“We cannot move her, Yolanda. The stress could kill her. She is an old woman and has to be allowed time to recover. Once the full moon is passed, we’ll leave. Not until.”
“If you are wrong, Joseph, if she changes and it brings the pack down on us, then the responsibility will be on your shoulders alone. Will you be able to live with that?”
Joseph turned away from his wife, unable to meet her gaze. “I have no choice, Yolanda. I have no choice.”
Chapter 11
23rd May 1986. High Moor. 15:20.
Marie crouched behind the tree stump, next to Michael and John, and screwed up her face. “It’s not fair."
“What’s not fair?” said John.
“You two get to go camping, and I have to stay at home.”
An explosion rang out, and pieces of glass shrapnel flew over the children’s heads. Michael peered over the top of the fallen tree, to where the remains of a milk bottle smoked around a patch of blackened grass.
“That was a good one. Let’s do a rocket this time, John.”
“Shall we do the big one?”
“Na, we’ll set that one off last. Shoot a couple of the small ones off at once.”
Marie folded her arms and puffed out her lower lip. “It’s still not fair.”
John removed two rockets from the box. “You could always join the Brownies. They sometimes go on camp with the cubs.”
“No, she can’t,” said Michael. “She got a lifetime ban.”
“Why? What did you do?”
Marie reddened. “It’s not my fault. We were doing knots and it was boring so I tied up Lizzie Fletcher and locked her in the store cupboard and she was crying when Brown Owl found her and she said it was all my fault which it wasn’t cos if Lizzie Fletcher hadn’t been such a skinny dog and didn’t smell like sick then I wouldn’t have done it.”
“And she called Brown Owl a God-bothering rug-muncher,” said Michael.
“What’s one of those?”
Marie shrugged. “I dunno. I heard Dad call one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses it once. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Mam had to take her to Aunt Jean’s every Monday night for six months, so that Dad didn’t find out. Are you going to set those off or what?” said Michael.
John picked up the rockets and carried them over to the scorched patch of earth. “What’s the target?”
“See if you can hit Mrs Smith’s house. The old bag complained to Mam about me riding my bike on the pavement last week. Mam told her that I wasn’t allowed to ride on the road and to mind her own fucking business.”
John positioned the fireworks in the ground, lit the fuse, and ran for cover. The rockets shot into the air. One of them sailed over Mrs Smith’s house and exploded in a shower of red sparks over the allotments. The second found its target and bounced off an upstairs window before blossoming into white light over her garden. A series of smaller explosions followed from Mrs Smith’s vegetable patch. Cries of alarm could be heard. The children hid behind the fallen tree and laughed.
“That was brilliant,” said Marie. “Where did you get fireworks from Michael?”
“They were Dave’s. He got them last year from Baldie.”
“The kid that had leukaemia?” said John.
“Yeah, his dad owns a shop, and Baldie was nicking stuff from the stock room. Dave got him to get fireworks, and he kept some back. Said it would be more fun to set them off in summer when no one else had any.”
The children were silent for a moment. Marie wiped a tear from her eye and blew her nose.
“Come on, let’s set the big one off now,” said John. “Send it up right over the town. For Dave.”
“Can I light the fuse?” said Marie.
“No. I found Dave’s firework stash. I should get to set it off,” said Michael.
“But it’s not fair. You’re going camping tonight, and I’m going to be stuck here by myself with nothing to do. You never let me do anything,” said Marie, her voice increasing in pitch until it became a whine. Her face flushed. Tears were close.
John and Michael exchanged looks and shrugged.
“Alright, cry baby, but I want to aim it. You can light the fuse.”
John waited behind the tree as Michael and Marie crouched over the large rocket. He heard muffled arguments over the aim that ended with Marie turning her back on her brother, with her arms folded and a face like thunder. When Michael was happy, he passed the lighter to his sister. Marie crouched down, quickly adjusted the trajectory of the missile, and lit the fuse. Both children ran and leaped over the fallen tree, landing beside John.
They waited for long seconds. Nothing happened.
Marie stood up. “Give me the lighter. The fucking thing’s gone out.”
John grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. “Wait for a second, sometimes they…”
He was cut short by a loud whoosh as the rocket took to the sky, leaving a rain of golden sparks in its wake. It sailed up into the bright afternoon sky, over the roads and houses of High Moor, and exploded in a cascade of green light. Secondary red starbursts erupted from within the fading green embers, which in turn faded into crackling white sparks that rained down on the rooftops.
“That was awesome,” said Michael.
John grinned. “Yeah, it was great. We’d better get home and pack our stuff. Dad’s taking us to the scout camp in an hour.”
“Are you taking any fireworks with you, Michael?” said Marie.
Michael’s face twisted into an evil smirk. “What do you think?”
***
23rd May 1986. Fenwick Hall, High Moor. 18:00.
The car turned left, through the towering, wrought iron gates, into the grounds of Fenwick Hall. Trees hung over the road, forming a green canopy that wound its way through the woodland. Shards of late afternoon sunlight penetrated the heavy foliage and created brief flashes of light on the windscreen of the car.
