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

by Morris, Steve

  Leanna strode across the muddy field, gloating. ‘You did well, General Canning. Very well.’

  Canning walked at her side, matching her brisk pace. ‘It was strategy, my dear. And tactics too. A healthy dose of cunning, but most of all, sheer military genius.’

  She smiled indulgently at him. She could afford to let his ego run wild, for a day or so at least. Then she would have to slap him back into place. This victory was just the beginning of a long campaign. The southern evacuation centre at Gatwick Airport was much more heavily defended, and as for the core government forces based at Northwood Headquarters …

  ‘There were a few casualties, naturally,’ drawled Canning.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But overall we made a net gain in numbers. The new werewolves from the camp have mostly come over to join us.’

  Leanna stopped sharply in her tracks. ‘Mostly? You mean that some chose not to?’

  ‘It would seem so. They vanished in the night. I cannot imagine why they wouldn’t want to serve you, as their queen.’

  ‘Hunt them down,’ said Leanna. ‘I will not tolerate any kind of disloyalty.’

  That was the most important lesson she had learned this whole time. Never tolerate the slightest dissent, else it would grow and spread like a cancer. She would not stand any more treachery. She would not allow it to take root.

  Canning seemed doubtful. ‘You want me to waste time hunting down rogue werewolves? What about our human enemy?’

  She turned on him, eyes flashing. ‘The true enemy is always within. Always look for the traitors, and root them out mercilessly. Do you understand? I want those renegades caught and strung up along my castle walls. Do you hear me?’

  Canning regarded her coolly. ‘I hear perfectly well, my dear. There is no need to shout at me. Have no fear, I will do as you say. Are there any further orders you would like to give me, or may I take a moment to celebrate this great victory?’

  She ignored his disdainful tone and calmed herself back down. It would not do to lose her temper now. ‘Just one thing. Were there any reports at the camp of the ones I seek?’

  ‘Ah, you mean the traitors. James …’

  ‘There is no need to speak their names,’ she snapped. ‘You know the ones I mean.’

  She had recited their names often enough to herself. James, Helen, Melanie, Ben. Traitors every one. She had no desire to hear them from his lips too.

  Canning had returned to his normal obsequious self. ‘Indeed, I do. But I did not realize it was a top priority.’

  ‘Finding them is always a top priority.’

  ‘I see.’

  She sighed. She had not meant to tear him down. Canning had done well. She ought to have congratulated him on his achievement. People responded positively when praised, she understood that well enough. Rewards, threats, and punishments, that was the way to govern. No one knew that better than she.

  Canning cleared his throat. ‘There is one body you might like to view. A woman. Youngish, perhaps in her early thirties; long blonde hair. She fits the description, but the corpse is rather badly mangled. It might not be possible to –’

  ‘Show me,’ said Leanna.

  He led her across the battlefield to a pile of corpses, both humans and wolves. Some bore gunshot wounds, others had been ripped by tooth or claw.

  ‘This one,’ said Canning.

  A woman’s remains lay on the ground, badly mutilated. She had been torn almost in two. Yet there could be no doubt. The long blonde hair. The fair skin. The smug, earnest look on that dead face. Doctor Helen Eastgate. Leanna felt her blood turn to ice.

  I swore to kill you one day, Helen.

  But not like this. She felt the ice turn to fire, and turned her rage on Canning. ‘I told you that the traitors were to be taken alive! I specifically ordered you! I meant to kill them all myself!’

  He took a step back, his features contorted in fear. ‘I gave orders not to kill them,’ he blurted. ‘It was not my fault.’

  ‘Then whose fault was it? Who shall I kill in her place?’ Of all the traitors, Helen had been the one she had most been looking forward to meeting. She had imagined so many times what she would do. She touched her cheek with one hand, brushing the scar tissue where the acid Helen had thrown had eaten into her face.

  Canning noticed the gesture and a look of understanding passed across his face.

