Blood Moon

by Graeme Reynolds

  Marie’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean, John? John is dead. I saw him gunned down when we broke Michael out.”

  Rose shook her head. “They hit him with enough tranquiliser to put an elephant out then locked him up with the others. He’s alive and well – for now at least. In twenty four hours it won’t matter though. They’ve got two Reaper drones circling the place at high altitude, ready to drop a missile on anyone that even looks like changing before then, and there are still enough soldiers on station to make short work of any uprising. I don’t know what your plan is, but whatever you’re intending to do, you’ll have to do it soon. I’ve seen fuel-air bombs used in Iraq. There’s not a lot left afterwards.”

  Marie’s emotions were in turmoil. She’d suspected the military would have some plan in place, but she never expected something so brutally efficient. And John was still alive. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and the thought both excited and terrified her. If she failed here, she’d lose him all over again. She’d been detached in many ways, believing that she no longer had any personal stake in proceedings beyond guilt and obligation. Now that had changed. Everything had. She’d hoped to use the chaos of the newly transformed moonstruck to her advantage, but now that option was denied to her. She felt lost, unsure of what the hell she could do to prevent the slaughter.

  Daniel seemed to sense her concerns. “Don’t worry, Marie. I have a plan. Come on, I’ll walk you through it.”

  10th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 16:15

  Mandy watched the last golden sliver of the setting sun slip beneath the horizon and stifled a sob. That was it. The last time she’d ever see daylight and still be able to pretend she was a human being. Perhaps the last time she’d see the sun, full stop. She wasn’t alone in her observation. Almost all of the survivors of High Moor had maintained a similar vigil, either standing at the windows of their accommodation or in small groups outside. Every single one of them wore an expression of hopelessness and fear. In some respects, despite their surroundings and the constant training from the more experienced werewolves they were locked up with, they’d been able to push the impending transformation, and the awful knowledge of what was to come, out of their minds. Last night had been the worst so far though. The moon had almost been full and she’d felt that awful, alien thing within her stir – gnawing at the edge of her consciousness. Testing her. Probing for weaknesses in the defences she’d been putting up. It left her in no doubt whatsoever that when the moon rose tonight there would be nothing she could do to hold it back.

  Oh, she’d listened to everything John Simpson and the others had told her. Tried to feel comfortable with the monster that lurked in the depths of her mind. It hadn’t worked, though. She’d done her best to appear calm and act as if the lectures and exercises had been effective – the alternative was to be banished to what the others had started calling Moonstruck Mansion; to join the ones who were, in all likelihood, going to die awful, violent deaths when the change tore through them. Almost seventy men, women and children, some as young as eight years old, who would transform into ravening beasts in just a few hours’ time. People like her. She knew some of them. A few classmates from her school. Mrs Matthews from the end of her street. Even now, it didn’t seem real to her. Like some horrible story she’d been told. In other respects it felt as if she teetered on the edge of an abyss. A deep, dark hole that contained terrible things. Hungry, savage things with razor sharp teeth and vicious claws, designed to rip and tear through flesh.

  John Simpson and the other pack wolves strode over to the centre of the courtyard, then a few she recognised, Sonja, Kasha, Dmitri and a few others, broke off and headed towards the buildings. After a few seconds, the door to her hut opened and Sonja stood there. “Come on. We need to talk to you. All of you. No exceptions.”

  Without waiting for a response, the woman turned on her heels and marched to the next wooden hut. Mandy sighed, retrieved her jacket (not that it would make much difference to the freezing January air outside) and filed out with the others. They shuffled into a large group and stood in front of Simpson. She pushed her way through the crowd until she found her Auntie Sharon, who stood on the periphery of the group, holding little Matthew’s hand. It took a few more minutes for everyone to assemble. Even those condemned to Moonstruck Mansion were present, although they kept their distance from the others, huddling together and casting hurt, angry looks at their friends and neighbours who’d seemingly condemned them.

