. Jones was easier.

  No matter. The language of beer was universal.

  ‘That’s not a bad ale,’ said Corporal Jones, smacking his lips. ‘Not quite as smooth as a pint of Cardiff Dark, but still quite tasty. You Londoners obviously know a thing or two about beer.’

  ‘Cardiff Dark? Never tried that one,’ said Kevin. ‘Maybe one day.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jones. ‘There’s always a chance, I suppose. There might still be a few barrels knocking around somewhere back in Wales. I doubt they’re still brewing it, though.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Kevin. Gloom was always lurking just under the surface, even on a day like today. ‘What happens when all the beer runs out, you reckon?’

  Jones shook his head sadly. ‘That really will be the end of the world.’

  The other two, Evans and the lance corporal, nodded in agreement. Hughes was the lance corporal’s name, but the others called him the Dogman, on account of his dog, which followed him everywhere. Kevin could call him the Dogman too, if that’s what the man liked. It was easier on the tongue than his first name, which was completely unpronounceable. The dog, Rock, was with them now, lying on the grass, one eye closed, the other open, watching them like a hawk. A one-eyed hawk. Kevin had no love for dogs, but he had missed the company of honest working men. There were far too many women and children in his life these days.

  He wasn’t quite ready to call the Welsh Guards his friends. Not yet. Sharing a beer was one thing. Becoming a friend, that took a lot more time and effort, and even when you thought you’d reached that point, friendship could turn out to be a fragile thing. Kevin’s life story was littered with broken friendships. Broken noses too, on a few occasions. He could scarcely remember having a real friend, only enemies who had not yet declared themselves. Gary the butcher was perhaps the closest he’d ever come to true honest-to-goodness friendship, and Gary was a dead man now. Then again, better a dead friend than a living enemy.

  He raised the bottle to his lips again. London Pride. It sounded a whole lot more appetizing than Cardiff Dark. He couldn’t say he’d be sorry if he never got to try any of that particular brew, however much the Welshmen might sing its praises.

  ‘I wonder how that baby’s coming along,’ said Jones.

  ‘Dunno.’

  The birth of a baby was no place for a man to be, and Kevin had been the first to make a quick exit from the hotel room as soon as Samantha showed signs of going into labour. When his own wife had given birth to Liz, he’d been happily down the pub, downing pints like God intended, and he had no desire to get close-up to that kind of thing now. It wasn’t that he was squeamish. Growing up the son of a butcher, blood and guts didn’t bother him in the slightest. Women’s matters on the other hand … they were called that for a reason.

  This was the first time he’d paid a visit to the Welsh Guards since coming to the camp. Now he was here, he wondered what had taken him so long. Too much of a loner, he supposed. Mind you, the Welsh Guards looked to be keeping themselves to themselves too, not mingling much with the men from other regiments and battalions.

  The army had set up a field of tents between the two runways, with vehicles parked all around. As far as Kevin could make out, the paras were in charge of the operation, and groups of soldiers from the various other regiments had been roped in to do the grunt work. It was the same when he’d served in the army in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. Squaddies like him had done the jobs no one else wanted. Manning checkpoints in the middle of the night, dealing with rioters and petrol bombers, marching up and down the Bogside district or the Falls Road, having stones thrown at him by the local Protestants or Catholics. Welcome to the British Army, son.

  It had been the same forever. Men like Kevin always got the worst jobs, and no one ever thanked them for it. The more shit a man shovels, the less anyone wants to shake his hand. That was a fine saying. He ought to scribble it down somewhere, or at least try to remember it. Whenever he needed words, he could never find the right ones.

  ‘How is your mate, Griffiths?’ he asked Jones. The soldier had been shot getting them out of London, and was obviously still in the care of the doctors, since he wasn’t here now.

  It had been the wrong question to ask. Jones shook his head grimly. ‘Not so good. Not so good at all.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like he’s going to make it,’ said the Dogman bitterly.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘In fact,’ said the Dogman, flaring into anger, ‘things are quickly turning to shit around here.’

  ‘Not now, Hughes,’ warned Jones.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I say what’s on my mind?’ said the Dogman. He turned to Kevin. ‘Don’t think you can buy our friendship with a crate of beer. We know what your daughter is.’