  Yes, Doctor Helen Eastgate did this to me.

  Now her secret was known to him. She would have killed him then and there, had he not immediately lowered his gaze and dropped to his knees.

  ‘I will not fail you again,’ he swore. He waited, his neck bowed before her.

  Anger boiled in her blood. She could strike him down, vent her rage on him. Or she could let him live and serve her to the best of his abilities.

  She bared her teeth. Helen was dead. Her victory had turned to defeat and humiliation. But she must not lose sight of her goal.

  ‘Get up.’

  Canning rose, lifting his eyes to hers.

  ‘We will not speak of this again.’

  He nodded.

  She cast another glance around the muddy field and the smoking remnants of battle. She took no joy from the sight of victory. The ashes that blew in the wind were the ashes of her own personal defeat. There was nothing more for her here.

  ‘Round up any prisoners who are still alive. Remove the weapons and vehicles, and return to Windsor,’ she ordered Canning. ‘Tonight, I shall throw a feast for my supporters.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ agreed Canning. ‘And what shall I do with the prisoners?’

  ‘They are to be on the menu.’

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire, waning moon

  Colonel Griffin and the Prime Minister reached the western evacuation camp by early afternoon of the day after the full moon. The Colonel gazed at the burned-out remains, bitter tears stinging his eyes. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

  ‘They’re all dead. Every last one.’

  The dead lay singly, or in mounds, shot or bitten or burned to death, each one telling an individual tale of tragedy.

  He hobbled around the battlefield on his hastily repaired crutches, searching among the bodies.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘It is hopeless. There must be hundreds here. Thousands.’

  Many of the bodies were badly burned, disfigured beyond recognition. How could he hope to find Chanita, if she were among them? And yet, he had to look. If she were here, perhaps lying injured, he had to find her.

  Yet every single body he stopped to examine was dead.

  ‘Where is she?’ he cried. He had to know. It would be agony not to know for certain what had happened to her. He lurched on, his crutches sinking into the mud, bodies stretched out in every direction.

  ‘Perhaps she escaped,’ said the PM. ‘She may have got out in time.’

  He shook his head. ‘Chanita would never have abandoned the people to their fate. I put her in charge of the camp, and she would never have placed her own welfare ahead of duty. If she is dead, that makes me responsible for her death.’

  ‘This was not your fault, Colonel. The werewolves are to blame, and no other.’

  Some of the fires were still warm and smouldering. ‘It must have happened last night,’ said Griffin. ‘If only I could have reached here a day earlier. If I had walked a little faster … if I had set off sooner …’

  ‘The outcome would have been the same,’ said the PM. ‘But you would have died too. You must not blame yourself. You can’t always save the world.’

  ‘I didn’t try to,’ he wailed. ‘I only wanted to save one person.’

  And yet he had failed in even that.

  He sat down heavily on the grass, his thigh screaming in agony. He threw his crutches to one side. What good were they now? He was a broken and useless man, barely able to walk, let alone command a military operation. Even if he could have
arrived at the camp before the horror that had unfolded here, what might he have done? How could he have hoped to save Chanita, when he could barely put one foot in front of another?

  He remembered the deer with the broken leg he had found as a child. Despite his appeal to his father for help, he hadn’t been able to save the animal. He hadn’t been able to save Chanita either. Perhaps his father had been right all along. Perhaps sometimes compassion was futile, and death was the only mercy. Perhaps a bullet in his own head was the best outcome now.

  ‘You still have one round left in your pistol,’ he told the Prime Minister. ‘Put it to good use.’

  Her reply came as a harsh rebuke. ‘And I intend to keep it there. Do not voice such a thought in my presence ever again.’

  He shook his head. ‘Then leave me here. Go on your journey. I am no use to anyone anymore. I tried to save one person, and failed at that. Leave me alone in peace.’