  When everyone was present, Simpson raised his hands. “Alright. I’m not going to sugar coat this. Tonight is the night that we’ve been preparing for. It’s going to be dangerous. Not everyone here will live to see tomorrow morning. But some of us will. Those of you who manage to keep your heads, stay calm, and no matter how scared you are, and no matter how much the change hurts, just find it within yourselves to go with it. You can’t fight this. Fighting is the absolute worst thing you can do.”

  He turned to look at the smaller group. “Those of you in the first cabin, know that you are only there for the safety of everyone else. You’ve had the same instruction. When the change completes and you find that you are able to think for yourself, get the hell out of there. Go through a window, door or wall. Find the fastest route out of that building and come find the rest of us. We’ll be back against the furthest set of huts, as far away from the main gate as we can get. The same goes for the rest of you. You change, get to the rest of us. We have the drones and the soldiers to contend with, and honestly, it’s going to be loud, terrifying and dangerous, but if we stand together, we all have a chance. No more than that, but a chance all the same. There is no difference between us. After tonight, those that make it through will understand. The moon will rise at half past three in the morning. Be ready for it. Be safe. And if you see the person next to you get up from the change on two legs instead of four, get the hell away from them. We’ll be around for the remainder of the night, and if you want to talk, or have any questions, then ask us. I want all of us to get through tonight. We’re family now, whether we like it or not. And all we have is each other.”

  Simpson turned and walked away from the group, with most of the pack wolves following behind him. Sonja and little Sophie held back until the crowd began to disperse, then walked over to where Mandy and her family stood. Auntie Sharon leaned down and hugged Matthew tight. “Sweetie, I need you to go with Sonja and Sophie now.”

  Matthew held her tight. “I don’t wanna. I want to stay here with you and Mandy.”

  Sharon stroked her nephew’s hair. “I know, honey, but it’s only for a little while. Until tomorrow morning. They’ll keep you safe.”

  Sophie stepped forward and took Matthew’s hand. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Like a sleepover. Plus we’ll get to stay up really late.”

  Matthew detached himself from his aunt and gave them both a long, solemn stare. “Just for tonight? And you both promise that you’ll be alright?”

  Mandy did her best to smile, then leaned down and kissed her brother on the forehead. “Of course we are, you little snot. Now go. Do you really want to see everyone in our hut without their clothes on?”

  Matthew wrinkled his nose. “Ew! No! That’s just gross,” and allowed himself to be led away with Sophie and her mother.

  Mandy and Sharon stood and watched them walk across the compound until they vanished through the door of the furthest building. Then Sharon turned to Mandy and took her hands. The older woman’s eyes were damp with tears, but despite this she managed to force a smile. “Alright, kiddo. Just you and me now. Come on, let’s get back inside and go through those exercises again.”

  Mandy nodded, knowing it to be pointless, but humouring her aunt anyway. The last thing she wanted to do was add to her worries. Sharon seemed to sense her niece’s concern. “Mandy, we’re going to get through this. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Mandy forced a smile, but knew deep down that everything w
as not all right. After tonight, things would never be all right again.

  11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 01:45

  Phil checked his watch and swore under his breath. He was cutting things fine. Too bloody fine, he knew. He’d promised Rose that he’d find Steven and get the hell out of there before midnight. But he wasn’t going anywhere without Sharon and the kids. There was not a chance in hell. He’d do what he could for Steven, he owed the old man that much, and from what little Rose had told him, there was no way he could leave his friend to such a terrible fate. But his wife, nephew and niece were the only family he had. The only people left on this planet that he gave a flying fuck about. He would get them to safety or die trying, even if the latter option seemed the more likely of the two.

  He’d spent the evening pacing the small room he’d been locked up in, trying to recall the layout of the camp. Desperately trying to formulate some sort of plan that would get them all out of there without being gunned down by the soldiers left on duty, or vaporised by the thermobaric explosive that was, in all likelihood, already in the air.

