The Wereling 2: Prey

by Stephen Cole

  Like that’s anything new, she thought bitterly.

  Swagger’s sweaty fingers caressed the side of her neck. She wanted to gag, and thanked God when a sudden clatter echoed out across the arena and he pulled away.

  Swagger’s attention was now exclusively fixed on the old rink itself. He rubbed his hands together with childish glee. ‘Here they come.’

  Just as Kate was feeling no further tension could be wrung from her body, the sight she saw made every muscle tense up, every nerve jangle. Eric was leading ten people, none of them older than thirty, into the middle of the arena. Their footfalls built from a murmur to a rumble. Some were clutching themselves, either against the cold or with fear. Others walked along vacantly, like this was just some guided tour they were getting.

  There were all kinds of people there. Junkie-types, pencil-thin with gaunt faces. Average Joes in jeans and sweaters, staring around glumly in resigned expectation. A couple of muscle-bound types in plaid shirts. And there were two women in the little crowd, looking about edgily: one short-haired and stocky, in denim – and the other a hard-faced blonde with ratted hair, her neck spider-webbed with tattoos.

  There was something about the way they looked and moved … Slightly unfocused, jumpy – like they were coming down from taking something.

  Eric sorted them roughly into two sides, picking out people and propelling them across the concrete floor to stand together, each group facing the other. The echoes faded as they all stood still as statues, like they were trying to stare each other down in the murky light.

  ‘You expect them to start fighting?’ Kate whispered. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Uh-huh. They ain’t got a choice.’ Swagger sniggered. ‘Let combat begin, y’all!’ he yelled.

  With the words still ringing around the auditorium, Eric lurched into action. First he pushed one of the Average Joes in the first group flat on his ass, then he took a swing at the stocky woman on the opposing side. She cried out and went down. Some of the others eyed each other nervously. One of the junkie-guys just stared down at his feet, clutching his head like this nightmare would all just go away if he only wished hard enough.

  No chance. Eric whacked him in the stomach, doubled him over.

  Kate looked away, her stomach twisting, but every new shout and cry tugged her reluctant gaze back. She ended up seeing the violence as it unfolded in a series of sickening snapshots. The junkie collapsing to the concrete, clutching his head … The Average Joe running to kick him while he was down … The blonde girl raking her nails down a muscle man’s face … The stocky woman grabbing her by the throat.

  ‘C’mon!’ yelled Swagger. ‘You’re not even trying! I know what you need, people. And whoever brings Eric down gets double!’

  ‘What do they need?’ Kate asked him.

  Swagger wasn’t listening. He breathed in deep, like he was a soccer coach savouring the early morning air while his team warmed up. ‘Work together now! Good job!’ He clapped his big hand down hard on Kate’s shoulders. ‘Don’t it make you feel good?’

  You’re mad, thought Kate. You’re truly insane. But she could only sit there helplessly as the fighting grew wilder and bloodier.

  g

  g

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jasmine banged on Dr Woollard’s door so hard that Tom thought she might put her slim little fist right through the wood. He checked his watch: almost five a.m. Rico was leaning on him drowsily. In the car he had kept falling into a fitful sleep, only to wake himself again by coughing.

  They had left the stolen car a couple of blocks away and Jasmine had led the way to a shabby-looking brownstone on the fringes of Harlem, overlooking a vacant lot.

  ‘Do you often come calling so early?’ Tom asked, as Jasmine knocked even harder.

  ‘He don’t exactly keep office hours,’ she said. ‘And he ain’t always strictly sober. But he’s plenty smart. Supposed to be a genius or something.’ She frowned. ‘Least, he was once.’

  Tom heard a grumbling voice coming towards the door.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m coming …’ A bolt was thrown, then another; then a third. Finally the door opened to reveal a singularly unimpressive little man, half-dressed in a chunky brown cardigan with nothing beneath it and a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. He stared out at them blearily. His grey hair was mussed up in a dozen different directions, a wild frame for his lined and haggard face. There was a droopy look about him – as if his face and body were giving up to gravity even as you watched. But his eyes were an arresting amber colour. They transfixed you, even though clouded by sleep and drink and God knew what else.

  ‘Hey, Doc,’ said Jasmine. ‘We need you to take a look at Rico.’

