The medic frowned in irritation. “All lycanthrope subjects have been moved to secure accommodation in Lindholme, now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get on.”
“Wait a minute… all lycanthropes?”
“Yes, we shipped them both out first thing this morning, on the Colonel’s orders.”
Phil sighed as the man pulled his arm free and hurried off towards the medical centre. He looked down at the bottle of wine, then unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle to the security camera that swung towards him. “Merry fucking Christmas,” he said, took a long swig straight from the bottle and began the journey back to his room. It looked like he was getting pissed by himself for Christmas this year.
25th December 2008. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 14:11
The pain was like the worst hangover he’d ever experienced, multiplied a hundred-fold. A red, pulsating coal of agony in the darkness that threatened to split his head open and turn his stomach inside out. He would have cried out, but for the distinct feeling that the slightest movement would make things worse. He was vaguely aware of other people in the room with him. They’d been talking for a few minutes now, but he’d been unable to focus on what they were saying. Every time he tried to gather his thoughts, another wave of pain crashed over him. Cool hands grasped his arm. The brief prick of pain against his elbow, followed by a cold acid-burn that spread through his veins. Miraculously, the throbbing in his head began to subside and, after a couple of minutes, dissipated altogether.
“John? Can you hear me?”
He vaguely recognised the voice. Female, with a soft Welsh lilt to the words, offset by a harshness to the tone.
“It’s not working. Give him another shot.” A man’s voice this time. English. Well spoken.
The woman tightened her grip on his arm again and tapped against the vein. He decided that he’d rather not experience the peculiar sensation of that injection again if he could help it, so cracked open his sleep-encrusted eyes, wincing at the harsh phosphorescent glare from the overhead strip-light, and said, “Okay, I’m awake.” It was at this point he realised that he was strapped down and unable to move.
His vision began to clear. The woman and the man standing over him seemed familiar, but his mind was still sluggish and it took him a couple of seconds before he made the connection. Then he remembered where he’d seen them before. “Oh bollocks.”
The man gave a grim smile. “I see your memory is returning. Good. That means there’s probably no lasting brain damage. Still, as we’ve not been formally introduced yet, I’m Colonel Richards, and this is Doctor Rose Fisher, who of course, you’ve already met. I’m very glad to make your acquaintance at last, Mr Simpson.”
John tried to move his head, to get a better look at his surroundings, but the nylon straps across his forehead made movement impossible. “Where am I? What happened? Why aren’t I dead?”
“Ah, yes. I imagine that it must be a little confusing. You see, we’ve had varying levels of success containing your kind with silver. Some of you don’t seem to be affected at all by it, while it’s quite lethal to others. And, as you can imagine, global silver prices have sky-rocketed over the last few weeks. We needed a more practical and cost effective solution to containing individuals like yourself, so we’ve simply hollowed out our standard munitions and embedded each round with a small, but rather potent dose of an experimental neurotoxin. You regrettably received a rather large amount of it last night, and I was worried that we may have overdone things a tad.”
“So where am I? Still at that base?”
“Oh no, Mr Simpson. That location had clearly been compromised, so we’ve had to make other arrangements for you and your fellow lycanthropes. Don’t worry, though, I can assure you that this facility is quite secure.”
Rose Fisher leaned over him with what his father would have called ‘a face like a smacked arse’ and shone a pen light into his eyes. “Pupil response seems normal. Heart rate and respiration are a little below what I’d expect, but still within acceptable levels. I’ve taken all the samples I need, Sir. If you don’t need anything else, I’d rather not be around this thing any more than I have to be.”
“Of course, Doctor Fisher. Consider yourself excused. Please let me know what your findings are.”
Rose turned and walked away without another word, pulling open what sounded like a heavy steel door and slamming it behind her. John attempted a half-hearted smile. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“Well, considering that you terrorised her in her own home, Mr Simpson, I’m hardly surprised. But seeing as you brought the matter up, I don’t suppose you feel like telling me where your friends scurried off to after they abandoned you?”
“You suppose right. Anyway, anything I know will be well out of date by now. They’ll have changed their plans the second you caught me. My friends aren’t stupid. They’re probably already out of the country.”
Colonel Richards stroked his chin. “Hmm, I see. Perhaps… perhaps not. It hardly matters. They won’t get far. All the airports have been closed, as have the ports. I must confess, though, I still don’t understand why you all went to so much trouble for one man.”
John couldn’t help but laugh. “You really have no clue who you had, do you?”
The Colonel’s face darkened at John’s taunt, “No, I’m afraid that we don’t. Would you care to enlighten me?”
John summoned his most cheerful smile. “Go fuck yourself.”
“I see. Still, I didn’t expect much co-operation from you. Not yet, at least.” The Colonel reached over and undid the nylon band that secured John’s head, allowing him to see the room for the first time. It was small – perhaps twenty feet square, with brick walls painted a garish green colour and a white-tiled floor. A single steel door was the only exit from the room, and a glass cabinet filled with medical equipment covered one wall. Other than that, the table he was strapped to and a CCTV camera in the far corner, the room was empty.