John pointed to some old stone structures, encased within metal railings, set back from the road. “Dad, what are those things over there?”
“That’s the Fenwick family mausoleum. The people who own this hall used to be buried there, instead of a normal cemetery.”
Michael was appalled. “We’re camping in a graveyard? They never said we were camping in a fu… in a graveyard.”
George Simpson laughed. “I wouldn’t worry, Michael. Those metal cages should keep any zombies safely inside.”
“The whole ones, sure. What about the bits of them, though? Like crawling hands and stuff?”
“Or vampires. They would just turn into bats and fly through the gaps,” said John.
George rolled his eyes. “I should never have let you two watch so many horror films.”
“Na, we’re fine,” said John. “And remember, you promised to let us watch The Howling when we get back on Sunday.”
“I said that I'd watch it first, and if it wasn't too gory, then I'd let you watch it. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Is that really what those railings are for, Mr Simpson? To keep the zombies in?”
“No, Michael. It was to stop people digging up the bodies and selling them years ago. There aren’t any monsters here, so you boys just enjoy your weekend.”
The car passed out from under the trees, into a large clearing filled with a number of heavy canvas tents. Boys in Cub Scout uniforms ran around, while Mr Wilson, the scout leader, and Miss Hicks, his assistant, tried to bring some semblance of order to the chaos. Mr Simpson parked the car next to Mr Wilson’s and got the boys' rucksacks out of the boot.
“I’ll be back to pick you up on Sunday. Have a good time, lads. And boys? Be good.”
John and Michael looked at George with a well-practiced, innocent expression on their faces. “Of course we will. See you on Sunday, Dad.”
***
23rd May 1986. Weardale Industrial Estate, High Moor. 19:00.
Steven turned into the industrial estate and parked his police
car beside an empty unit. At this time on a Friday night, the estate was deserted. All of the workers finished at four then headed straight to The Sandpiper or some other local dive to blow half of their week’s wages on booze. This made it ideal for Steven’s purposes. The chances of being disturbed were minimal. Steven got out of the car, lit a cigarette, and waited.
Another police car entered the estate and parked beside Steven. Carl Schneider and Constable Phillips got out and walked over to him.
“Did you get them?” Steven asked.
Carl produced a plastic bag. “Yeah, three handheld CB radios plus two spare batteries each.”
“Good, we’ll use channel twelve for anything we want to keep off the police band.”
Constable Phillips wore a confused expression. “Excuse me, Sarge, I still don’t understand what we're supposed to be doing. Why the secrecy?”
“Because, Inspector Franks, in his infinite wisdom, thinks that the animal attack problem has been resolved. We think otherwise.”
“There’s not been any attacks in a month. What makes you think there’ll be one tonight?”
“The pattern of the attacks, Constable. Each one was a month apart, so if there's going to be another one, it should be tonight.”
“You’ll patrol the south side of town,” said Carl, “Steve and I will take the north side. You see or hear anything, then get us on the CB. Keep listening to your police radio as well. We're looking for anything that might be our beast.”
Constable Phillips thought about this for a moment. “OK, got it.”
“You know how to use one of these?” said Carl, handing the startled Constable a 9mm pistol.
The Constable's mouth fell open in shock. “We’re not allowed to carry bloody guns. This isn’t America you know.”
Steven put his arm on his colleague's shoulder. “Constable, take the fucking gun, keep your mouth shut about it, and for the love of God, don’t try to be a hero. If you need to use it, don’t hesitate, but don’t engage until Carl and I get there.”
Constable Phillips took the pistol and looked at it as if Steven had handed him a venomous snake. He made sure that the safety catch was on and put the weapon in his pocket.
“OK, we know what we are doing. Let’s get out there, and pray that we’re wrong.”
***
23rd May 1986. Traveller Camp, High Moor. 21:40.
Yolanda moved through the camp, carrying a plate of hot food. The moon was visible over the black outline of the mine buildings, covering the camp in a cool, silver light that dissolved into a dancing, orange glow as it got closer to the fire. The children were in bed, while the adults sat around talking. There was a nervous energy about the camp. Despite Joseph’s reassurances about his mother, everyone was on edge. It was hardly surprising.
Yolanda climbed the steps and opened the door to Joseph’s caravan. He sat beside his mother, who moaned and writhed on the bed.
“How is she?”
“See for yourself. Her beast tries to be free, but the silver holds it at bay. As I said it would.”
“And if you had been wrong, Joseph? What then? There are children in this camp, or had you forgotten?”
He held up a silver knife. “If the worst had happened, then I was prepared. Do you really think that I am that irresponsible?”
“I don’t know what to think of you anymore, Joseph. These past five years, running and hiding from the Pack. They have changed you. You are not the man I married anymore. I never see you smile and mean it. I can’t remember the last time I saw you laugh. Was it really all worth it?”
“My mother loves you as her own daughter. How can you ask me that?”
“She hardly knows us anymore, Joseph. Her mind is leaving her. We run from our family, from the only place we ever belonged, for an old woman who is barely aware of us. Mirela was a great woman, but that woman is gone. All that really remains is the beast within her. So, I ask you again. Was it worth it?”
