Blood Moon

by Graeme Reynolds

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the transformation stopped. She felt clumsy, uncoordinated, as she pushed herself up on her four legs. Her senses were alive and she struggled to process the massive amount of information flooding through her mind. Individual heartbeats of not only the others in this building, but in the adjacent ones. Thick animal scents she couldn’t identify. Her body felt energised. Powerful in ways she could never have imagined. Sharon had never felt so alive in her entire life.

  Then she remembered Mandy. She turned to her niece and let out a yelp of terror as the girl beside her stood up on two legs instead of four, then let out a savage roar of pain and rage.

  Chapter 23

  11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:30

  Phil struggled against his bonds and did his level best to ignore the terrible sounds coming from behind him. His heart raced in his chest as adrenaline flooded his system. He had no idea whether Steven Wilkinson was able to control the transformation. From what he remembered from the hospital reports, the old man had escaped on two legs instead of four, which meant that he was in serious trouble. And that was before he factored in whatever was happening to those soldiers on the beds. One thing was clear. The sedative Doctor Channing had given them was no longer in effect. They could, of course, simply become what the Doctor had intended – enhanced versions of themselves, ready to fight the werewolves on their own terms. Somehow he doubted that. The chances of a lunatic playing with the genetics of the werewolf transformation resulting in anything other than something ungodly were remote to say the least.

  The cable ties were not budging. Doctor Channing had done a pretty impressive job of immobilising him. The vinyl straps were not breaking any time soon, and the wet sticky sensation on his wrists told him that his body was going to break before they did. Plus, making yourself bleed in a room full of monsters was probably not the best idea in the world. He couldn’t let this happen. There was no sodding way he was going to let himself get torn to pieces tied to this damned wooden chair.

  One last desperate thought occurred to him. If he couldn’t break the cable ties then perhaps he’d have more luck with the chair. It creaked beneath him as he wriggled, so it was certainly not the sturdiest piece of furniture ever made. And he was not a small man. Whatever was going on behind him was going to end any second, and when that happened, he would be out of time. If he was going to do something, it had to be right now.

  He managed to get into a crouching position then threw himself with all his strength to the left, away from where Steven’s transformation was coming to its conclusion. The impact jarred him to the bone, but he was rewarded with a loud crack and the splintering of wood. The chair had survived his initial assault, but he’d definitely weakened it. He stood again and threw his entire body weight against it. That did the trick. The chair fell apart beneath him, shattering into long, sharp wooden spikes. Phil rolled over onto his stomach and scrambled to his feet with pieces of the chair still secured to his limbs. Then he saw what Doctor Channing had created and felt what little hope he had left drain out of him.

  The creatures that had once been soldiers were horrific. Twisted, misshapen things in shredded military uniforms. The transformation had not gone well. Corded muscles rippled beneath pale, hairless skin. Mouths filled with rows of blade-sharp fangs, sending rivulets of blood trickling across their chins and down their torsos. Fingers tipped with vicious talons. Eyes blazed with pain, hunger and utter malevolence. They weren’t werewolves. Whatever Doctor Channing had done had removed a lot of the wolf from whatever they were, but not all of it. Not by a long shot. And every single one of them was looking directly at him.

  Then he remembered Steven. He flicked his eyes to his left, dreading what he might find, and while seeing the old hunter on four legs instead of two was a relief, it did little to assuage the absolute numbing terror that left him rooted to the spot. His fight or flight response was conflicted and he was frozen – unable to think of a single course of action that could save his life, or put an end to the monstrosities before him.

  Steven let out a guttural roar and launched himself across the room towards where the creatures crouched. Time seemed to slow. The werewolf was fast and incredibly powerful, but the beast that had been Sergeant Jayne Peyton caught him in mid-flight and simply swatted him away. Steven sailed ten feet through the air and crashed into the pile of chemical containers next to Phil, rupturing them and spraying the toxic substances across the laboratory. Smoke curled from Steven’s fur, and the stink of the solvents made Phil’s head spin. The air was thick with the odour of ethanol, and he realised he was going to lose consciousness very quickly. This was it. Steven was hopelessly outmatched by the things Doctor Channing had created. They would tear them both apart then rampage through the rest of the complex, slaughtering everything they came into contact with. He was going to die. The only choice remaining was how he met his death. He looked at Steven, and in that brief meeting of the eyes, they both understood each other. Man and beast.

  “Save my wife, Steven,” he said, and pulled his cigarette lighter from his pocket. As Steven launched himself through the medical centre windows and the creatures surged across the laboratory towards him, Phil struck the flint. He was going to get his cleansing fire after all.

  ***

  John struggled to his feet, despite the pain. His wounds were already healing, but as he moved, he could feel the red hot shards of shrapnel cutting into his flesh and slicing through his ruptured organs. His wolf roared in pain and outrage, wanting to lash out at the enemy that had inflicted so much appalling damage to it, but finding no immediate target for its wrath. It would get its chance, assuming the snipers didn’t manage to get him in their sights first.

