“Go faster, they’re getting closer,” he gasped.
John opened his mouth to reply, but then tripped and fell down the embankment, sliding on the wet grass, to come to rest next to an ornamental rose bed. Michael ran after his friend and helped him to his feet. They got ready to run once more, but it was too late. The older boys had caught up to them.
Malcolm pushed John in the chest and sent him sprawling back into the muddy grass. “Hey, lads, where do you think you’re going?”
Lawrence launched a kick at John. The blow caught him in his stomach, and he collapsed to the floor, struggling to draw breath. Simon grabbed Michael from behind and held his arms.
Billy walked over to him, an evil smirk on his face. “You owe me a quid, scumbag, plus interest.”
Michael kicked out at the other boy, who stayed just out of reach.
“You still want to have a go? Not many brains in your family, are there? Especially now dear Dave’s worm food.”
John struggled to rise. Malcolm punched him in the face, and he fell back into the mud. Lawrence sat on his chest, pinned his shoulders to the ground, and rained a fusillade of blows onto his head. Malcolm turned his attention to Michael.
“By my reckoning, we’ve got a few scores to settle with you little shit bags. Number one…” he said as he punched Michael, “that little episode outside the shop last month.”
Michael fought to hold back his tears. “The one where my little sister kicked your fat fucking arse, you mean?”
Malcolm ignored him. “Number two…” This time the blow connected with Michael’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. “This curfew. If your stupid brother hadn’t got himself killed, we wouldn’t have coppers coming round school, giving boring lectures on why we can’t go outside after dark.”
Michael sucked air into his lungs through sobs of pain and rage.
“Number three…” Malcolm’s fist lashed out again, striking Michael in the mouth, splitting his lip. “Just because I don’t like you and your stinking family.”
“My turn, Mal,” said Billy. “Number four,…” he said, bringing his foot up between Michael's legs, “you took my pocket money.”
Michael screamed in pain and fell to the floor. John was still pinned under Lawrence, crying out with each blow that struck him.
Malcolm stood over the battered boy and pulled out a pocketknife.
“You see this, Michael? I’m going to cut your balls off with it.” He tilted his head to John. “His too. Your sister will probably thank me.”
***
The great beast moved through the shadows in search of prey. Water fell from the skies. It hid the moon behind a flat grey curtain and muted the scents of the creatures that huddled in their lairs, waiting for the predator to pass.
The moon called to it, her song rising and ebbing in the beast, a tide of blood, deep inside that it could barely contain. The pressure rose to a crescendo, setting its nerves alight with a furious ecstasy.
The beast sniffed the air and tried to sort through the myriad scents. The sharp, acrid stench of the human settlement, the sweet stench of terror, from pets that trembled within their houses, the faintest tang of blood in the air, the cries of pain and alarm that accompanied it. Prey.
The monster dropped down onto all four legs and ran off through the undergrowth, into the night.
***
24th April 1986. Mill Woods, High Moor. 20:21.
Steven was not having a good time. The only sounds he could hear were the steady hiss of the rain and the mewling of the injured goat. The rest of the forest was silent. A drop of water made its way through his waterproof jacket, trickling down his neck, and his legs were cramping up. He adjusted his position to ease his discomfort. The platform creaked beneath him. Carl gave him a disapproving look. Steven responded with a shrug, then settled back to resume his vigil.
The goat got to its feet, straining against the tether. It bleated in terror and ran in a circle, rising onto its back legs as it struggled to be free.
Carl put his hand on Steven’s shoulder and put his finger up to his mouth, then reached under the oilskin to retrieve his rifle and one of the pistols. He passed the handgun to Steven without a sound. Steven took the weapon from him, still unsure what good a pistol would be at this range. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe as he searched the dark woods for any sign of movement.
***
24th April 1986. King's Close School, High Moor. 20:23.
Michael struggled against Simon's grip as Malcolm brought the knife up to his face.