  Woollard glanced down at the boy then back to Jasmine. ‘OK, I’ve seen him. Now would you mind leaving me in peace?’ His voice was gravelly but he had a refined accent, British maybe. It reminded Tom of Adam Blood’s, though that posh voice had been a put-on, a front to impress customers. Something told Tom that this man’s accent was the real thing.

  Jasmine seemed unfazed by Woollard’s attitude. ‘He’s got a howler bite, Doc, remember?’

  Woollard knitted his brows together as if trying to recall. ‘Rico … bite …’ He clicked his fingers and swayed drunkenly in the doorway. ‘Yes, of course. Rico, our little resister. Very interesting ...’

  ‘He’s just had a real bad asthma attack, too, choking and no breath, and all kinds of shit,’ Jasmine persisted.

  Woollard seemed to lose interest and began mumbling to himself. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ he announced grumpily.

  ‘Please?’ Jasmine opened her beautiful eyes as wide as they’d go. ‘I did bring you a real big bottle of JD last time.’ She smiled craftily. ‘And I might again.’

  Woollard’s eyes lit up like cigarette-ends. ‘Perhaps I am being a little ungracious,’ he said. ‘Come inside.’ With that he turned and shambled from view.

  Jasmine ushered Rico inside then turned to Tom. ‘As doctors go, he’s cheap.’

  Tom frowned. ‘He looks like he could use a little medical attention himself. You’re really going to let him examine Rico while he’s in that state?’

  ‘Listen, the sooner we get Rico checked out, the sooner we get you back to your prissy little girlfriend, OK?’

  Tom couldn’t fault that logic, and followed her into the squalid little apartment. It reeked of whisky and garlic, and there must’ve been a dozen crucifixes arranged around the walls of the entrance hall. ‘He’s expecting vampires?’ Tom asked quietly.

  Jasmine pulled out a cellphone. ‘When you’ve drunk as much as he has, guess you don’t know just what you’re gonna see next.’

  Tom nodded to the phone. ‘Are you calling Ramone?’

  Jasmine shook her head. ‘He lost his cellphone in the park, remember? Anyhow, I ain’t got no credit left. Incoming calls only.’ She hit some keys and waited. Then she sighed. ‘No messages.’

  Woollard was rooting around in a ramshackle room that was part office, part living room. A bare light bulb dangled down from a flex in the ceiling, so low that Tom nearly banged his head on it. He stepped carefully; the floor was barely visible under piles of clutter and scattered papers. The walls were covered in arcane astrological charts, wax-sealed scrolls and ancient-looking pieces of parchment packed with strange scrawls in stranger languages. Incongruous amid all this mystical bric-a-brac was a dog-eared certificate in a dirty frame; Woollard’s doctorate in science from Yale University. The document had been signed almost thirty years ago, and looked as battered and faded now as the man himself.

  Tom wondered what had happened to the bright scholar to bring him as low as this dank, drink-stinking apartment. Suddenly, he felt lonely. It was still dark through the open blinds, and he wondered where Kate was right now. Weird. He used to think first of his family when he felt low. Now it was Kate’s face that swam into his mind; that look on her face, soft and serious all at the same time …

  With a grun
t of satisfaction, Woollard finally seemed to find what he was looking for: a dirty glass. He poured himself a generous measure of Jack Daniels, then drained the glass in one gulp. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t offer you any,’ he said, looking at Jasmine and Rico in turn, ‘but you’re not over twenty-one.’ Then he squinted at Tom, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Who is this?’ he asked Jasmine.

  ‘A friend,’ she answered.

  Tom felt vaguely flattered. ‘My name’s Tom,’ he added.

  Woollard smiled coldly, then poured himself another drink. ‘You’ve noticed my unusual interior decorations?’

  ‘They’re, uh, a little hard to miss,’ Tom confirmed.

  ‘And now you think I’m just a pathetic old lush who hangs garlic around his windows and uses black magic to shore up his ruins, hmm?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Tom said uneasily.