“Welcome to Lindholme detention facility, Mr Simpson. After your time in Durham prison, I expect you’ll feel right at home in no time. There are, however, a few subtle differences between these establishments that I think you should be aware of before I undo the rest of these straps and process you into the general population.”
John felt a surge of panic. “What? You can’t put me in with other prisoners. Are you fucking insane? If a fight started, I could infect them.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Simpson, the rest of our guests are already much like yourself. Hence the additional rules. The first one, and the most important, is that we will absolutely not tolerate any transformations taking place in this facility. We have a number of armed drones circling the prison, equipped with some rather sensitive infra-red cameras. If we detect any significant change in an inmate’s body temperature, then the response will be swift and decisive.”
“Drones? Like they use in Afghanistan?”
“Yes, exactly like the ones in Afghanistan. Right down to the Hellfire missiles. I take it I don’t need to elaborate further?”
John’s heart sank. Werewolves could heal from a lot of things, but as far as he knew, anti-tank missiles weren’t one of them. “Understood, although you realise that sooner or later your ‘inmates’ aren’t going to have any choice in the matter? Eventually, we’ll all have to turn, or it’ll happen on its own.”
Colonel Richards’ lips curled up into a sneer, “Then I suggest you all try really hard to control yourselves.”
“You’re not listening to me. If we leave it too long, we can’t bloody well control it. We have to change once a month.”
“That, Mr Simpson, really isn’t my problem.”
John shook his head in disgust and turned away. “It will be.”
The Colonel’s hand shot out and grabbed John by the chin, forcing his head back around to look him in the eye. “You need to understand something, Simpson. Durham Prison was a holiday camp compared to this facility. None of you ar
e human, ergo, you have no human rights. You will do as you are instructed by the staff, immediately and without complaint, or the consequences will be severe. You will not eat, sleep or shit without being told to by the wardens first. You will submit to medical examination when required to do so, and any hint of insurrection or insubordination will result in the most extreme response imaginable. Am I making myself clear?”
John’s lip curled up into a snarl, and he felt his wolf begin to push its way up through the narcotic fog that clouded his mind. With some effort, and not a little regret, he pushed it down again. “As crystal, Colonel.”
The man’s smile returned. “Excellent. I’m glad that we understand each other. He turned to the CCTV camera and nodded. A few seconds later, the door opened and a squad of armed soldiers filed into the room, their weapons raised. “Gentlemen, would you please escort Mr Simpson to his new accommodations?”
Two men stepped forward, while the others pulled their weapons into their shoulders and pointed them at John. The straps were quickly undone, and he was dragged to his feet before being ushered at gunpoint out of the room and down a long corridor that ended with a pair of reinforced metal doors. One of the soldiers punched a code into a console on the wall, and the doors clicked open. Then, rough hands shoved him out into the weak, grey daylight.
Rows of single storey brick buildings sat on a large expanse of concrete. A small crowd had gathered outside of the buildings. A group of perhaps thirty men, women and children, all wearing identical prison issue jumpsuits looked at him with a mixture of terror and revulsion. His hearing didn’t need to be enhanced to make out the word being whispered between his fellow inmates.
“Moonstruck.”
This was not going to be fun.
25th December 2008. Rushtock Trading Estate, Droitwich. 16:04
Daniel parked the stolen car at the entrance to the trading estate and checked for any signs of life. The heavy steel gate lay open, and he could make out the distinct smell of fresh blood emanating from the security office to his right. He’d hoped the place would have been abandoned on Christmas day, but that had apparently not been the case. He cursed under his breath and got out of the car, wincing at the pain from his crushed right arm. Marie’s fangs had fractured his radius and ulna, making even the smallest movement agonising. He’d splinted it as well as he could, given the circumstances, but the limb would be next to useless until the next full moon. The joys of being bitten by another werewolf.
The door to the security office lay ajar, and he pushed it open with his foot, grimacing at the wave of blood-stench that washed over him. The guard had been torn apart, no doubt falling victim to the rage of the first families to arrive on site. Throat ripped open down to the bone, left arm severed, abdomen little more than a gaping hole revealing the blue-black bulge of intestines. Blood covered almost every inch of the office. Arterial spray decorated the walls and dripped down the security glass. He shook his head. This was sloppy. Dangerous. If a passing motorist, or worse, a police officer stopped at the window… He picked his way through the gore-soaked remains and extracted the man’s mobile telephone, then opened a desk drawer and rifled through the contents until he found what he was looking for. A work roster for the next week, and contact telephone numbers for the security staff. As he’d feared, the next guard was due to relieve this one in around two hours. That didn’t give them a lot of time. Working as quickly as he could, he grabbed a handful of tissues from a box in the drawer, wet them with water from the kettle and rinsed the blood off the window. He tried to sluice the most visible stains from the wall using the rest of the water, but only succeeded in making the mess worse.
He didn’t have time for this. He opened the dead guard’s telephone and cycled through the contacts until he came across the name of the next man on the roster, then sent a text message that simply said.
MISSUS IS BEING A NIGHTMARE. CAN’T BE ARSED WITH THE FAMILY ATM. WANT ME TO COVER YOUR SHIFT?
