RED HAZE: A Werewolf Story for the 21st Century

by Ian Redman

  Once again, he heard the sliding bolt against the door and watched the silhouette of the woman enter the room. Again, he heard the flick of the switch, the bright light shining above him, cold and circular in its ring of stainless steel. So very bright!

  His eyes were painful, squinting, his breathing erratic, fearful.

  He had wet himself initially when he first woke up on the clean white table. At the time she had seemed angry, then…strangely comforting. Within minutes she had cleaned and shaved him. He remembered her moistening her lips with her tongue as she gently manipulated the razor around his genitals. Was that yesterday, he thought? He couldn’t remember, or could he? The injection she had given him making him sleepy, so very sleepy. Yes, he remembered her leaving the room and his voice shouting to her, then…blackness.

  Now…she had returned!

  “It’s time for your first course of treatment, my darling.”

  “Please,” he pleaded, “let me go…please.” His head was raised slightly from the main level of the operating table, his body spread-eagled, strapped down and helpless in all its nakedness.

  “How are you feeling?” Her voice once again, gentle, comforting and her smile, very warm and in many ways so…affectionate.

  “Look, I can pay you, I have friends, they have plenty of money. Let me go, please.” He was frightened, terrified, his voice just a whimper, not strong and confident as usual.

  He had been such a fool! The couple in the bar had told him their names were Maurice and Ann. When he had told them of his backpacking trip across Europe they had seemed so friendly, their manner pleasant. Then, he made his one, fateful mistake.

  How stupid of him to ask about a place to stay for the night. But then again, how was he to know what the two of them were planning? Casually, kindly, they had invited him back to their apartment in Paris, for a drink and something to eat.

  God, how foolish he had been!

  Now he was paying the price for his stupidity, the drug releasing its sedation practically instantly. He just remembered the woman, Ann, leaning over him, gently slapping his face, then her words, “good, he’s sleeping like a baby!” And now, here he lay on the cold, white and chrome table, naked, vulnerable.

  She smiled again, the lady in the white surgical gown, so beautiful, attractive, so…sexual. Alluringly, her radiant eyes met his as she picked up the latex gloves. She snapped them on; her beautiful shoulder length hair swept back neatly and tied in a ponytail. Strange he thought, she was in a doctor’s coat when she examined me yesterday, now she looks like…a surgeon! Oh God!

  Despite the cold terror invading his mind, his loins were beginning to ache, his breathing heavy with the anticipation of another examination. Her touch had been so gentle, sensual, the feeling of the latex gloves across his genitals so…stimulating. Yes! He remembered the climax in her hands as she manipulated him, his body straining against the straps, her hands continuing to work, giving him no rest. All the time her beautiful eyes had gazed down on him, caressing his body, gently, ever so slowly manipulating his penis and testicles, the smile never leaving her face. How she had seemed to savour his enjoyment. But now, what now?

  “You were a very good patient for me yesterday, my darling,” smiling, she crossed to the other side of the theatre, to a stainless steel trolley, its contents covered by a white cloth. “I do hope you will be just as good for me today.” Briskly the white-gowned woman wheeled the trolley over to his naked, helpless form. She leaned over him, her attractive face close to his, her hand gently pushing away his damp hair, his sweat beginning to drip once again from his forehead.

  “Water…please, water.”

  “Of course my darling, of course.” She slid her hand beneath his head, raising it so he could drink. He gulped enthusiastically. “But you were,” she paused, a long seductive pause, “a very bad boy during your initial examination, weren’t you?” she whispered, her eyes penetrating his.

  Gratefully, he finished drinking and spoke, his voice trembling with fear, “please, it is money you’re after, isn’t it! I have money, I can organise money for you, PLEASE!”

  Savagely, the back of her latex gloved hand lashed out at his face, the pain across his jaw taking him by surprise! “SHUT UP!” she screamed, her face contorting with anger.

  Panic set in!

  He started to scream as he wrenched against the straps holding him so very tightly, “HELP ME! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME!”

  Quickly, she grabbed at his ruffled, sweaty hair, slamming his head back onto the sweat sodden, damp, white headrest, “I SAID, SHUT UP!”