  Kevin glared at him. So here was the enemy, declaring himself for all to see. Another broken friendship, and a very short-lived one at that. A few years back Kevin would have been on his feet already, throwing punches at the Dogman’s ugly face. He’d like to see that face turn purple and black. Another broken nose to add to the list. Kevin knew that he could take the lance corporal easily, despite the man being younger and heavier than him. But he sat where he was. Experience must have taught him something. Or maybe Liz had done that.

  ‘You’re wrong about Liz,’ he said steadily. ‘She ain’t no killer. At least,’ he corrected himself, she
ain’t never killed no one who didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘So you say,’ said the Dogman.

  ‘So I say,’ said Kevin. Maybe he would give the lance corporal a bit of a kicking after all. Someone certainly should. But first he would give talking a chance. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘there ain’t been no more killings for weeks now. Looks to me like the mysterious killer has gone away.’

  It seemed like a slim hope, but that was the only kind of hope Kevin knew.

  ‘You reckon the killer’s gone?’ sneered the Dogman. ‘That’s because you don’t know what’s really happening.’

  ‘Hughes,’ warned Corporal Jones, ‘that’s enough.’

  The Dogman fell silent.

  ‘Tell me what I don’t know,’ said Kevin. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s nothing more than rumours,’ said Jones. ‘We don’t have any facts. The Dogman shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Come on. If you know something about these murders, you gotta tell me.’

  Corporal Jones sighed. ‘So, what we hear through our army contacts is that people have been going missing from the camp. Mostly women and children. They simply disappear and are never seen again. There’s no actual proof of this. The people going missing often don’t have any family, so no one can say for certain that they’ve disappeared. These are just rumours.’

  Kevin leaned forward excitedly. For once, talking seemed to have produced better results than punching. ‘Just rumours, huh? You believe they’re true?’

  Jones regarded him through half-lidded eyes. ‘And what if I do?’

  ‘Then Liz needs to go looking for them. If she’s gonna catch the murderer, she needs to find these missing people, or uncover what happened to them. And you boys need to help.’

  ‘Why’s that, then, Kevin?’ asked Jones.

  Kevin scratched his nose, thinking. This Welshman was a tough nut to crack. ‘The way I see it, we all got the same interests. Liz needs to solve this case to prove her innocence. You need her to solve it, so that you can trust her again. Right?’

  ‘I guess so. So how can we help?’

  ‘If Liz is gonna catch a serial killer, things might get hairy.’

  ‘Hairy,’ agreed Jones. ‘They might well do. Yes.’

  Kevin nodded. Luck was with him for once. The corporal seemed open to suggestions, and Kevin knew exactly what to suggest. ‘When life gets hairy, it helps if you have a tool to clean up hairs.’

  Jones frowned. ‘A tool? You mean –’

  ‘A gun, like,’ said Kevin, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding. ‘Just a small one,’ he added quickly. There was no point pushing his luck too far. ‘Just big enough to take down a vampire.’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire

  Helen could no longer be certain where the idea had originated. Had it come from her, or from Sarah, or from James? Whoever had first proposed the idea, Chanita had become its champion, pushing forward its implementation, despite objections on all sides.

  Sometimes even James himself seemed to be having second thoughts. ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’ he asked Helen.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re having doubts.’

  ‘It’s just that … do you think I really am human?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen firmly. ‘In fact, I can safely say that you taught me what it means to be human.’

  She had been badly in need of that lesson. After her near-death experience at Leanna’s hands, she had lost sight of the truth for a while – that it was wrong to prejudge people by their class, or race, or even because they had an affliction that was difficult to control. James had proved beyond doubt that lycanthropy didn’t necessarily turn everyone into a depraved killer. If he could control his impulses, then others could too, especially with his help.

  ‘Remember that the variant of the virus we’re administering comes from you, and it should have the same effect on others as it has on you,’ she reminded him. ‘And we won’t simply be releasing the patients without supervision. On the contrary, they’ll be very closely watched.’

  She wondered at times if she had crossed an ethical line. Professor Wiseman certainly had, when he began to capture werewolves and run experiments on them as if they were laboratory test animals. He had convinced himself that he was acting for the greater good, and had paid the price with his own life. But this was different. Helen wasn’t injecting her patients against their will. They were fully briefed on the risks of the treatment and gave their informed consent.