Joseph looked away from his wife, back to his mother. His shoulders tightened and he gripped the side of the bed, as if he might fall.
“Joseph, what is it?”
Yolanda looked past her husband. Mirela stopped thrashing and arched her back, crying out in pain. Her face elongated. Her teeth split her gums as they extended into long sharp daggers of enamel and bone. White fur bristled from her pores.
“Oh God, Joseph. She’s changing.”
Chapter 12
23rd May 1986. Fenwick Hall, High Moor. 23:40.
The full moon illuminated the clearing with a soft silver light as Mr Wilson, the scout leader, clambered out of his tent. Flickering shadows played across the rows of canvas, and muted fragments of conversation, interspaced with sporadic giggles, came from within.
“Lights out you lot, I mean it.”
Instantly, the torches inside the tents flicked out and silence descended. Moments later, the whispering started again. Mr Wilson sighed. It was always the same on these camping trips. A ten-mile hike tomorrow would drain some of the boys’ excess energy, but tonight he doubted if any of them would get much sleep.
He winced at a flash of pain in his abdomen. He should never have let the children help cook the evening meal. The fact that the chemical toilet had mysteriously exploded did not make his situation any easier. He had his suspicions as to the identity of the culprits, but a search of Michael Williams’ and John Simpson’s rucksacks had not yielded so much as a box of matches. Tomorrow he'd get the little bastards to clean the toilet out and see how funny they thought they were then. He picked up a shovel and a roll of toilet paper and headed off into the trees to take care of business.
His cramps intensified as he made his way through the woodland, and his stomach made tortured rumbling sounds. Once he was far enough away from the camp, he dug a small pit behind a towering sycamore, dropped his pants and sighed with relief as he released the pressure on his insides.
A twig snapped somewhere to his left. His sphincter tightened in a reflex action, and pinched off the half-expelled turd. He winced in disgust. His peripheral vision caught a blur of movement in the darkness. Another branch snapped.
“Get back in your tent, now. If I have to come over there, then whoever this is will be going home, first thing in the morning.”
The woods were silent, apart from the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Then another twig snapped, this time off to his right. Still crouched over the pit, he swung his torch up towards the source of the noise and caught a fleeting glimpse of white against the darkness.
“Do you think I’m joking? I can assure you this is not in the least bit funny.”
A thick, guttural growl came from behind. He got to his feet, trousers still around his ankles, and span around, sweeping the torch like a searchlight. The woods were silent.
He wiped himself down and refastened his trousers. “Little bastards, we’ll see who’s laughing when I get done with you.”
What if it’s not the boys playing silly buggers? What if it’s something else?
For the first time, Mr Wilson felt a small hard knot of fear forming in his stomach. He picked up the toilet roll and filled in the pit as quickly as he could, then set off through the trees towards the campsite.
The bracken at his feet erupted in a flurry of noise and movement. Mr Wilson let out an involuntary shriek before realising that he'd disturbed a family of pheasants roosting in the undergrowth.
He leaned against a tree. “Jesus.” The fear started to subside, and he felt a mixture of relief and utter foolishness. He’d been coming to these woods for over fifteen years. There was nothing more threatening here than the occasional badger.
A branch snapped directly behind him. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck. He span around, waving the torch before him like a sword.
The torch light reflected off white fur. Sharp claws dug into his arms and sliced through flesh and muscle until they hit bone. Powerful arms lifted him off his feet. He looked into the slavering maw
before him and opened his mouth to scream.
The beast’s head drove forwards and dug its lower jaw under his chin, while its upper jaw clamped down on the top of his head. Flashbulbs of agony exploded across his head as fangs penetrated his skull. The pressure was unbelievable; he could hear bone crack, the sound echoing inside of his skull. His mouth was clamped shut, his scream locked inside him as the creature bit down. His jawbone shattered, then was severed by razor sharp teeth as they cut through his flesh. He could smell the hot stench of the creature’s breath, mingled with the metallic tang of his own blood as it gurgled in his throat. His skull splintered as the force of the bite increased, and Mr Wilson knew no more.
***
23rd May 1986. North Road, High Moor. 23:45.
Steven's CB radio crackled into life. “Hello, Sarge? Is there anyone there?”
He picked up the handset and pressed the talk button. “We’re here. What’s your status?”
“To be honest, I’m not even sure if I should be bothering you with this. A truck driver called in and reported that he’d seen a werewolf on the Durham road.”
Carl and Steven exchanged worried glances. “Did he say where? Or what direction it was heading?”
“I’m sorry, but are you taking this seriously? I spoke to him and he’s more than a little worse for wear from the drink.”
“In the absence of any other reports of large predators, yes, I’m taking it seriously. Now where was it, and which direction was it going?”
“According to the driver, he’d gotten out of his truck to relieve himself and saw the thing burst through a hedge near the old railway bridge. He locked himself in his cab, and the werewolf took off across the fields to the southwest.”
Carl unfolded a map and turned on the vehicle's interior light. Steven pointed to a road that ran from east to west.
“That’s where we had the sighting. There’s not really anything southwest of there for miles. Just open fields, the odd farmhouse, and Fenwick Hall.”
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