  She spoke more gently to him this time. ‘Don’t give up hope, Colonel. Come with me to Northwood. There’s always someone else waiting to be saved. Will you try?’

  ‘No. I am done with trying. I have failed too many times.’

  He had witnessed scenes of carnage, both on foreign battlefields and at home, but none as bad as this. He no longer had the will to go on. Perhaps it was fatigue after his long journey. Perhaps it was grief at Chanita’s loss. Perhaps it was simply too much senseless killing. Whatever it was, he just wanted to lie down and sleep and never wake up. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the corpses, strewn where they had fallen.

  ‘Colonel Griffin, the only decisive way to fail is to give up. I will not allow you to do that. For the sake of the one you lost here today, and for all those who still need our help, come with me. There is much work to be done. This country needs a leader, and its armed forces need a commander. Let us be those people.’

  ‘I just don’t know if I can.’

  She sighed and sat down on the grass next to him, sinking gently into the mud. ‘Colonel, you once sent me your letter of resignation. As you may recall, I quickly consigned that to the dustbin, where it belonged. I am an old woman who is tired and has seen too much, and I do not have the energy to convince you once again of your own ability. Instead, let me simply give you an order. Come with me. Lead my armed forces to victory. I will not accept “no” for an answer.’

  He turned his face to look her in the eyes. ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘No. Never. And I won’t let you, either.’

  ‘Has anyone ever called you a heartless old cow?’

  Faint laughter lines creased her eyes. ‘My late husband often did. And far worse. If that’s the worst insult you can think of, Colonel, I don’t have much to fear from you.’ She stood up and reached out her hand to him. ‘Now pull your lazy arse out of the mud and start walking.’

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, waning moon

  The bodies of Josh, Brittany and the others, or what was left of them, were scattered over a wide area of the hilltop, and already the early morning flies were gathering to register their interest.

  Rose turned away.

  Seth had been sick at the sight, and was still looking decidedly green.

  Ryan had been barely conscious throughout the entire episode, which was probably a blessing.

  Only Chris seemed to be in a cheerful mood this morning. ‘They’ve gone, at last,’ he said.

  The Wolf Brothers had waited until after moonset before departing from the Tor. They had sped off down the hill path, their bikes kicking up stones and clods of mud, their exhaust pipes belching smoke. Rose hoped she would never see them again.

  Last night, as the moon had risen, the bikers had stripped off their leathers and transformed into wolves, howling at the moon, bathing in blood, and exulting in the savagery of their slaughter.

  But their leader had kept his word to spare her, Chris, Seth and Ryan. She had untied Ryan and Chris and had bathed Ryan’s wounds. Rose herself was unhurt. She searched around the hillside for Nutmeg, but the dog was nowhere to be found.

  A fleet of clouds was sailing in from the west, promising rain. It would be wise to find shelter somewhere until they passed. The roofless tower on the hilltop offered little cover, and she had no desire to hang around this wild and forsaken place any longer.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Chris. ‘Let’s be off.’

  ‘Which way?’ But she already knew what reply he would give.

  ‘To Hereford. How many times have I said it already?’

  Ryan was too badly beaten to carry Seth, so she and Chris took one end of the stretcher each.

  ‘No. Wait,’ said Rose. ‘We can’t leave without Nutmeg.’

  Chris sighed. ‘Okay. Let’s find her. But promise me one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘From now on, you all have to listen to my advice.’

  ‘Yeah, whatevs,’ said Seth. He had retrieved the flute that Josh’s friend had played, and was clutching it to his chest. ‘I can learn to play this. It’ll be something for me to do while I’m being carried around everywhere.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ begged Chris.

  ‘Let’s just get away from this horrible place as soon as we can,’ said Seth.

  The flat fields stretched away from the Tor on all sides. In the distance Rose could see the town of Glastonbury itself, but she had no desire to head that way. Chris had been right about one thing – they were safer travelling alone. She wondered if Hereford itself might be too dangerous. Perhaps it would be better to keep away from all towns and villages, shunning the company of others entirely. But what kind of life would that be?