  He realised the snipers were the least of his worries. The air was filled with the furious roars of newly turned moonstruck werewolves and the sporadic crackle of gunfire as the panicked soldiers began opening fire at anything moving within the compound. Four missiles had been fired at transforming wolves by the perimeter fences, including the one that had caught him in the blast. The ploy had worked, however. Each of the high explosive charges had utterly destroyed the fences and, in one case, had brought the wooden sniper post beside it crashing to the ground. They had a way out now, but they needed to act before the Reapers could come around for another pass and before the military personnel could organise themselves.

  The pack wolves stayed in formation at the rear of the compound, waiting for those newly turned who had not gone moonstruck to join them. Once they’d gathered as many survivors as they could, the plan was to make a break across the open countryside before reinforcements could arrive. John was very aware that all it would take was for a helicopter gunship or two to turn up for their plan to lie in tatters.

  The door to Moonstruck Mansion exploded outwards in a hail of wooden splinters, and dark shapes began to pour from the building. John had hoped that the moonstruck would fight among themselves before escaping the building, but it seemed the animal instinct to escape captivity was stronger than even the urge to kill. For now at least. He needed to get as far away from them as possible. He was strong – stronger than most other werewolves. From what Daniel had told him, he’d dispatched two of the pack’s most highly trained killers without breaking a sweat at Finchale Abbey. But against this many moonstruck, even he wouldn’t stand a chance. Especially not when he was still recovering from his injuries. His body was pushing the shrapnel out, but it was a long, slow and painful process. He needed to buy himself a little time.

  The main gates opened and a squad of soldiers swarmed through, firing as they went. Against most opposition, this would have been devastating, and their silver bullets scythed through the charging moonstruck with deadly effect, but they were overwhelmed in seconds, their lives ending in screams of terror and the tearing of flesh. The air was filled with the stench of gunpowder and blood, almost sending his own wolf into a frenzy. More troops emerged from the b
arracks, filling the air with silver, slowing the monsters down. The moonstruck were forced to filter through the open gates, and being funnelled through such a confined area meant the soldiers could concentrate their fire. The moonstruck people of High Moor were cut down by the dozen, their shattered bodies piled high in the snow. Still, some escaped the initial onslaught and covered the distance to the soldiers. Then the screaming began anew.

  John knew their window for action was limited, growing smaller by the second. These few brave, doomed men would not stem the tide of the moonstruck for long, and Colonel Richards, having seen what sort of mess a werewolf could do to trained military personnel, would not have left anything to chance. There would be reinforcements coming. Most likely in something that was impenetrable to teeth and claws. Like a helicopter gunship. Or a tank. Worryingly, though, so far, not one newly transformed werewolf had emerged from the other three huts. He tried to focus his senses on the closest, but there was too much noise and too much blood in the air for him to make out anything specific in the building.

  He struggled to his feet and made a decision. He needed to get whoever was left out of those buildings and fast. He knew that not everyone in the other huts would have managed to transform properly. There would be moonstruck in there with them, of that there was no doubt. And, as those who retained their minds struggled with the influx of sensory information, the moonstruck would tear them apart. Ignoring the agony of his ruptured insides and the buzzing of high velocity silver rounds whizzing past him, he raced across the compound to where the first of the wooden shelters stood. He didn’t stand on ceremony and threw his entire weight against the door, shattering it into kindling as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood.

  He brought himself up short as he surveyed the interior of the building and cursed himself for being so stupid. He was too late. Perhaps twenty eviscerated corpses were spread over the walls, floor and beds – it was hard to tell because their destruction had been so absolute. He took all of this in in a fraction of a second because his attention was drawn to the other occupants of the wooden hut. Moonstruck werewolves. Around thirty of them. Every single one of them regarding him with a look of utter feral rage.

  ***

  Sharon looked up at the towering monster that had been her niece, trying to find some fragment of recognition in those blazing yellow eyes, some hint that Mandy knew who she was, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing of the young girl remaining in the creature before her. Mandy was lost. A small, insignificant voice trapped within the consciousness of the werewolf.

  The beast was nightmarish. Sharon had thought the monsters that had slaughtered so many on New Year’s Eve in High Moor had been bad, but she understood now that they had been nothing at all compared to what she faced now. It stood almost seven feet tall, with corded muscles moving with liquid ease beneath thick brown fur. Its hands were still roughly human shaped, but were elongated and misshapen, with a vicious curved talon at the end of each finger. Ragged triangular ears protruded from the side of its head, flattened against the fur in aggression, while the long snout that had once been her niece’s pretty face wrinkled in a snarl, with black lips pulled back to reveal glinting ivory fangs the length of Sharon’s forefinger. A howl rang out from somewhere behind her – a joyous lament filled with anger and loss. Another beast joined the chorus. Then another. And another. Then Mandy threw her head back and let out a long, pained wail that broke Sharon’s heart. She knew, at that moment, at least half of the occupants of her hut were like Mandy. Savage, unreasoning monsters that would kill without pity or remorse. To remain here would seal her fate. As the chorus of howling reached its crescendo, Sharon bunched her muscles and launched herself into the air, twisting mid-flight so that her clawed feet connected with Mandy’s chest, using the moonstruck as a springboard to propel herself straight towards the window.

