Blood Moon

by Graeme Reynolds

  Then, something changed.

  It started off as a vibration beneath her feet. Barely perceptible. If she’d not been engulfed in what felt like an eternal, unchanging darkness, she might not have noticed it at all. Then she began to make out the noise. A rumbling like distant thunder. A tiny pinprick of light in the distance. A single faint star shining in the endless night.

  A train, heading towards them. Getting closer with every passing second.

  She tilted her head towards Michael, and saw that he’d seen the approaching threat as well. He let out a soft whine and glanced back the way they’d come. They were almost exactly mid way between the service tunnel access points. They’d have to make it two hundred meters before they came to the next one. Unfortunately the train was travelling at speed, and before they could open the door (setting off the alarms) they would have to change back to human form so that they could operate the handle. Fear spurred them on, and they pushed harder, racing the oncoming locomotive.

  The light was brighter now, and the approaching thunder of the train was deafening as they reached the access door. Michael began his transformation immediately. He had always been faster than Marie in the change. She held off instigating her own metamorphosis back to human. The last thing she wanted to do was risk being caught midway between woman and beast when the train arrived.

  The floor beneath her feet shook, the vibrations making the stone feel almost liquid, and the roar of metal against metal was agony to her enhanced hearing. Michael had finally become human once more and threw himself at the heavy door, frantically twisting the handle, then tugging at it. He turned to her and the look in his eyes said it all. The door was locked. They were out of time and had nowhere to go. The train would be on them in seconds.

  Marie snarled, backed herself up against the far wall, and hurled herself at the heavy metal door, just as the blazing headlight of the oncoming train turned her world into a blinding white sea of noise and pain.

  Chapter 11

  30th December 2008. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 07:50

  It hadn’t taken long for the prisoners to get into the routine of the prison camp. They woke at 6:30 every morning to the high-pitched shriek of a siren, operating at a frequency just high enough to be uncomfortable but not debilitating. John remembered the ultrasonic alarms at Steven’s house in High Moor and was grateful that the loudspeakers their captors used didn’t seem to be capable of producing that particular noise, or, at least, hadn’t decided to use it yet. Once they were up, they had an hour and a half to wash and dress before breakfast, after which they would be left to their own devices until the next meal. Armed guards delivered their food, and it was up to the prisoners to distribute it among themselves. Despite the precautions the military had in place – the ultrasonic sirens, the circling Reaper drones and the blanket CCTV coverage of the compound – it seemed the troops were less than enthusiastic about spending any time inside the fences if they could help it. Apart from the thrice daily food deliveries, the only time they set foot inside the camp was to escort selected individuals to the medical block for experimentation.

  In many respects, the camp regime was less severe than what he’d had to suffer in Durham Prison. There was no work detail and he didn’t have to worry about infecting any of his fellow prisoners. Hell, he felt safer than he’d done in weeks. Colonel Richards had been clear about what would happen to the perpetrators of any violent incidents, either against the military personnel or the other inmates. That wasn’t to say he was comfortable with the situation. The other prisoners were pack werewolves, and they made sure to keep their distance from him. He had one of the low, single storey accommodation blocks to himself. He ate by himself and he showered by himself. He’d attempted to make conversation with one or two of the other prisoners on the first day, to persuade them that he was not the moonstruck beast they thought he was, but his efforts had led nowhere. After several failed attempts, he made the decision not to bother, and was, for the most part, left alone.

  This morning was no different to the last few days. He watched through the grimy window as the soldiers placed several large cauldrons of porridge on a table set in the centre of the courtyard, then retreated to the safety of the gates, weapons raised. A line soon formed, and one of the women, Kasha, began ladling meagre portions into outstretched bowls. The food was rank, made with water instead of milk, and unsweetened. Still, it was warming and kept the hunger at bay until lunchtime, when something equally vile and unappetising would be presented. John usually waited until everyone else had been served before going for his own food, by which time it had gone cold and had a rubbery skin across the surface. It seemed like the best way to avoid a confrontation. This morning, however, his stomach growled in anticipation and he decided that he didn’t care. He just wanted something to eat.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the courtyard, only too aware of the numerous heads that turned in his direction. He walked toward the line, head down, and wished that he were invisible. He made it almost half way before two men detached themselves from the queue and blocked his approach.

  One of them, a dark haired man with three days growth of facial hair, sneered at him. “Where do you think you’re going, moonstruck?” The man spat the last word, spraying John’s face with foul-smelling saliva.

  John forced a smile. “I thought I’d have some breakfast. Unless there was something you wanted?”

  He stepped around the two men, only to find his path blocked once more. The other man put his hand on John’s chest and shoved him back. “Scum like you don’t eat with the rest of us. You get the scraps, like the mongrel dog that you are. So go on, dog, get back in your kennel. Maybe we’ll leave you something.” He smirked and turned his head to the other man. “Maybe not.”