  The prison had gone quiet since the turn of midnight, as if the concrete walls themselves were holding their breaths in anticipation. He had an hour and forty five minutes until the moon rose. An hour and forty five minutes until the survivors of High Moor began to twist and transform into the very monsters that had slaughtered their loved ones. A little over one hundred minutes until everyone within a mile of Lindholme perished in searing fire. He hoped that, this close to the event, all eyes would be turned towards the compound. Chances were, once he got Steven, the two of them could slip away undetected without too much trouble. Assuming Steven was in any state to walk. Rose hadn’t gone into detail, but he got the impression that whatever was being done to the old werewolf hunter was unpleasant to say the least. He hoped he’d be okay. If nothing else, he was going to need all the help he could get if he stood a chance of breaking into the compound and getting his family out of there in one piece. He had a few ideas, but really that was all they were. Ideas. Nothing resembling a plan. Hell, they were barely concepts, but they were all he had to go on. Phil had never been one for winging it. His career as a police officer had been based on applying methodology and observing the facts – a far cry from what he was intending to do tonight.

  He removed Rose’s key card from beneath his pillow, used it to unlock the door to his cell, then pushed the door open a fraction of an inch and listened. Nothing. The prison was as silent as a tomb – an analogy that didn’t exactly reassure him. He waited for another few moments, straining his ears for the slightest hint of guards walking the corridors, and when he heard nothing more than the groan of the prison’s antique heating system, pushed the door open and slipped out into the corridor.

  He remembered his failed attempt to escape from Underhill a few short weeks ago, and wondered if he’d suffer the same fate as last time. If it was Paul who intercepted him this time around, he hoped he’d be able to talk some sense into him. Following orders without question was one thing, but suicide was something else entirely. Not that his former friend would mind that either, he supposed. He was a different man these days. Not surprising given the circumstances, and at least his new role as Colonel Richards’ go-to psychopath seemed to have pulled him back from the brink somewhat. Given him a purpose, even if it was nothing more than vengeance. Still, Phil hoped his former colleague would survive the night. No matter what had happened between them over the last few weeks, he still considered Paul a friend, and would warn him if he could. If he tried to stop him, however, Phil knew he would kill him without hesitation. When his life was weighed against Sharon’s, it barely registered.

  Phil reached the metal doors leading to the medical facility, swiped Rose’s key card through the magnetic lock and stepped inside before anyone noticed him. This corridor was as empty as the last. A fluorescent tube flickered halfway down the bare concrete walls, and beneath the overpowering stench of pine disinfectant was another smell. The familiar sickly sweet stink of decay. What the hell was going on down here?

  He decided the time for caution was long past and hurried through the double doors at the end of the passageway. The smell almost brought him to his knees and he had to put his hand over his mouth to prevent himself from gagging.

  The room was more like an abattoir than a medical facility. The stench of rot mingled with the distinctive ammoniac tang of urine and faeces, permeating everything until the air almost felt as if it had a texture. Dried black blood covered every surface. Long drag marks stretched across the floor, only to vanish behind the plastic curtains around each bed. Phil had to check his watch to make certain that the moon had not risen because the supposed laboratory looked as if a slaughter had taken place here, but it was still only a little after two. Whatever monster had been at work here, it was decidedly human in nature. He dreaded to think what such a man might have done to his friend, and hurried to the last bed, not wanting to waste another second in this awful place. He ripped the curtains back and was unable to stifle the cry that burst from him.

  Steven Wilkinson’s body was laid open before him. The bastard had performed an autopsy on him while he was still alive. Phil could see the weak flutter of the old man’s heart. The slight rise and fall of his lungs through the shattered ribcage. Whatever damage Connie Hamilton had done to him was nothing compared to this. In fact, it looked as if the wounded flesh and bone had actually been cut out, then placed in an array of glass jars on the shelf above him. Blood-stained silver clamps held his friend’s body open, preventing the terrible wounds from healing. Steven’s eyes flickered open, but didn’t seem to be able to focus on Phil at all. Hardly surprising, considering the pain he must be in. That he was alive at all was nothing short of a miracle.

