High Moor

by Reynolds, Graeme

  The werewolf stopped running and stood on two legs once more. It advanced in slow, measured paces with clawed hands outstretched and its face contorted into a snarl. Billy picked up an egg-sized rock and threw it at the beast with what little strength he had left. It bounced off the werewolf’s chest. The creature did not even flinch. It stood over the man and howled in triumph. Then Billy punched it in the testicles.

  The howl went up an octave, and for a moment, the creature stood frozen, stunned by the unexpected pain. Billy crawled away from it and tried to get to his feet. The bones in his ankle ground together in a flash of blinding agony, causing him to collapse to the ground again.

  He tried to crawl away, but he had no more strength. The adrenaline that fuelled his flight had long since been expended. He felt cold, despite his layers of clothing. Then four-inch-long talons embedded themselves in his calf and ripped away muscle and sinew in a single swipe.

  The bomb-burst of pain was almost too much for him; he wavered on the edge of consciousness. Only the agony that coursed through his body kept him from slipping into the mercy of oblivion as the werewolf started to eat him.

  ***

  The beast tore into the carcass with its claws, eviscerating the body. The liver and heart were diseased, and the creature discarded them along with the intestines and stomach. It gulped down the kidneys, and when the torso had been emptied, it pushed its talons into the corpse’s eye sockets and cracked open the skull to feast on the succulent brains within.

  When it had finished, little more than a pile of partially eaten organs and gnawed bones remained.

  It sniffed the air and sorted through the myriad of scents that filled the night. The family of deer trembling amid the bracken to the north. The pungent aroma of a fox carrying a dead chicken back to her cubs deep in the woods. The scent of a human female, back along the trail near the house.

  It left the shredded corpse behind it and ran back along the track, eager for the hunt to begin once more.

  ***

  14th November 2008. Mill Woods, High Moor. 03.02.

  Steven shuffled in his seat and picked up the infrared goggles from the floor. The woods were silent except for the occasional displeased bleat from the goat in the clearing and sporadic calls from a barn owl as it searched the woods for its next meal. He scanned the trees for what seemed like the hundredth time and saw nothing in the grey haze to indicate any sort of life. Frustrated, he put the goggles back into their box.

  The cold night air hurt his lungs with each breath that he took. It seeped through his layers of warm clothing and into his aching bones. He was grateful at least that the skies remained clear and the forecast rain had not materialised.

  Something was wrong. The werewolf should have taken the bait by now. In his experience, a wounded goat was too tempting a meal for any lycanthrope to pass up, or at least, too tempting for the bipedal moonstruck variety. The other kind, like those in The Pack, were another story. They were smart and acted, for the most part, with a specific purpose in mind. It dawned on him that he might have made the wrong choice. His suspicion that The Pack was involved was looking more likely with every second that passed. If the werewolf was not in the woods, then the chances were that it was at John’s farm on the other side of town.

  He felt something come loose in his lungs, and his breath turned into a rasping wheeze, then into a full-blown coughing fit that lasted for almost a minute. When he regained control of himself, he looked at the black fluid that was pooled in his hand and wiped it against his trouser leg. If there was a lycanthrope within a mile of the platform, it would know exactly where he was. The thought made him uneasy, and he reached for his hunting rifle.

  Then he looked down into the clearing. The goat was still chained up. Most of it at least. The animal’s head lay four feet away from the body. Steven grabbed his goggles and scanned the trees, but there was no movement. The only heat sources were the cooling body of the dead goat and some droplets of blood that led back into the trees.

  The damn thing was playing with him. Making a point. This wasn’t the mindless violence of a moonstruck werewolf. This was calculated. The work of an intelligent monster. One that could change at will. He was caught in his own trap. It would not be safe to come down, even in daylight.

  Steven gripped the stock of his rifle harder and prayed for the dawn to come.

  ***

  14th November 2008. Mill Woods, High Moor. 07.18.