  Now he was terrified!

  Slowly, enticingly, she removed the cloth from the trolley, her tongue moistening her red lips as she picked up the small scalpel. She giggled, the instrument coming into view, glinting from the overhead light as her latex covered fingers gently traced the flat of the razor sharp blade. Provocatively, she returned the scalpel to the round metallic bowl and picked up another, larger one. Again she held it up, letting him view its menacing blade.

  “God help me!” he whimpered.

  “Have you ever undergone surgery, my darling?” Her voice had changed. She was different, her eyes wide, menacing, seemingly anticipating the thrill of the pain she was about to unleash. There was no reply, only heavy, fear laden breathing, her patient’s chest rising and falling, the look on his face one of unbridled terror. “I can understand if you are frightened,” she leaned down and gently kissed him, her tongue parting his lips, penetrating his dry mouth.

  Even though he was terrified it was a strangely erotic moment, the movement of her tongue and lips encouraging his arousal, his breathing becoming heavier. He groaned as she finished her foreplay. “For your information my darling, this operating theatre is completely soundproofed, so no one can hear you…or help you. You will remain strapped to this table until I have finished my work. Now then,” she picked up the smaller scalpel, “for your first course of treatment, I intend to make small incisions across your body, then obviously…I will stitch the wounds back together.”

  “Please…” another pathetic whimper left the young man’s mouth as the woman donned her surgical mask, “please, no…please!”

  “I never use anaesthetic during surgery my darling, so it will help if you breathe deeply and slowly. “Now then,” her face, now partially obscured by the white mask, looked down piteously at the man on the operating table, “just try to relax.” Only her beautiful eyes and hair could be seen. “Of course, the more interesting areas of your body I will leave…till much later.” Without warning, her hand gripped his testicles, squeezing hard, his body bucking against the leather restraints as he grunted. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy working on you, my darling” she whispered, her eyes scanning his trembling, sweat drenched body.

  Suddenly, through his terror, he heard something clicking, then a whirring noise. It sounded like a camera. A video camera!

  “It’s time to begin.” Doctor Lana Franke leaned over her panic stricken, screaming, writhing patient and slowly placed the blade of the scalpel onto his left nipple. Within seconds, smiling sadistically under her clean, white surgical mask, her patient squealing in agony, she made her first, tortuous incision.

  “THIS IS SKY NEWS!”

  Nick Lucas, like his colleagues surrounding him, noticed the solemn look on the Sky newscaster’s face as he gazed once again at the large screen in front of him. In CEATA’s, ever so important Communications Room, no one spoke. Not a word, not a whisper.

  “Good morning! It seems the Islamic Fundamentalist group, the European Muslim Freedom Fighters, have yet again claimed responsibility for the truly terrifying bombings witnessed across mainland Europe this morning. Claiming revenge for what they called, ‘the Christian invasion of Iraq and the recent brutal slayings of fellow brothers and sisters in Amsterdam,’ the Islamic terrorist group gave only a ten-minute warning before each atrocity. Many explosions, all varying in degrees of ferocity but all causing major loss of
life, have ripped across England, France, Germany, Holland and Belgium.”

  “If they’re looking for a war, they will get one now!” Jeanette Descard turned to face Colonel Mann and Commander Hertschell as the newscaster continued his grim reporting.

  “We have so far received confirmation of thirty eight explosions, ranging from small cafés in Holland, Germany and France, to terrible carnage on the M6 Motorway in Birmingham. Fatalities are mounting even as I speak, although no one, as yet can confirm just how many people have been killed or injured. Sky News, as always, will be bringing you up to date information as soon as we have it, but for now, we move to three locations where the European Muslim Freedom Fighters have struck. For Sky News, Yvonne Brent will be reporting from Brussels Central Railway Station, where three explosions have caused massive damage and injury. Ian Lambert will then be speaking to us from Leeds, where a petrol station erupted into flames, bringing chaos to the area. But first of all, from a location just off the M6 Motorway near Birmingham, we join Eric Bradbury. Some people may find certain scenes in this report… disturbing!”