  Woollard fixed him with those burning eyes. It was as if they alone held his vitality, and the rest of his body had quietly withered away around them. ‘There are many dark things in this city,’ he said. ‘Phantoms and fiends and creatures of the night. I’ve heard them, seen them. I’ve seen such things …’ He glared suddenly at Jasmine. ‘Sleep does not come easy to me. These charms and doctrines, fragile though they might seem, lend me a little security.’

  This time he sipped from his glass and nodded appreciatively, like he’d suddenly noticed the taste. ‘Right, let’s get down to business.’ He pushed a pile of papers from his desk and on to the floor, and pulled out some cigarette papers and a tin of tobacco from the pocket of his cardigan. ‘Rico the resolute,’ he said with a wan smile, ‘roll me a … herbal cigarette – there’s a good fellow?’

  Tom shot an alarmed look at Jasmine, but she seemed untroubled.

  Rico sat in Woollard’s scruffy old office chair and got busy with the papers. It seemed he was adept at rolling joints. Presumably this was another part of Woollard’s usual payment.

  Tom stared at the shambling doctor, astonished by his behaviour. ‘Didn’t you hear what Jasmine told you outside? Rico had an asthma attack, a bad one. If you smoke that thing, he could have another.’

  Woollard considered Rico. ‘Didn’t I get you an inhaler for your asthma once before, boy?’

  ‘Didn’t work,’ said Rico, as he finished making the cigarette. ‘Lost it.’

  ‘You have to use it regularly, you little fool,’ Woollard snapped. He knocked back the rest of his drink. ‘Now, what was it I prescribed …’ He pushed the cigarette into his pocket and closed his eyes, trying to remember. ‘Cortico-steroid inhaler, probably … Ipatropium? Did we add that to your treatment?’

  Rico shrugged.

  Woollard sighed. ‘Well, Rico. I suppose I should examine you properly, check what’s what. See how that bite’s healing, too …’ he said without much enthusiasm. ‘You know where the examination room is.’

  Rico hopped off the chair and pottered back out into the hallway. Woollard followed him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘And clearly you do,’ Tom said to Jasmine once he’d left the room. ‘Excuse him, I mean. Of a hell of a lot.’

  She shrugged, and coiled her lithe body into Woollard’s old office chair. ‘He knows about the ’wolves. He doesn’t ask questions. And he helps us all he can.’

  ‘Because you bribe him with booze.’

  ‘Stolen whisky’s cheaper than medical insurance,’ she said, yawning.

  Tom shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you actually leave Rico alone with him!’

  ‘Rico likes him. Woollard ain’t no freak, he don’t mess around touching your privacy,’ said Jasmine, her dark eyes flashing. ‘He’s just in bad times. We don’t all get lucky in life, Tommy-boy.’

  That’s for sure, thought Tom. Then he heard a voice, low and furtive-sounding: Woollard. He strained to hear; he’d learned that if he focused hard enough, he was able to summon his more sensitive lupine hearing to his human form.

  ‘I see …’ Woollard was saying quietly. ‘What are your instructions?’ A tinny, scratchy voice answered from the other end of a phone line, but Tom couldn’t quite make out the words. ‘Yes, that makes sense. Can you get your hands on some?’

  ‘Jasmine,’ Tom hissed. ‘Woollard’s making a call in there. Come on, let’s listen in.’

  Though puzzled, she moved quietly as a cat, creeping out after him into the hall.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got what you’ve been waiting for.’ Woollard’s voice was clear enough through the door for Jasmine to hear every word. ‘Ready for delivery. Will you pick up or shall I arrange for them to be delivered?’

  Tom gripped Jasmine lightly by the arm. ‘This is a trap,’ he whispered. ‘Woollard’s selling us out!’

  Her face darkened. ‘Who to?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s got Rico in there!’ Tom pressed his ear to the Examination Room door, but still couldn’t decipher the voice on the phone. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ He gripped the handle, ready to throw open the door.

  g

  Kate felt colder than she’d ever felt in her life. A big knot had formed in her throat as she watched Eric grapple with a succession of screaming opponents. She turned to Swagger in shocked disbelief. ‘Isn’t he supposed to be your friend or something?’

  ‘Sure. But he’s got a lesson to learn.’ He gave her a crooked smile, then scratched the pustules around his mouth with his dirty fingers. ‘It’s OK. Eric can look after himself.’

  ‘When it’s ten against one?’ Kate muttered.

