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

by Morris, Steve

  Now they could see the buildings inside the base through the steel fence. Most were low and nondescript. The exception was Building 410, the Permanent Joint Headquarters building, an impressive piece of modern architecture, built on several levels. The light bleeding out from the floor-to-ceiling windows of its imposing entrance hall were the brightest lights Griffin had seen in months. A thousand British staff worked there normally, along with hundreds from other NATO countries. There was onsite accommodation for all staff. A tall radio mast nearby bristled with radio receivers and microwave antennae.

  Beyond the office buildings, at the very heart of the complex, was the entrance to the operations room used to control the strategic nuclear deterrent submarine fleet. The order to launch the nuclear attack against London and other cities must have been transmitted from the operations room there to one of the four Vanguard-class nuclear submarines.

  Griffin shivered. The other Vanguard-class submarines in the fleet were presumably still at sea, and fully armed with Trident missiles. They were still out there, somewhere in the North Atlantic or perhaps the Norwegian Sea, ever silent and vigilant, awaiting their orders.

  The operations room itself was buried a hundred feet underground in a concrete bunker capable of surviving any kind of attack: nuclear, chemical or conventional. A metal and concrete inner fence topped with rolls of razor wire surrounded the entrance to the facility, which was built into the hillside. The whole area was monitored by cameras, lit by bright floodlighting and protected by armed guards, both inside the fence and inside the command room itself. It was as close to invulnerable as was humanly possible.

  Rows of Challenger II tanks were lined up in the spaces between the administrative buildings, along with a host of combat and reconnaissance vehicles. It looked like whatever remained of the army had withdrawn here. A helicopter stood on the main landing pad – a Royal Navy Wildcat, just like the one he’d been flying in when the warheads struck the city. His mind flashed with the noise of the explosions, the memory of fire rolling across the capital, the whine of the helicopter’s engines as they struggled in vain to keep it in flight …

  He stumbled and almost fell, bringing him sharply back to reality.

  ‘Just a few more steps, Colonel,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Can you manage it?’

  ‘With your help.’

  ‘When we arrive, I will see to it that you receive the best possible medical treatment.’

  He nodded mutely, knowing that even if he could reach modern hospital facilities, little could be done to repair his injury. The femur was the longest and strongest bone in the human body, and his had snapped in half. He had treated it as well as he could, and would have to make do with one leg and his crutches. They had served him well enough. If he was lucky, he would be able to swap his homemade crutches for real ones very soon.

  The main entrance was just ahead. Area floodlighting revealed a high security entryway protected by thick steel gates. Security at Northwood had always been maintained at the very highest level even during peace time. Now a Warrior armoured vehicle was stationed in front of the gate. Soldiers stood behind it, armed with rifles, combat shotguns and machine guns.

  ‘Halt!’

  An amplified voice brought them to a standstill just outside the entrance. The Colonel and the Prime Minister stood and waited.

  The gun turret of the Warrior swivelled toward them. A group of army soldiers dressed in full combat body armour, and carrying SA80 assault rifles emerged and approached them warily. ‘Do not make any sudden movements. Raise your arms slowly.’

  ‘That might be a problem for the Colonel,’ said the Prime Minister dryly.

  The lead sentry stepped forward under the bright lights. ‘Ma’am, is it you?’

  ‘Have I changed so much that you don’t recognize your own prime minister?’

  The sentry’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘They said you were dead.’

  ‘Do I look dead to you? Now, open up these damn gates and let us through.’

  When he hesitated she raised her voice, as if addressing an unruly meeting of her cabinet ministers. ‘Sergeant, when I give an order I expect it to be obeyed. Now take me to whoever is supposed to be in charge here and tell them I want three things. A glass of single malt whisky. A comprehensive briefing on everything that’s happened while I’ve been away from my desk. And an explanation of how the hell they plan to put things right.’

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Maidenhead, Berkshire, waning moon

  James was free again. Free of the cold metal cage that had held him captive for so long. Free of the ropes that had bound his wrists and ankles, and of the soldier who had stood watch over him.

  He tasted the cold air of freedom and found it bitter. It had come at too great a price.

  Helen dead. Ben infected with the same sickness that had brought so much misery to his own life.

  A curse. That’s what it was. A curse sent from God for his sins. He had repented time and time again, yet still the curse held the power to punish him relentlessly, no matter how much he strived to atone for all his wickedness.

  This was no freedom. This was hell itself.

  And now he was expected to show more strength than ever before. Ben depended on him. Melanie and the others all depended on him for their survival.

  This was not a curse, he realized then. It was a test. A chance for him to finally prove his redemption. A gift from God.

  Yet, still. The burden of the gift was so heavy.

  He had led his friends to safety after the battle, escaping into the dark, fleeing from the burning camp, leaving the explosions and the gunfire and the screams of the dying far behind. He had carried Ben on his own back, urging the others on through the night and into the next day. Without him, they might have given up hope.

  Ben had drifted in and out of consciousness for hours before finally succumbing to the sickness. Now he would not wake again until the transformation to werewolf was complete. Until that time, Chanita must nurse him, just as she had once nursed James.

  He thought of the new generation of werewolves that Chanita and Helen had created. They were his children in a way. He had passed his condition to them, hoping they would make the same choice he had made, to use their power for good.

  But at the first opportunity, they had chosen to use it for evil.

  They were just like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The original sin. The wrong choice again. Why did people always make the wrong choice?

  And why then was he the one to be punished?

  There could only be one answer. The sacrifices and atonements he had made were not enough. They would never be enough. He understood now what God wanted. No ordinary repentance was required of him. He must instead repent for all the sins of all mankind. Like Jesus himself, he would have to make the ultimate sacrifice, and give his life for others. How, and when, he did not know. But it would be soon, he knew that.

  At one time the realization would have terrified him, or roused his anger. Now he knew that it was a privilege.

  The other werewolves had turned their back on God. Only he had remained true. Yet the true path was not an easy one. It would challenge him even more than the trials he had already faced.

  But he was ready for it. He was waiting.

  ‘We must stop,’ said Melanie. ‘We’ve travelled far enough.’

  He nodded his agreement, and with the help of the others he laid Ben down on the hard ground to rest. Melanie covered his sleeping form with a warm coat.

  James stood over them, watching.

  He had stayed in wolf form ever since leaving the camp the night before and saw no reason to change now. It seemed safer that way. And more natural. The others accepted it without comment.

  ‘Sleep,’ he told them. ‘I will stand guard.’

  ‘You need to sleep too, James,’ said Sarah.

  ‘No.’ He shook his great wolf head from side to side.

  He noted the way they kept
their distance from him, averting their gaze from his yellow stare. They were right to fear him. He was cursed. And yet, he was blessed too. They could not understand. He must walk his path alone.

  It was no longer just his friends who depended on him – Ben, Melanie, Sarah, Chanita – it was everyone.

  The true path would be a lonely one, and hard to walk. But he had made his decision. For Ben’s sake, for Helen’s sake, for everyone’s sake, he would not stray from the path.

  ‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘You are safe with me. No one will ever harm you again.’

  To be continued in Blood Moon, the fifth and penultimate book of the Lycanthropic series …

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