  “Keep monitoring the channels Nick,” Commander Hertschell glanced around the Communications room, “alright everyone, back to stations. I want that ID information, and damned quickly!”

  “Muslim Fundamentalists,” muttered Piper, “what utter, fucking bullshit!”

  “Colonel, Doctor Descard, Sergeant Piper, report to my office immediately, we have battle-plans to discuss.” The mood in CEATA’s Communications Room was sombre.

  “Nick,”

  “Yeah Ash,”

  “As soon as you have any feedback regarding the identity of the criminal with the birthmark, I want to be the first to know, understand?”

  “No problem!” Briskly, the Canadian computer genius began typing at his keyboard, the look in his friend’s blue and amber eyes making him feel very uneasy.

  “Perfect Wilhelm, just perfect.” Otto Von Kurst turned to his friend.

  “Thank you my Fuhrer.”

  The Chairman and Sales Director of Von Kurst Electronics sat proudly watching various news channels in his private office, located at his home in Dusseldorf. He was smiling, the forty-third device having just exploded in Calais. The Fuhrer laughed. “Weak, pathetic fools! How you will all pay for allowing the Untermenschen to infest our homelands.”

  “Amen to that!” said Oratz.

  “Indeed,” replied Von Kurst, “Amen, indeed!” Rising from his chair, Von Kurst poured himself a glass of fresh orange. He offered one to Oratz. “Wilhelm, the meeting at Camelot will take place on Thursday. I am leaving this afternoon. Have you spoken with Vitali?”

  “We spoke briefly yesterday evening. All is in order; he is ready for my visit.”

  “Good, and our little package?”

  “Safely in transit.”

  “Excellent. We must monitor all events carefully my friend, the grenadiers must be prepared to move into the next war zones at a moment’s notice. Now we are sowing the seeds of hate, we must be ready to reap a fruitful harvest.” With a look of sheer delight, Von Kurst sat back in his luxurious office chair; a menacing smile etching its way across his face. “Wilhelm, finish what you need to do at the office, then make your way to Camelot, I will make contact with the others. Here is to success my friend!” With a glint in his eyes Von Kurst raised his glass, so too did Oratz, then, within minutes he was alone. With his thoughts racing, the images from the news reports still at the back of his mind, Von Kurst picked up his mobile phone and tapped into its directory, the letters on the bright facia spelling, ‘LANA’.

  My dear Lana, he thought, I wonder what you are doing at this very moment?

  Doctor Lana Franke had run out of patience, her concentration being affected by the continuous screeching of the man on the table. It was all too much for her. The patient’s agonised screams were now just rudimentary grunts, his mouth and tongue being muffled by the thick leather gag. “HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU,” she yelled, “STOP STRUGGLING!” Her blood soaked, latex gloved hand lashed out once again at his face, the pain racked patient grunting from the impact of the blow! The series of incisions, over thirty of them across his chest and stomach, were not very large, but certainly painful enough to get him squirming on the table. Over the last hour, she had greatly enjoyed cleaning the wounds with disinfectant and was now carefully pulling gauzed, suturing thread through the edges of the man’s sliced flesh, sewing the bloodied shards of his skin together again. “Are you enjoying the pain my darling?” Doctor Franke knew he could not reply, the leather bit in the gag holding the patient’s tongue flat. She watched again as he thrashed against the restraints, his screams suppressed, his eyes wide with pain and fear. Again she smiled under the white facemask, the area between her legs warm and moist, her sexual arousal mounting, her breathing heavy with sadistic delight.

  How the beautiful physician relished utilising her medical knowledge, savouring the look of terror on the faces of her patients and the screams and struggles of their torment. Quietly, she sighed under the mask, the patient trying once again to squeal, his body writhing, pulling, yanking at the straps, his eyes squinting in pain!