  “Motherfucker!” Phil hissed through his teeth. He had no idea how the hell he was going to get Steven out of here in this state. If he sat him up, his guts would simply slop out across the bed. Perhaps it would be a mercy to let him die here when the bomb fell. Get the hell out and focus on saving Sharon, Mandy and little Matthew. He turned to leave, but stopped. He couldn’t. There was no way he was leaving Steven in this state for another second, let alone another hour and a half. He’d do what he could for him, even if it meant putting him out of his misery.

  He winced and fought the rising wave of nausea, then reached forward and began removing the silver clamps that held Steven’s torso open. Each jingled like the peal of a bell as they bounced off the filthy tiled floor. When he was almost halfway through his gristly task, Phil noticed that Steven’s wounds were healing. They were healing fast. Bones began to regrow to replace those that had been cut away. Flesh and muscle knitted themselves together. The silver had suppressed Steven’s healing ability, but once removed, his repair mechanisms kicked into overdrive. He remembered how quickly Connie had recovered after Rick shot her in the face and shuddered. In his confinement, he’d almost forgotten how formidable a werewolf could be. How quickly their bodies could recover from catastrophic damage. And now the wounds that Connie inflicted had been removed, even those areas were reforming. It wouldn’t take too long before Steven Wilkinson was back to his old self, as fit as he’d been the night he’d broken into Phil’s house and told him what he was facing.

  But even the time it would take for the old man to recover was more than Phil had to spare. He couldn’t wait for Steven to recover. He needed to get to Sharon – find some way of getting them out of here before they were turned to ash. He leaned forward. “Steven, its Phil. They’re going to bomb this place flat in about an hour and a half. Get the hell out of here if you can. Turn right when you get out of the room and just keep going. I’ve got to get my wife.”

  A hand grabbed Phil’s wrist as he turned to leave. He looked back, and Steven’s eyes were open. Despite the agony he must be in, the werewolf hunter managed a half smile, then nodded a thank you. Phil returned the gesture then stepped out from behind the
curtain into the laboratory.

  To find a small, greasy-haired man in a filthy lab coat pointing a gun at him.

  “Mr Fletcher. I’m Doctor Channing. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Chapter 22

  11th January 2009. Peak District National Park. 03:15

  Squadron Leader Ryan Lockwood checked his watch. It was time. He’d been in the air for almost two hours now, essentially doing laps of the National Park at twenty five thousand feet. It made sense. The area was in relatively close proximity to the target and sparsely populated. They could be on station in less than ten minutes when the order came through from Brize Norton. The order that he honestly hoped would not come.

  He was conflicted about his mission. He’d been a career pilot for more than twenty years now, had seen action in both Gulf Wars and had flown missions in so many minor conflicts and skirmishes that he struggled to tally them all up. This one was different, though. He understood the rationale behind it. The absolute necessity of containing the werewolf threat and preventing any further outbreaks. He understood that the infected survivors of High Moor were no longer human and were as much of a threat as the creatures that spawned them. Even so, using a weapon as appalling as the one currently nestled in his cargo hold on UK soil, against not only the werewolves but the soldiers stationed at Lindholme, unsettled him. The American made GBU-43/B was the most devastating non-nuclear weapon in existence. One thing was certain. There would be nothing left alive anywhere near Lindholme once he deployed it.

  He turned on his radio. “Delta Papa Three Zero this is Ascot Four Six Three One. We are zero five two kilometres from objective, on a heading of zero zero five degrees. Request authorisation to commence operation.”

  The radio crackled into life. “Roger Ascot Four Six Three One. Proceed to target on a heading of zero three five degrees. Mission is a go, I repeat, mission is a go.”