  The glass exploded in a shower of razor fragments, each seeming to slice through Sharon’s flesh in a brief but painful burst of discomfort. She barely noticed them, and the wounds had healed before she landed on the snow-covered ground outside. The air was filled with the smell of blood and smoke, mingling with the sound of gunfire and screaming to form a terrible tapestry of sensation that threatened to overwhelm her. For a moment, she struggled to process it all, wanting nothing more than to find somewhere quiet and dark until she could make sense of it. Then she remembered what the others had told her. Get out of the building. Join up with the others. Rely on the strength of numbers to survive.

  She took a few tentative steps away from the hut, her mind struggling to co-ordinate movement on four legs instead of two. Then the wall of the hut seemed to fly apart as Mandy hurled herself at the wooden barrier between them.

  Sharon wanted nothing more at that point than to run to the others, but she knew if she did, with Mandy in pursuit, her niece would inflict terrible damage on the pack werewolves. They were no match for her individually, and worse, as a group, they would most likely tear Mandy to pieces. And Matthew was with the others. She could not – would not – lead this monster back to her young nephew and put him in danger. If Mandy hurt him, assuming she survived the night, she would never forgive herself. That only left her with one option. Sharon turned to face the monster that had once been the young girl she’d loved from the moment she was born. She tensed her muscles, curled back her lips into a growl and launched herself into the attack.

  ***

  Paul Patterson checked his weapon for the fourth or fifth time and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He hated flying. Even the few rare commercial flights he’d taken had terrified him to the point of gripping the armrests on take-off and landing. And the experience of being crammed into an RAF Merlin helicopter with thirty fully armed Special Forces soldiers was about as far removed from a comfortable commercial flight as it was possible to get. He was in the lead helicopter, along with Colonel Richards and any troops with first-hand experience of fighting werewolves. The other four aircraft followed behind in a tight formation. Each carrying thirty combat ready soldiers within their steel bellies, plus two men manning the heavy machine guns on either side. One hundred and fifty of the most highly trained men in the British armed forces against God knows how many werewolves. Somehow it didn’t feel like nearly enough.

  Colonel Richards’ mood had not improved since they had become airborne. He screamed orders into his headset and was becoming increasingly agitated. The thermobaric bomb was supposed to have taken care of the problem once and for all, but the C-130 carrying it had crashed into an industrial estate on the southern fringes of Doncaster with no one seeming to have any idea as to how or why. At least the airburst weapon had not actually gone off or a large portion of the city would have been levelled. Paul understood the reasons, politically at least, why they’d had to wait until moonrise before wiping the cursed inhabitants of High Moor out, but as far as he was concerned, it had been a ridiculous decision, motivated more by their new interim Prime Minister’s desire to hold on to power than practicality. They should have simply walked through the compound, gunning down every single creature inside it while they were still human. Even if they’d held off with the High Moor survivors, they should have at least taken out the pack werewolves. The whole operation was a massive clusterfuck. A balls-up of the highest magnitude. The men in the choppers were supposed to have been a mop-up squad. A massive show of strength to deal with any stragglers or anything else that somehow survived the explosion. Now it seemed barely adequate at best. Pitifully outmatched at worst.

  Colonel Richards’ face turned a darker shade of crimson as he bellowed into the radio. “I don’t give a damn about that. Where are my fucking Apaches? Well, what’s their ETA? Forty five minutes? Forty five bloody minutes? What the hell were they doing in Wattisham? I know it’s in fucking Suffolk! What I don’t understand is why my air support is half way across the bloody country. What about the drones? I know there are dozens of targets. Well, aim for the biggest bloody grou
ps of them! Yes! Now!” He shook his head in disgust and turned to the assembled soldiers. “We will be onsite in two minutes. I want a fast deployment, form up in squads and shoot anything that moves. The Merlins will stay on station with the machine gunners providing support and taking out any creatures that breach the perimeter. I need you to go in hard, fast and without any mercy whatsoever. If you hesitate for even a fraction of a second, these things will tear you apart. Are we clear?”

  The troops turned to face the Colonel and shouted “Sir, yes, Sir!” as one.

  Paul checked his weapon one last time and couldn’t help but grin. There would be no prisoners. No capture and retrieval. Not this time. They were finally going to put these monsters down, once and for all. “Fucking payback time,” he whispered under his breath. Damn, if he wasn’t looking forward to this.

  Chapter 24

  11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:34

  Steven saw the look on Phil’s face and understood what his friend intended to do. His every instinct screamed at him that they could find another way. That there had to be something they’d overlooked. Some way they could escape from the monstrosities advancing towards them. There wasn’t. As fast and as powerful as he was, just one of those abominations had swatted him aside as if he were a child. They were faster than him. Immeasurably stronger. And completely insane. Their twisted faces held nothing of the people they had been a few short minutes ago. There was a malevolent intelligence there to be sure, but they were devoid of anything approaching compassion or reason. They terrified Steven more than any werewolf he’d ever faced. Just one of them outmatched him by more than he wanted to think about. And there were six of them. Phil was right. They had to be stopped, and there was no way they were both getting out of here alive.