He glanced at Billy. “Get his pants off, then hold his legs down.”
Michael screamed and lashed out with his feet, catching Billy square in the face. He fell backwards into the mud, blood and tears mingling with the rain. Malcolm replied with a savage kick to Michael’s stomach that knocked the air out of the smaller boy’s lungs. Michael folded over. Malcolm pulled Michael's trousers and shorts down around his ankles while Simon yanked him to the ground.
Malcolm turned to Billy. “Pin his fucking legs down. Sit on them if you have to, and stop crying like a bloody baby.”
Billy got to his feet and sat on Michael’s legs. Malcolm picked up his knife and kneeled beside him.
“God. Don’t! Please, someone help!”
“There’s no help for you, Mikey. Now lie still. This will be over before you know it.”
John’s face was a mess, but the pain had subsided to a dull throbbing, punctuated with sharp flashes of agony as Lawrence landed another punch. He heard Michael screaming for help and knew that he was next in line for whatever Malcolm had planned.
John arched his back and brought both his legs up straight into the air, then hooked them around Lawrence's shoulders. The move surprised the older boy, who fell backward into the mud. John stumbled to his feet. He kicked out at his assailant and caught him in the jaw. Teeth flew from Lawrence’s mouth. He fell back to the ground, unmoving. John didn’t care if he was alive or dead. He just knew he had to help Michael.
He reached across to the flower beds, grabbing a smooth stone the size of a grapefruit. He ran up behind Malcolm, and hit him with the rock as hard as he could.
Malcolm screamed and fell to the floor, clutching the back of his head. Billy got to his feet and rugby-tackled John. The boys rolled around in the mud, throwing wild punches at one another. John managed to connect a blow with Billy’s already broken nose, but although he cried out in pain, this only seemed to fuel his rage, and he soon overpowered John.
Malcolm stood up and put his hand to the back of his head. His fingertips were dark with blood.
“I was just going to neuter you little bastards, now I’m going to fucking kill the pair of you.”
Simon pulled Michael to his feet, while Lawrence got up from the ground, holding his jaw. He tried to speak, but only a thin squeal of pain emerged from his bleeding lips. Malcolm picked up his knife and stood before Michael and John, silhouetted against the orange glow of the sodium streetlights.
He moved towards John. “Time to die.”
Bright light illuminated the boys, and a voice rang out across the school field.
“This is the police. Stay where you are.”
Malcolm looked up at the police car that pulled onto the driveway, then turned back to his friends. “Throw them in the bushes, and then let’s get the fuck out of here. This isn’t over, you two. Not by a fucking long shot. And if you say a word to the coppers, then we’ll burn your houses down, with your scummy families still inside. Got it?”
Simon and Billy shoved Michael and John into the rose bushes before they ran off into the darkness. Thorns punctured the boys' skin as they landed in the flowerbed. John tried to rise, but felt his skin tear at the attempt. He fell back, sobbing in pain and rage. The police car pulled up alongside them and two officers got out.
One Officer ran over to the two boys and tried to free them from their thorny bonds. “Jesus, are you
two OK?”
The rain had stopped falling, and the full moon appeared through a gap in the clouds as the boys were taken to the waiting police car.
Michael turned to John, the fury in his eyes mirrored by that in his friends. “This isn’t over. I’m going to get those fuckers if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“I’m going to kill them,” said John. “Every single last one of the bastards. For you, me, Marie, and especially David. Even if it takes the rest of my life.”
“Join the fucking queue,” said Michael as the police car pulled out of the school to take the boys home.
***
The beast drew closer to the prey. The sounds of panic were more frantic now as the goat became aware of its presence. The rain had stopped, and the scent of blood was pronounced, a sweet metallic odour over the underlying smell of the wet earth. The beast paused. There were other scents nearby. Human. Familiar.