  John squared up to him and stepped forward so that they were almost face to face. The stench of his breath was almost enough to put him off his breakfast. Apparently these two hadn’t bothered to brush their teeth since their incarceration. He fought past the nausea and grinned. “And how, exactly, are you going to stop me?” He angled his head to the sniper in the nearest tower. “Get physical, and that bloke over there will blow a hole in your empty fucking head. Try to change, and those drones will make sure there’s nothing left of you but a smoking crater. Unless you’re feeling lucky?”

  The two men exchanged nervous glances. John smiled at them. “That’s what I thought,” he said, and pushed his way between them. The two men followed him to the line, but kept their distance and said nothing else. Still, John felt their eyes on him, along with the eyes of everyone else. He found that he didn’t care. There was nothing these pack werewolves could do to him. They might talk and act tough, but as far as he knew, none of them were from field teams or had any sort of combat training. Without their wolves, they were just people, and he’d already faced down so much worse. They were no threat to him, and they knew it. He held his head high, meeting the gazes of the pack werewolves until one by one, they looked away. Satisfied that he’d made his point, he joined the end of the food queue and waited to be served.

  After a few minutes, he became aware of someone standing beside him. He looked down to find a young girl with blond hair and a serious expression on her face gazing up at him.

  “Are you going to kill us?” she said.

  The question took him by surprise and, for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. “No, I’m not. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  The girl didn’t look convinced. “My mum, and my Auntie Kasha and my Uncle Dmitri say that you’re a moonstruck, and you’ll change and kill everyone on the next full moon.”

  John shook his head. “I’m not moonstruck. I was, but I learned how to control it. I can change when I want to, just like the rest of you. You don’t have to worry about me. What’s your name?”

  The girl took a half step away from him, tilting her head sideways as if weighing up the truth of his words. Her posture relaxed, and a sm
all, sad smile replaced her frown. “It’s Sophie. Do you promise that you won’t hurt us? Any of us?”

  He nodded. “Cross my heart. I last changed a few days ago, so I won’t have to turn on the full moon. I promise.”

  Sophie’s frown returned. “Good. That means we only have to worry about the others.”

  It was John’s turn to feel confused. “Others? You mean the soldiers?”

  She shook her head. “No, silly. I mean all the ones who haven’t changed in a while. They want to change, but the bad men won’t let them. That means…”

  Now he understood. “That means they’ll all go moonstruck on the next full moon. They’ll change whether they want to or not.”

  A fair haired woman hurried across the yard and grabbed Sophie by the shoulders, ushering her back to one of the accommodation blocks while hissing what John assumed to be Russian at her. He couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying, but her tone and the nervous glances back to John told him everything he needed to know. Sophie voice carried back to him: “but Mum, he says he’s not a moonstruck. He promised!” But her pleas fell on deaf ears, and she was bundled back inside.

  John looked up. He’d made it to the front of the queue. The woman, Kasha, glared at him with a murderous look in her eyes. He raised his bowl and she slopped a portion of grey gloop into it, then spat onto his food for good measure. “Moonstruck scum. You stay away from my niece.”

  John didn’t say a word. He turned and headed back to his own barrack block, his mind attempting to process the new information. The next full moon was just under two weeks away. That meant they were all in very serious trouble.

  ***

  The soldiers arrived at his dormitory a little after lunchtime. He still felt queasy from the vile concoction they’d served – some sort of stew with overcooked vegetables and fragments of a mystery meat floating in a watery gruel. The food had a distinctive, pharmaceutical tang to it, and afterwards he felt more than a little lethargic. The drugging of the meals was nothing new, but they seemed to be trying out a new narcotic blend, and the effects were much more pronounced than usual. Still, when the door burst open and he was ordered out at gunpoint, he complied. Arguing wouldn’t achieve anything beyond getting him shot, and he wasn’t ready to go out in a blaze of glory just yet. Besides, he really needed to speak to someone in charge about the impending full moon. The Colonel hadn’t given a shit last time he’d mentioned the matter, but he hoped he might have better luck with one of the medical staff.

  They marched him at gunpoint through the compound to the steel gates, while the other prisoners looked on. The red dots of multiple laser sights danced across his chest as the gates were opened and he was ushered through to the other side, across a tarmac courtyard to where a series of Portacabins had been positioned. This make-shift arrangement of temporary buildings was what the soldiers had laughingly called ‘the infirmary’. In reality, it was nothing more than a place where the medical staff took samples from the prisoners. One of the advantages of being a werewolf was that sickness was not something they often had to worry about.

  One of the guards motioned for John to enter the building with his SA-80, and he obliged, seating himself on one of the hard, plastic chairs within. The soldier then put shackles on his wrists and ankles, securing them to the walls with heavy steel chains. John didn’t have the heart to tell them that if he changed, his werewolf form would be able to tear the flimsy walls down as if they were made of cardboard. There was no sense in antagonising his captors. Not yet, anyway. Not when he had a point to make.

  The inside of the cabin was sparely decorated. The floor was covered in green carpet tiles and a portable gas heater sat beside an old wooden desk that had seen better days. Several more plastic chairs, all different colours and styles, were scattered against one of the walls. Other than that, the building was empty. He’d seen some of the other prisoners taken to the main prison building, which he guessed had more extensive medical facilities, but so far he’d not had the pleasure of that trip, for which he was glad. Of the half-dozen prisoners that had been taken over there, none had returned. He really didn’t like to dwell on what might have happened to them.