  Marie stood over John’s naked, bloodstained body and removed the silver knife from her belt. It would be so easy. She could reach over and slice his throat open while he slept, let his blood seep out into the carpet of dead leaves on the forest floor, and end his nightmarish existence.

  The thought made her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t do it. Not to John. She put the blade away and threw a duffle bag at him.

  John groaned and opened his eyes. “What? Where am I?”

  Marie’s face was a stone mask, with only her eyes showing any hint of her conflicting emotions. “There are some wet wipes and clothes in the bag. Clean yourself up, get dressed, and then come with me. It’s time we had a talk.”

  Chapter 28

  14th November 2008. Treworgan Farm, High Moor. 07.45.

  Despite her earlier insistence that they talk, Marie stayed silent on the journey through the woods. She brushed off John’s attempts to engage her in conversation with curt monosyllabic responses, and after several failed attempts, he lapsed into a nervous silence.

  After twenty minutes, they emerged from the woods, into the back garden of the old farm. John reached out and grabbed Marie’s arm, then turned her around to face him.

  “So, come on. You wanted to talk. Let’s talk. Enough with this silent treatment bollocks. At least tell me that you’re alright.”

  Marie sagged. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “But you were here? Last night?”

  “Yes, John. I was here.”

  John looked at his feet. “So, now you know. I’m a werewolf.”

  “Don’t be a tit, John. I’ve known you were a werewolf since we were kids. Remember?”

  “I do, but I’m surprised that you still believe what I said, after all these years.”

  “Well, you could say that I had some firsthand experience to back up your story.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, firsthand?”

  Marie pulled back the sleeve of her jacket and showed John her right forearm. Four, thin silver scars encircled the wrist. “I mean this kind of firsthand. When Michael changed, I was with him in the hospital. He grabbed my arm when he started to transform. Broke the skin, as you can see. Left me with some nice scars and…something else.”

  John’s eyes widened. “So, you’re telling me that you’re a werewolf, like me?”

  Marie turned away. “No. I’m not like you. You’re a fucking moonstruck, John. You’re at war with your wolf, and because of that, you turn into a bloodthirsty monster every full moon.”

  “So, you can change whenever you want? Like the ones in The Pack.”

  Marie’s shoulders dropped, and she turned around to face John. “Exactly like the ones in The Pack.” She paused and looked straight into his eyes. “Exactly.”

  John’s head span as Marie’s meaning sank in. “I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on. Why the fuck didn't you tell me this before now?”

  Marie exhaled. “OK, John. I'm sorry that I didn't come clean that night. You were being a bit pathetic if I'm honest, and I wanted to mess with your head a little. I told you the truth about coming back here for my mother. She really was sick. She really did die.”

  “But the rest was a pile of horseshit?”

  “The rest of it was true, sort of. I do work in recruitment, but I do it for The Pack. I track down other werewolves and offer them a chance to join us.”

  “And if they say no? Or if they’re like me? Then what?”

  “Then I kill them. No, for fucks sake, John,
don’t look at me like that. If I’d wanted you dead then I could have done it in the woods.”

  “So, it was you? The one that ate Malcolm Harrison’s dog?”

  “Yeah. I saw the fat prick out in the town one night, and it occurred to me that a close encounter might be enough to bring you out of hiding. So, I stalked him and put the fear of God into the tosser. You have to understand, John. I had no idea you were moonstruck, although to be honest, the clues were there. Maybe I just didn’t want to see them.”

  “So, now what? If you’re not going to kill me, and you’re not going to recruit me, then what are you going to do?”

  She reached down and took John’s hand. “I’m going to try and help you, if you’ll let me.”

  John pulled his hand away. “How the fuck can you help me, Marie? Nothing short of a silver bullet in the skull can make this go away.”

  “You need to accept your other self. Your wolf is like a scrap yard guard dog that’s been kept on a very short leash for its entire life. It’s angry, and it’s hurt. You fight against it, but when it’s a full moon, it gets too strong for you to contain. You end up caught halfway between the two states instead of completing the change.”