The urge to rush forward to claim its prize was overwhelming, but the beast was old and experienced. It tried to place the familiar smell of the human. An image flashed across its mind. Darkness, then a flash of light. A searing pain across its chest. It snarled, remembering the human that had caused it that pain many years ago. It circled the scent, straining its ears for any sounds that would help it locate its quarry.
A creak in the branches above the forest floor. The sound of metal against metal. The click of a round entering the chamber of a firearm. The scent of fear and anticipation from the humans.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds. The urge to greet its mistress rose within the beast. It pushed the impulse down into itself and moved in silence through the bracken to where the humans lay in wait.
***
24th April 1986. Mill Woods, High Moor. 20:27.
The goat had stopped bleating and now lay flat on the ground as if resigned to its fate. Carl held the rifle against his shoulder and searched the undergrowth. Steven gripped the hilt of his pistol so hard that his knuckles turned white. The woods were silent.
Carl turned his head to Steven. “Something’s wrong.”
The tree that the two men were in shuddered; their platform creaked and shifted beneath them.
Steven felt his heart lurch in his chest. “What the fuck?”
“It’s below us. Oh Christ, it knows we’re here.”
The tree shuddered again as something large crashed against it. The platform groaned in protest. One of the support struts fell to the forest floor.
“Climb,” yelled Carl. “Get further up the tree before the platform goes.”
Steven tried to haul himself up, but his hands and feet slipped on the wet branches. The tree shook once more, and another of the support struts splintered. Carl clambered up amongst the branches like a monkey, but Steven was still struggling to gain a footing when the platform tore loose and plummeted down, taking most of their weapons and ammunition with it. Steven wrapped his arms around a branch and held on for his life.
“Climb, Steve, for Christ's sake climb, and whatever you do, don’t look down.”
Steven wrapped his legs around the trunk of the tree and tried to shimmy his way up to Carl’s outstretched arms. The tree shook again. A monstrous howl reverberated through the forest. Steven couldn't help himself. He angled his head and looked down, regretting his action in an instant.
Beneath him was something right out of his worst nightmares. The beast stood on two legs, almost seven feet tall. Thick white fur covered its entire body, apart from a line of scar tissue that ran across its chest. It had long, pointed ears and an elongated jaw filled with saliva-coated fangs. The creature's arms were heavily muscled and ended with razor sharp talons that it sank into the tree trunk as it hauled itself up to the two men.
“Fuck! It's coming, Carl. Shoot it. For God’s sake, shoot it.”
“I can’t. I’ll drop you. Now stop fucking about and get up here.”
The monster was almost halfway up the tree now, closing the distance with apparent ease.
“Hold onto me, Carl. Don’t fucking let go,” said Steven, then he released his grip on the branch with his right arm as he tried to remove the pistol from his coat pocket.
Carl grabbed Steven's left arm in a two-handed grip and tried to pull him to safety. The branch that he lay on gave a small snap and shifted beneath him. The beast was now less than two feet away from Steven.
Steven's hand found the pistol in his pocket and pulled it free. The weapon slipped, and he almost dropped it before his fingers curled around the stock. Without taking the time to steady his aim, he pointed the weapon down and pulled the trigger.
A shriek of pain came from below, followed by a crash as the beast fell to the ground. It snarled at the two men, and nursing a wound to its shoulder, fled into the darkness of the forest.
Steven managed to find his feet and gripped the tree with leaden limbs.
“Fucking hell. That was… that was…”
“Yeah, that was a werewolf. A big one.”
“A werewolf… a fucking werewolf? You could have told me, you bastard.”
“Told you what? You'd have thought I was mad. Better to let you find out for yourself.”
“Fucking hell,” he said again. “So, now what do we do?”
“Well, Stevie, I don’t know about you, but the Lord God Almighty couldn’t make me get out of this tree until the sun comes up.”
Chapter 8
25th April 1986. Mill Woods, High Moor. 05:47.