  The door opened, letting in a blast of frigid air, and Rose Fisher strode inside. She gave John a look of undisguised contempt, shook off her coat and sat down at the desk.

  John shifted on the seat, his discomfort having very little to do with the unyielding plastic. “Doctor Fisher… Rose… I just want to say that I’m sorry for… You know…”

  Rose looked up at him and arched an eyebrow. “I know? I’m afraid that I don’t. What exactly is it that you’re sorry for? For breaking into my flat? Terrorising me and making me fear for my life? Ruining my Christmas? Or for all of the men you killed on that base?”

  He looked up at the angry woman, fixing her gaze with his. “For all of it. Apart from the killing. I didn’t kill anyone on that base. There was no other way for us to get Michael back. I wish that there had been. I wish that none of this shit had happened, but we are where we are. I just wanted you to know that I was sorry for what we did to you.”

  Rose removed a butterfly needle and two plastic bottles from the desk drawer and put on a pair of blue disposable gloves. “And that makes it all fine, does it? You’re sorry. Well, your apology is noted.” She nodded to one of the waiting soldiers, who grabbed John’s arm and pulled up the sleeve of his prison issue shirt to expose the vein at the crook of his elbow.

  Rose walked across the room and removed the needle from its sterile wrapping, then stabbed it into his arm with more force than was necessary. John winced at the sharp pain. “Doctor Fisher. There’s something else that I need to talk to you about. Something important.”

  Rose left the needle in his arm and secured it with a piece of tape, then attached a bottle to the protruding piece of plastic, all without meeting John’s gaze. “Oh? Really?”

  “Yes. Listen, it’s going to be full moon in a couple of weeks and some of the others haven’t changed since the last one. If they aren’t allowed to transform before then, we’ll all have a problem.”

  That seemed to get her attention. She looked at him as she retrieved a new plastic bottle from the tray. “And why is that, Mr Simpson?”

  John felt his stomach lurch. He hated the thought of telling these people anything about werewolves that they hadn’t already found out, but he really didn’t see he had a choice. “Every werewolf needs to transform once a month. If they don’t, then the wolf side of their nature gets restless and fights against the confinement. On the night of a full moon, the wolf is too strong for them to contain and it forces the change. But if they fight against it, they’ll end up caught in a halfway state. What the pack call a Moonstruck. They won’t have any control of themselves. They’ll lash out and kill anything they see. It’ll be a slaughter.”

  She removed the full blood bottle and replaced it with the new one. “And why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”

  “Because the other wolves won’t tell you anything. For Christ’s sake, there are kids in there. Families. And because of the bloody Reaper drones, they won’t even be able to change to defend themselves. It’s completely unnecessary. You want to study a transformation? Give everyone a safe place to do it, under controlled conditions, and you’ll get all the data you need. If you don’t, every single person in that compound will die in two weeks time.”

  Rose looked at him, scrutinising him as if he were something under a microscope, then appeared to come to a decision. She let out a sigh and nodded. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to the Colonel about it. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

  John nodded and gave her a weak half-smile. “Thank you, Rose. You have no idea how much of a relief it is to hear that you’ll try.”

  She sealed the second bottle in a bag, then glared at him. “I’m warning you now. If this is some trick, then I’ll vivisect you like a bloody lab rat.”

>   John nodded. “I promise you, Rose. No tricks. You have my word.”

  “It remains to be seen exactly what that’s worth.” She looked up to one of the soldiers. “Take Mr Simpson back to the compound, and tell Colonel Richards that I’d like to have a word with him.”

  30th December 2008. Underhill Military Base, Sub-Level Two. 21:37

  Phil leaned back on the hard, metal-framed bed and tried to calm his nerves. The complex was almost deserted now. Most of the essential personnel and equipment had been removed over the past week, ever since the decision had been made to relocate the operation to Lindholme. The frantic activity around the place had gradually eased, then come to an apparent halt. Now, instead of booted feet echoing around the corridors, the only sound was the constant thrum of the antique heating system. Every once in a while he would hear distant voices, or the slamming of a door, but for the most part he was alone. Seemingly forgotten. And that suited him just fine.

  He’d not spoken to Paul since Christmas day. When he’d encountered his former colleague in the mess hall, they had avoided each other, with not so much as a nod of recognition passing between them. Paul had been moved above ground, into one of the barrack blocks attached to the training camp. Colonel Richards hadn’t been in touch, and after a few attempts to contact him, Phil had stopped trying. He suspected the military simply didn’t know what to do with him. He had no tactical value anymore. The survivors of the Christmas Eve raids had much more current and relevant information relating to the werewolves than he did. He didn’t know enough to be considered useful, but knew too much to be allowed to leave. He was an inconvenience. A liability. And he’d had just about enough of their crap. He didn’t care what Colonel Richards said. All he wanted to do now was go home and try to pick up the pieces of his life. Get back to some sort of normality. Back to Sharon.