  “You just want me to let it out? Are you out of your mind? You’ve seen what it can do.”

  “When the two of you work in harmony, then you're still in control of your actions. You have some pretty strong instinctual drives, but you retain your intelligence and personality. Can you honestly say that you prefer being how you are now?”

  John looked at the floor. “No, it’s hell being the way I am now. Do you really think I can do this? I’ve been fighting it for my entire life.”

  She shrugged. “Fuck knows. I’d say you need a shitload of therapy, but I can’t think of any werewolf-friendly shrinks off the top of my head. We’re going to have to manage this ourselves. Oh, and I think you should know something. Lycanthropy isn't sexually transmitted.” Marie took John’s hand again. This time he let her. “Come on. We’ve got a load of cleaning up to do. Your wolf’s a bloody messy eater.”

  “Oh shit, I’d forgotten about that. Is it that bad?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s not good. What’s left of Lawrence is in the basement. Simon’s stretched over about two hundred meters of your garden, and there’s not enough left of Billy to fill a bin bag. I know this because I shovelled him into one while you were asleep. He was too close to the main road, and I didn’t want to risk anyone coming across the body.”

  “Jesus. I swore that I'd never let this happen again. Maybe you should just kill me now. They were a bunch of sociopathic idiots, but they didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “Don’t talk shite. If they hadn’t broken in and tried to maim you, then they’d all still be living their scummy little lives. The world is better off without people like that in it. I wouldn’t lose a second’s sleep over it.”

  John picked his way towards the house through the tangle of overgrown vegetation. “So, what happened last night? I mean, apart from the obvious. Did I hurt anyone else?”

  She shook her head. “No. When I saw you come through that door, I hid and waited for you to finish with Simon and Billy. Then, when Billy’s screaming stopped, I changed and let you spend the night chasing me through the woods. I was knackered by the time the sun came up. Once you fell asleep and changed back, I went to the house, cleaned up some of your mess and got you some clothes. You know the rest.”

  John opened the back door and walked through the kitchen into the hallway. The basement door stood open, and he looked down the stairs with dread. “I think I remember this. Parts of it, anyway. That’s never happened before.”

  “You remember it? That’s good. Was anything different? Apart from being tied up in a chair and being beaten to a pulp?”

  John replayed his last memories of the previous night. Something had been different, but he could not quite remember. Then it came to him. “I changed before the moon was up. Billy was going to blind me, so I let it out, or at least, tried to.”

  Marie smiled. “Then there might be hope for you yet.”

  They were about to descend into the basement when John’s home telephone rang. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Expecting any calls?”

  “No, I wasn’t.” He crossed the hallway and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  Steven’s voice crackled through the speaker. “John, I’m sorry to call you so early, but I didn’t have anyone else to go to. I’m in a bit of trouble.”

  “Trouble? Why? What happened?”

  “I’m stuck up a bloody tree, and I think there’s a werewolf out there, waiting for me to get down.”

  “There’s no other werewolf, Steven. I found out who was responsible for last month’s attack. It’s all sorted.”

  “Yeah? Well, you better tell that to the werewolf that took the head off my goat. Damn thing’s been stalking me all night. It shows up for a couple of seconds, and then pisses off again for an hour or more, before I can get a shot.”

  John put his hand over the receiver. “Did we go anywhere near a goat tied up in the woods last night? Or a man up a tree with a gun?”

  Marie shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Why?”

  “I think we might have a problem.”

  ***

  14th November 2008. Town Centre, High Moor. 08.17.

  John and Marie drove through the centre of the town, towards where Steven had parked his car. The roads were busier than usual. They progressed at a crawl through the slow-moving traffic that clogged most of the roads. As they passed the shopping precinct, the reasons for the delay became clear.