  As always, she would save his genitals and eyes till last. Yes, she thought, the patient has to suffer, he has to be punished! Yes, he has to be! The whirring of the camera continued, her hands deftly pushing the suturing needle through the man’s bloodied flesh. Twice he had fainted from the pain, but each time she had brought him around, his pitiful groaning making her smile even more. Nearly finished, she thought. Then he could rest…just for a while! She paused and glanced behind her. Her mobile phone was ringing. “Just lie still darling, I won’t be long.” Lana Franke quickly removed her bloodied surgical gloves and mask, walked across to the phone and picked it up. Looking inquisitively at the facia, she discreetly smiled and pressed the receive button. “My love, how are you?”

  “I am fine Lana! I do hope I am not interrupting anything important?”

  She giggled, “no my love, I am just tending to a new patient.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes, he’s being very uncooperative.”

  “I see,” Von Kurst laughed delightedly.

  “I am sure you will enjoy this new recording my love, so very sure.” Quickly closing her eyes, her tongue dancing across her lips, the attractive physician’s hand slid down her white surgical gown, stopping to caress the material over the hot, moist area at the top of her thighs. Her eyes closed as she spoke with her lover, her fingers gently stroking across the texture of the gown. Be careful not to climax, she thought, not yet!

  “Lana, we meet at Camelot on Thursday. Be there!”

  “Of course my love, of course.” The line closed. Casually, Doctor Lana Franke replaced her mobile phone, her gaze returning once more to her butchered captive. Thursday, she thought, the day after tomorrow, I haven’t much time!

  The patient began to struggle again as she walked back to the table, donned her mask and snapped on a clean pair of latex gloves, the look in her eyes returning to one of sadistic, demented violence. “That was a very important phone call my darling,” her hand ran across her pain-racked patient’s sweat soaked brow, her face lowering to his, “so I won’t be able to treat you for as long as I would have liked,” she gently whispered. “I’m afraid…I only have today!” He started to cry, trying piteously to beg for mercy once again under the pressure of the gag. “Due to time restrictions my darling, I have now decided to begin your major surgery,” her gloved hand moved to the metallic bowl and grasped the larger scalpel, “therefore I intend to work on your genitals immediately!” The sadistic physician’s patient yelled again, his muffled squealing like a pig’s about to be castrated. He wrenched at the straps, his bloodied, tortured form wanting to flee the hell he was about to endure! “I am going to slowly remove just one of your testicles first.” Now the patient thrashed, twisting maniacally against the straps, shrieking like never before under the gag. The physician sighe
d, her masked face over his, the bright light still shining, glimmering as she prepared to commence her sadistic surgery. “I am afraid this will be an agonising operation my darling, but the restraints will hold you in place…as usual.” Slowly, Doctor Franke moved to the middle of the table, adjusted the operating light and gently grasped the patient’s scrotum. “Now then,” she whispered, her voice calm, concentrated, “which testicle do I remove first?” In a state of terrified panic the patient wailed incessantly as she lowered the larger scalpel between his legs. “Just for you Otto,” she whispered, “just for you!”

  It was over four hours later and tensions were rising. Commander Hertschell, Colonel Mann, Jeanette Descard and Ash Piper were still in their meeting, with Nick Lucas and his team continuously monitoring their frenzied communication with numerous worldwide law enforcement and anti terror agencies. The time had passed slowly. In total, fifty devices had detonated, with deaths so far close to three and a half thousand. The number of maimed and seriously wounded still had to be confirmed.

  Nick turned to his colleagues, pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and absent-mindedly began to rub at a smear on the right lens of his glasses. “I just cannot believe this is happening, oh man, what a mess!”

  “Any news on that ID yet Nick?” The Canadian looked up, surprised to see Ash Piper standing at his side. He had not heard him enter the room.

  “Nothing Ash, absolutely nothing.”

  “What the hell is wrong with these people? Major terrorist atrocities are taking place all over Europe, and no one can come up with any decent intelligence regarding a criminal with a fucking birthmark under his right cheek. It’s bloody pathetic!”

  “It’s frustrating for all of us Ash,” Jeanette Descard stood behind him, “we just have to be patient.”

  “You’re right Jeanette. My apologies Nick, I wasn’t getting at you.”

  “No problem Ash, no problem!”

  “Here we go!” Jean-Paul’s voice suddenly brought a glimmer of hope, “the Russians are sending in three positive IDs, all from the FSB.”