  But Swagger seemed to be right. Eric was kicking and punching and knocking heads together like a cut-price Jackie Chan, smashing his way through his opponents, sending them reeling. What he lacked in fancy moves he made up for in raw violence.

  ‘Yup,’ Swagger chuckled. ‘No need to worry ’bout Eric.’

  It seemed the odds were lessening. Kate stared in disbelief at the antics of another Average Joe hovering at the periphery of the fighting. Each time Eric knocked one of Joe’s rivals to the ground, Joe would scuttle in and try to finish them off. But the third time he tried it was the last. He’d picked on the stocky woman, who lunged for him, screaming, hands reaching for his throat.

  Swagger turned to Kate. ‘Think we should let ol’ Eric off the hook now, baby?’

  Kate stared at him, helplessly. She wanted no part in this, no responsibility for what happened to any of these wretched people.

  But Swagger took her silence for tacit approval. ‘OK, warm-up’s over. Forget Eric,’ he commanded, ‘and forget any bonus. Stick with your team, now. Bring down your opponents – if you want what’s waiting …’

  What the hell was waiting for these people, Kate wondered. What could be worth all this?

  Eric stood back, folded his burly arms and watched as the teams regrouped, panting and gasping, clutching at wounds, wiping blood and sweat from their faces. Then they were bawling and yelling as they bundled together to fight, eyes wild and limbs flailing.

  Make it stop! Kate wanted to scream at Swagger. Stop this senseless stupidity now! But she knew from the maniacal glint in his eyes that nothing she could say would make the slightest difference to him – and it might seal her own fate. She buried her face in her hands as the fighting between the two teams grew even more savage; as the screams got louder and crimson stains bloomed on the cracked concrete floor.

  Swagger started to whoop and catcall. Against her better judgement Kate found herself morbidly drawn to see why. Someone was trying to limp away from the struggle, one of the muscle-bound types – he looked the part of a modern-day gladiator but clearly had no stomach to play any longer. The tattooed blonde was sprawled on the ground, roaring at him to come back and fight. Her body was shaking, twitching. With horrified fascination, Kate saw that a thick, pale pelt was bristling out from her darkening skin.

  ‘It’s ’wolf time,’ cackled Swagger, wiping the mirth from his eyes.

  Maybe it was the anger, the fear, the desperation that was palpable in the arena
– but the woman wasn’t the only one turning ’wolf. Like a yawn being passed on to someone watching, the other fighters began to change too, shucking off their humanity with their bloodied clothes, crouching and yowling. Flesh furred over as lupine cells coursed through their bodies. Bones and ligaments crunched and snapped as they reformed. Lupine eyes shone the same dull, glassy gold as the lights that slow-burned up above.

  Only Eric stayed standing on two legs, arms still folded, an impassive, detached observer.

  The blonde woman’s lupine form was a ragged, scrawny-looking creature. Kate could see welts in the beast’s back from the fighting, and one of her legs was damaged, but she could still run at a frightening speed. The muscle man didn’t stand a chance. He let out a scream, then went down, his body hidden from view by the ’wolf’s bulk. The grunts as she fed on her prey were amplified by the distorting acoustics in the arena.

  Kate couldn’t keep silent any longer. ‘This isn’t a contest,’ she stormed, ‘it’s a slaughter. Murder!’

  ‘It’s survival of the fittest,’ said Swagger, looking at her oddly. ‘These punks soon learn: they’re stronger if they fight as a team. That’s what all this is about. That’s what we gotta make them see.’

  With a chill, Kate saw he was right. The human skirmishes had been scrappy, frantic affairs, but the pack instinct was more dominant in the lupine state. The ’wolves were working together in their factions. Two of the beasts had brought down a third, their great paws pressing down on the creature’s neck. Another was methodically herding its wounded opponent towards the slavering jaws of its waiting ally, blocking any attempt to pass, forcing it back.

  The fight was clearly coming to an end. Two men and the stocky woman lay twisted and still in their own congealing blood. A ’wolf lay twitching on its side, barely breathing; long gashes scored the length of its body. Three victorious lupines sat hunched over their vanquished opponents, as if waiting for something.

  Kate realised they were looking to Swagger.