A few seconds later, a reply came back.
THX, M8. UR A STAR. OWE U A BEER. HAPPY XMAS. SIMON.
Then, he checked the call logs, noticing that by far the most used number was to someone called Joan. To this number he texted.
SIMON’S CALLED IN SICK. HAVE TO DO HIS BASTARD SHIFT. CALL YOU LATER. X
He sighed. It wasn’t the greatest plan, but hopefully it would buy them a few more hours, at least until someone became suspicious or the unfortunate guard’s wife called Simon to complain about his sickness. He checked the road, straining his hearing for the sounds of approaching vehicles, then dragged the corpse from the office and bundled it into the boot of his stolen car, a job that was made considerably more difficult by his fractured arm. After what seemed like forever, and was certainly much longer than he was comfortable with, the boot slammed shut. Daniel took a minute to catch his breath and bring the agonising pain in his right arm under some level of control, then got back into the car and drove through the heavy steel gate towards the rendezvous point.
It didn’t take him long to find the place. An assortment of vehicles, ranging from dilapidated camper vans to sleek, modern saloon cars were parked at the front of a seemingly abandoned factory unit. Most of the windows were broken, and the walls were pock-marked with brightly coloured splashes of paint. This was why he’d chosen the place. The empty industrial units had been repurposed by a company offering a “Wolf Man Combat Experience” to paying customers who wanted to spend their evenings firing paintballs at men in rubber werewolf masks. Today, however, it would house something altogether more dangerous. Also, as well as being relatively isolated, it was about as central a location as he could find in the United Kingdom. It would serve its purpose, but the messy, mindless slaughter of the guard meant they’d need to move on before the alarm was raised. He parked alongside an old BMW with a broken driver’s window, got out of the car and pushed open the rotted wooden door.
The building stank of mildew and decay. Plasterboard partition walls crumbled under the damp conditions, and water dripped through gaping holes in the ceiling. Debris was scattered across the floor, along with overturned, rusting filing cabinets and swollen chipboard desks, their laminated surfaces long since having surrendered to the elements. He moved further inside the structure, through dangling fabric strips and a makeshift series of barricades that formed part of the experience, until he stepped out into an open area filled with heavy canvas bags and saw the survivors for the first time.
It was worse than he’d expected. Of the forty or so werewolves before him, almost a quarter of them were children under the age of sixteen. Another ten were elderly – not a single one of them under the age of sixty. Only twenty mature adults were present, and most of them wore nervous, frightened expressions. It was hardly an army. Still, they were all werewolves, and that was a start at least. He strode into the centre of the room, deliberately saying nothing until he was certain that he had everyone’s attention. “Good afternoon. My name is Daniel Braun, and if you want to live, from this point onwards you will all do exactly as I say.”
A cacophony of noise erupted from the assembled werewolves; questions, demands and complaints – each demand different and each voice filled with fear and outrage. He raised his good arm to quiet the throng. “Quiet, all of you. We will have plenty of time for questions later, but for now we shall need to keep this brief. The mess in the security office will not go undiscovered for long and we’ll need to be far away from here when it is.”
A young woman, her arms wrapped around a boy who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, raised her hand. “Are you going to get us away from here? Out of the country and back to Moscow?”
He shook his head. “No, not yet. All of you have lost loved ones today, and our new alpha has decided that we should not let the humans’ actions go unpunished. As of this moment, you are all soldiers of the pack.”
The complaints were louder this time, the wall of noise emanating from the group made his ears hurt. Again,
he raised his hand for silence. “Once we are in a safe place, I will do my best to answer your questions. For now, I need you to accept what I am saying, gather your belongings and follow me to a safe house a little over an hour away from here.”
One of the younger men got to his feet, a vicious gleam in his eye. Daniel saw the bloodstains around his mouth and knew that he’d been the one to slay the guard. “About fucking time. We can’t let the humans get away with this outrage. What’s the target? London?”
Daniel smiled and shook his head. “No, London is an obvious target and a poor one. Security will be high in the capital, and after the IRA campaign of the 1980’s and the 7/7 bombings, people almost expect London to be attacked. Certainly the security services will.”
The young man looked confused. “If not London, then where? Birmingham? Manchester?”
“No. To drive terror into the hearts of the British people, we need them to feel that we can strike anywhere. Not just the cities. So, on New Year’s Eve, when most of them are out revelling and drinking themselves insensible, we will converge on the town of High Moor and we will kill or infect every single living soul within it.”
Chapter 10
26th December 2008. Castle Hill, Folkestone. 00:50
Marie got out of the car and stared across the motorway at her destination. The tunnel’s entrance was obscured behind rows of chain-link fences, each topped with rolls of razor wire and adorned with warning signs. Floodlights blazed down on the entire area, casting stark shadows across the concrete buildings, while CCTV cameras seemed to cover every square inch of the approach to the tunnel. She stuck her head back into the car, where Michael still sat. “Have I mentioned that this is a fucking stupid idea?”
Her brother grinned, which only served to irritate her more. “Not in the last ten minutes.”
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