  ‘Hello, there!’

  A figure appeared, striding up the side of the hill. An old man, wearing a long coat made of multicoloured patches. He leaned on a walking stick and at his side was Nutmeg. The stranger made his way to the brow of the hill and Nutmeg barked when she saw Rose.

  ‘Nutmeg!’

  The dog ran to her, a rabbit in her jaws. She deposited it at Rose’s feet and wagged her tail.

  Rose kneeled to hug her close. ‘Good girl, Nutmeg. Clever dog.’ The rabbit would provide a welcome meal once they got a fire lighted.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ asked the new arrival. ‘I found her this morning. Or rather, she found me. She brought me here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rose.

  ‘We should go,’ said Chris quickly. ‘Before anything else goes wrong.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ said the old man, leaning on his staff. ‘Where are you going, by the way?’

  ‘Hereford. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I’m headed to Stonehenge.’ He walked over to where Seth was lying on the ground. ‘What happened to you, my friend?’

  ‘I broke my ankle,’ said Seth. ‘I can’t walk.’

  ‘Let me examine it. I have some skills in healing.’

  They watched as he ran his fingers gently across Seth’s foot, ankle and leg. Normally Seth complained loudly whenever anyone tried to touch his broken leg, but for once he seemed content to allow the stranger to do his work.

  ‘I feel the aura,’ said the man. ‘I have some herbs that will help you.’ He reached into one of many pockets in his patchwork coat and pulled out a handful of dried vegetation. Mixing it with water from a bottle, he began to rub the brown paste into Seth’s skin. ‘Does this hurt?’

  Miraculously, Seth shook his head. ‘No, it feels soothing.’

  ‘The healing will take time, but this will aid it. I will give you a crystal too, to speed your recovery. Keep it with you at all times.’ He passed Seth a small purple stone.

  ‘We have to go now,’ said Chris. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us. And it will start raining any minute.’

  The man looked up at the dark clouds overhead. ‘No. It won’t rain today. These clouds will pass us by. I know these things.’ He turned his attention to Rose again. ‘My name is
Rowan. I am glad that we met, and I wish you well on your travels.’ He turned to set off back down the hill.

  Now that he was leaving them, she felt a curious desire for him to stay. He seemed to radiate a powerful magnetism. Nutmeg liked him too. ‘I’m Rose,’ she called after him.

  He turned back and smiled. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I already know who you are.’

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Northwood HQ, Eastbury Park, Hertfordshire, waning moon

  The last few miles of the journey were agony for Colonel Griffin. His broken thigh bone had become inflamed during his long walk across the country, and he was depending more and more heavily on the diminutive frame of the Prime Minister for support. She was a head shorter than him, and perhaps a hundred pounds lighter. Neither of them could endure much more of this.

  ‘We are almost there now, Colonel,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Look.’

  A low glow in the distance confirmed the truth of her words, and gave him fresh hope of completing the journey. He had walked forty miles on one leg. Another few hundred yards surely wouldn’t kill him.

  The Colonel had visited this place on several occasions before. Northwood Headquarters was the UK’s principal military headquarters and home to five separate operational HQs, including UK Joint Forces Command. He had not been sufficiently senior to join the permanent operations team stationed here, but he had served as an adviser, and had delivered briefings to commanding officers.

  The military complex was one of the most secure locations in the country. A highly fortified twelve-foot steel fence topped with razor wire surrounded the perimeter of the base. CCTV cameras fixed to fence poles silently observed his slow progress, as he and the Prime Minister hobbled together along the road leading to the site’s main entrance.

  He wondered what sort of reception they would receive on their arrival. The UK’s military command was located here, as were the remnants of the government, whatever state that may be in. Judging from the anarchy he had observed as he crossed the country, there was no one competent in charge of anything.