The darkness in the sky gave way to a dismal, flat grey. Shadows receded and then faded away. Sporadic bird song broke the silence as the world came back to life.
Steven had never been so glad to see the dawn. During the night, his mood had cycled between extremes of shock, terror, and misery. Carl had insisted on absolute silence to reduce the chance of another surprise attack. He hadn't even let Steven smoke, and the nicotine cravings had played across his already frayed nerves.
He turned to Carl and whispered, “Do you think it’s safe to get down yet?”
“Probably.”
“You getting down?”
“Nope.”
“I thought you just said it was safe?” said Steven, a little too loudly. He winced at the sound of his voice.
“I said it was probably safe. I don’t feel like testing the theory.”
“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of expert on these fucking things?”
Carl paused and scanned the forest, listening for any sounds that were out of place, then looked down at the younger man and chuckled. “Son, I’ve faced off with more than a few werewolves in my time. More than most people manage and live to tell about it, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t say I was an expert though. Not by any stretch of the imagination. What I am is the best you’ve got.”
“Fuck this, I need a cigarette,” said Steven, and reached inside his jacket. When he retrieved a sodden mass of cardboard, paper, and tobacco, he threw the pack to the forest floor in disgust. “Bollocks. So when did you start?"
"Start what?"
Steven rolled his eyes. "Collecting stamps. What the fuck do you think I mean? When did you start hunting werewolves?"
“That’s a long story.”
“You got anything better to do?”
The old man laughed. “OK, but it’ll cost you breakfast. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“It was October ’44. Yugoslavia. The Yugoslav Partisans and the Red Army were doing a pretty good job at tearing the Nazis a new asshole. Belgrade was surrounded, and my bosses figured that the Germans would lose control of it within two, maybe three weeks. There were rumours of a research facility forty or fifty clicks south of the Jasenovac concentration camp, and they didn’t want all that Nazi science falling into the hands of Mother Russia. So, they parachuted me and four of my buddies into occupied territory, with orders to grab anything interesting and then high tail it out of there before the Russkies turned up.
“We were dropped in near the mountain
s and, once we got our shit together, we headed off towards our objective. Tino was our communications guy. He’d done a master's degree in physics before the war, so it was his job to try and identify the useful stuff when we hit the research station. Korky handled demolitions. Once we got what we needed, he was going to blow the place sky high. Harry was our close combat expert. Bad tempered son of a bitch, but I never saw anyone handle a blade the way he could.
“Our Sergeant was a big New Yorker called Pete. He was one of the hardest men I ever knew. Then there was me. A snot-nosed, ex ranch boy from Idaho. I’d been shooting things ever since I was big enough to hold a rifle. I was the team’s sniper.
“Things started going wrong on the second night. We were probably around twenty klicks from our objective when we heard all hell breaking loose. There was a fire fight going down a few kilometres northwest of our position. It didn’t last long. The woods echoed with automatic weapons fire for maybe four or five minutes and then just stopped. The Sarge thought we should do a recon to see what was going on. The bulk of the fighting was a few hundred kilometres to the east, based on our last intel. Last thing we wanted to do was walk smack into a major offensive. We were going to get in, check it out, and if it looked like things were going to get hairy, then we’d get the fuck out of there and scratch the mission.
“It took us a couple of hours to make our way there. We took it slow and careful, making sure that no one could get the drop on us. It was Tino that found them in the end. A squad of Krauts; eight or nine of them, torn to shreds. Hell, I don’t think there was any part of the poor sons of bitches left that was bigger than a football. There were plenty of empty shell cases lying around, but they were all German. No other bodies and no evidence of weapons damage on the corpses. Put the fear of God into us, I can tell ya.”
Carl paused, reached for his handgun and clicked the safety off. Steven opened his mouth to speak. Carl shook his head. A twig snapped, off to their right. Both men raised their weapons, hardly daring to breathe. A badger shuffled from the undergrowth and regarded the two men with curious eyes, then continued on its way.
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