  She had even begun to think again about treating herself. If the treatment programme went well, then she could use the cure to overcome her own Huntington’s. She began to hope tentatively for a future in which she would not be condemned to walk with a stick or use a wheelchair. She began to yearn for a full life, not one cut short by sickness.

  She realized that optimism had crept back into her life. Whether or not she chose to cure herself, she accepted that she would likely never return to Australia, and she was resigned to that. She had even found herself becoming contented with the British weather. On a fine spring morning like this one, there was much to be said for a mild maritime climate. All in all, Helen felt more positive than she had in a long time. She was finally living her dream to cure disease, doing more practical good in a few short weeks than she had achieved in all her years of academic research at the university.

  But it wasn’t easy to persuade everyone in the camp to accept Chanita’s solution. Many refused to. Even some of the sick patients themselves chose to face death from their illnesses instead of being offered a cure by lycanthropy. All around the camp there was disquiet. ‘How does this make us different to the werewolves who killed and maimed our friends and families?’ asked one man.

  The only answer they had was James himself.

  Chanita and Helen were taking him around the camp, encouraging as many people as possible to meet him. They enlisted his friends, Sarah, Melanie and Ben, to vouch for his good behaviour, describing how he had risked his own life to save a boy from another werewolf. The message was simple: ‘James is different. Just look at him.’

  ‘You must be desperate if you have to use me as a character witness,’ Melanie whispered to Helen, when no one was listening.

  ‘Well, I guess we are,’ she admitted.

  At every gathering, Chanita delivered the same sobering warning: ‘The alternative is sickness and death.’ That argument was enough to convince most people.

  Still, the security situation inside the camp was tense. Lieutenant Colonel Sharman called off the missions to find medical supplies. If the plan worked, medicine would no longer be needed. Instead, his men patrolled inside the camp, suppressing unrest and putting troublemakers behind bars.

  Helen was busy, with Sarah’s help, administering the micro-doses of blood to those most badly in need of it. Chanita was adamant on that point. Lycanthropy was to be used only as a cure of last resort, for those who were most seriously ill. Although some healthy volunteers stepped forward, asking to be changed, Helen sent them away. As Chanita put it, ‘This is a necessary evil, not a lifestyle choice.’

  They still didn’t know for sure what the long-term effects would be.

  The controlled micro-doses successfully avoided the worst side effects of the virus, and those who were injected with James’ blood made good recoveries from whatever illnesses they had. It seemed that there was nothing that couldn’t be cured by lycanthropy. Helen was monitoring the patients carefully, and they appeared to be making good progress. They could eat normal food, and none of the usual symptoms of lycanthropy had taken hold. None had yellow eyes, or a desire to eat human flesh, or even the light sensitivity that was the usual distinctive hallmark of early-stage lycanthropy.

  ‘It seems almost too good to be true,’ said Helen.

  ‘The real test will be when the full moon rises,’ James said.

  It was not so many days away.

  In the meantim
e, Chanita agreed to allow James out of the camp at night, so that he could hunt. He found plenty of game out there, mostly rabbits, hares and deer. He brought back some of the animals he killed so that their meat could be cooked and shared among the refugees in the camp.

  Ten days before the full moon, the first of the treated patients complained of a dislike of bright light. More followed, but Helen was not too worried. ‘I’ve been fully expecting some minor side effects,’ she told Chanita. ‘In fact, I’m surprised it took this long.’

  Chanita nodded. ‘I’ll ask Colonel Sharman’s men to keep a close eye on the patients. If there’s any sign of trouble …’

  ‘But none of them have shown any violent tendencies,’ said Helen.

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘And they’re all still eating normal food.’

  ‘Yes, that’s very encouraging.’

  Two days later, one of the patients was sick after eating a bowl of vegetable soup.

  ‘I really just want to eat meat,’ said the woman. ‘I forced down the soup, but it felt like my body simply rejected it.’

  ‘I’ll bring you some meat instead,’ said Helen.

  ‘Raw?’ the woman asked hopefully.

  Helen asked Colonel Sharman to keep an armed guard close to her at all times. She raised her concerns with Chanita later that day.

  ‘I can’t say that this worries me,’ Chanita said. ‘When we treated the bite patients back in the hospital in London, we had to strap them down at all times. They were extremely violent, right from the initial infection. These patients are nothing like that.’