  The Sandpiper car park and several surrounding streets were sealed off by police forensics teams. Traffic officers ushered vehicles around the cordoned off areas. John wound down the window as they passed one of them, “Hey, mate. What’s going on?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you, sir. Please move along.”

  John wound up the window and followed the lines of traffic away from the town centre. Marie turned the radio on just in time to catch the end of the local news.

  “So far, police have no leads with regards to the three deaths, nor would they confirm any link to an incident last month. As a result of the attacks, all schools in the town have been closed until further notice. Police are advising people to stay in their homes and to avoid rural or wooded areas if possible.”

  Marie turned down the radio. “I don’t understand it. There shouldn’t be any other werewolves around here.”

  “Could it be one of your little Pack friends checking up on you?”

  “No. The Pack doesn’t kill unless it’s necessary. This sort of wanton slaughter looks like the work of a moonstruck. But if your friend is telling the truth, then it can’t be one of those, or it would have changed back when the sun came up. Is he sure that it’s still there?”

  “He seemed pretty sure. So, if it’s not Pack and it’s not a moonstruck, then what the hell is it?”

  She sighed. “There’s only one thing it can be. A werewolf that can change shape at will, but with no regard for life and no restraint. A man that's surrendered himself to his beast. In a lot of ways, that’s worse than a moonstruck. Instead of being something that’s all rage and instinct, it’s something that can think like a man. John, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you haven’t…bitten anyone since you got here, have you?”

  John looked aghast. “No, of course not. I would never…oh shit.”

  “What?”

  “That fight. Malcolm punched me in the mouth. If he caught his knuckles on my teeth…”

  Marie groaned and put her head in her hands. “Then you would have basically bitten him. Nice work, John. You’ve turned Malcolm Harrison into a bloody werewolf.”

  “Which would explain why he wasn’t with the rest of his mates last night. What the hell do we do now?”

  “We go get your friend, and if Malcolm shows up, I’ll tear the bas
tard’s throat out. How’s that for a plan?”

  John reached into the glove compartment and removed his pistol, then put it on his lap. “Not if I see him first.”

  They turned off onto a side street and wound their way through a housing estate until they came to the edge of the woods. Steven’s 4x4 was parked on the side of the street, near to the trees. John pulled up behind and got out of the car.

  Marie removed her coat and undid her top. “Wait here for a second while I change.”

  “What? Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

  She looked at him with exasperation in her eyes. “Well, it’s not like I can just change at short notice. It takes a little while. If I wait until Malcolm turns up, it’ll be too late. He’ll rip my head off before I can get out of my clothes.” She winked at John. ”It’s alright for you wolf-man types. Your clothes still sorta fit afterwards. It’s a bit different for us quadrupeds.”

  “Well, you’ll have to stay out of sight. If Steven spots you, he’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Marie frowned. “Steven? Your friend's name is Steven? Steven what?”

  “Wilkinson. Steven Wilkinson. He was the one that saved me the night I was attacked, and a couple of times since. Why?”

  Marie’s face turned scarlet. “Because he’s a fucking murderer. For years he’s slaughtered people like us, all over the world. He’s killed dozens, including some that were…important to me. Why do we want to help that bastard? We should be helping Malcolm tear his throat out.”

  John stepped back in shock. “Jesus, Marie. I don’t know what he’s done to you, but he’s saved my life at least three times now. He called me for help, and I’m not leaving him here. Leave if you want to. I’ll do it myself.”

  "You don't understand what it was like, John. Not long after I was recruited, something happened. The Pack was scattered. Fragmented. Every time we found a safe place, your friend would turn up and slaughter any werewolves he could find. He killed…he…"

  John put his hand on her shoulder, but his voice was firm. "Look, I'm sorry for what's happened in the past, but I owe Steven my life, and we're going to need him if we want to stop Malcolm. Whatever problem you have with him can wait until after this is over. I mean it, Marie. If you're not here to help, then fuck off home and let me handle it."