The Kielder Strain: A Science Fiction Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  23

  A fitful night of dreadful dreams has left Javeen tired and edgy. She’d woken on more than one occasion with a start, sure that something was scratching at her back door, and even gone down to check that all her doors and windows were locked, and the curtains fully drawn. She’d taken a knife from the block on the kitchen counter to bed with her and laid it under her pillow. Now, sitting across from Emily Carmichael, listening to her tale of a ‘wolfman’ leaping over Laura Anderson’s wall in the small hours, is doing nothing for her nerves. Javeen sits across from the elderly lady and waits. The woman is slow to talk, her words slurred, though she’s determined to tell her story. She takes another gasp of oxygen then reaches a shaky hand to the bedside table for the glass of water. Javeen watches the hand, long and bony with skin that looks as though it will tear if touched, reach out with agonising slowness. She takes the glass and hands it to the woman. The woman takes a sip, leans back and nurses the glass on her lap. This is the third report of a strange creature marauding through the village that they’ve had this morning. Javeen holds her pencil aloft until she realises her hand is trembling.

  “It jumped over the wall.” Emily points a crooked finger to the neighbour’s house. “That wall is five-foot tall, but it jumped over it like a high jumper at the Olympics.”

  “Could you tell me what it looked like?”

  “Yes. It was naked, but hairy, and it was a man.” Emily cackles. “Oh, my. It’s been a long time since I saw a bit of tackle that big.” She leans forward and whispers in conspiratorial tones. “That’s the one thing I regret, lass; not having more sex when I was young enough.” She sighs and leans back into her pillow. “It’s too late now though. I’ll be off up there soon.” She pokes her bent finger to the ceiling. “Cyril’s waiting for me, you know. He’s been to tell me not to be long.”

  The hair on Javeen’s neck creeps. Wolfmen and the dead visiting the living were not what she signed up for. Emily leans back and closes her eyes. Kathy, the frail lady’s carer, steps forward to take her pulse.

  “You’re tired,” Javeen says taking the opportunity to leave. Emily snorts, already asleep. Javeen backs out, whispering her thanks to Kathy. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Kathy takes hold of her arm. “She’s not batty, you know. My Billy saw it too.”

  The penny drops. Kathy was Billy Oldfield’s wife. “He did mention it to me.”

  “Perhaps now you’ll believe him,” she says with undisguised triumph.

  Javeen nods and pulls her arm from Kathy’s grip. “I know he believed what he saw. We believe there’s an escaped wolf, or a particularly large dog on the loose, or someone perhaps in costume-”

  Kathy snorts. “That has superhuman agility and speed?”

  “Well-”

  “There’s something evil in those woods. The whole village knows it. The howls and screams are scaring the old folk half to death. My Eunice won’t even play outside in the garden anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear-”

  “No point being sorry, Constable. Get someone up to the village to deal with it. I don’t want to be rude, but there’s just you and PC Stangton here. You need to get more coppers in to hunt it down; dog, wolf, or psycho, it wants shooting dead.”

  “We do have a team coming up from the main town, Kathy. Rest assured, we’ll do our best to keep the community safe.”

  “They can’t come quick enough for me.”

  Javeen takes her leave, and crosses the road to talk to Laura Anderson. The house remains silent, and Laura doesn’t answer the door although Javeen is sure that a curtain twitches as she walks back through the garden gate. With tension pulling across her shoulders, and a pounding headache that she needs several mugs of coffee to help dissipate, she returns to the station.

  She’s relieved to see Amy Brice sat at her desk, but there’s no sign of Stangton.

  What had been Max Anderson, curls beneath the workbench, falling asleep amongst the warmth of the others, as Kelly wakes with a start to a buzzing in her head. She takes a gasping breath as memory grabs her. A monster had been in her kitchen and … her heart palpitates at speed, a quick hammering against her ribs … it had … she struggles for coherence … it had bitten her. Suddenly aware of the stiffness in her neck and shoulder, she dabs a hand there. Blood stains her fingers as she pulls the hand away. It had been real … not a dream, or a nightmare. As she reaches for the sink to help pull herself from the floor, the only sound is the scratching of the metal clasp of her shoes on the tiles. It rings in her ears, adding to the disorientation of the buzzing.

  At the sink, she hangs over the bowl and vomits. Her head pounds. Her reflection stares back from the kitchen window, the cupboards and door to the hallway filling the scene. Blood has soaked across her t-shirt and there are puncture wounds through the cloth. She can smell the sourness of its stink on her clothes and in her hair. An image of the attack appears in her memory, as clear as though she is watching TV, but it can’t be right. She’s misremembering. The thing in her memory looked wolfish, but human too. Sparse hair covered its face, and its incisors were long, but … No. Whatever had attacked her must have been an escaped wolf or a mad dog. Perhaps the rabies outbreak further south had crept up to Kielder? Yes, that was the only explanation.

  She staggers from the kitchen to the bathroom and reaches for the wall cabinet. Her face in the mirror makes her gasp. Her skin seems to have lost all colour and blue veins are threaded across her face and down her neck. Bite marks sit on her shoulder, their centres black with clotted blood, each puncture wound a hillock of red and swollen flesh. She opens the cabinet door quickly to block the sight then closes it slowly. Her eyes are heavily bloodshot and the iris has darkened from their usual light hazel to a darker brown. The pupils are pinprick small. At her temples, across her forehead, and over her top lip, the hairs seem darker. It must be because her skin seems so wan. She looks like death! Or, as though the Grim Reaper is waiting at her shoulder ready to drag her down to hell. Pain sears her belly and a wave of cold washes through her. Beads of sweat trickle at her temples. The room grows dark then brightens again and she vomits into the sink. Bed—she has to lie down. Call for help. Call Alwyn, and lie down. The floor rises and she sways, lurches to the mirror, and crashes to the floor as her legs buckle.

  Dreams haunt her sleep. Bloodied eyes and gnashing teeth loom from the dark, the stench of death clings to her nose and blocks her throat, she chokes, coughing and spluttering as a muffled voice calls her name.

  She wakes in her own bed beneath her favourite soft fleece blanket. A glass bowl sits on the bedside table, its contents red. Pulled up close, in her velvet chair, is her husband, Alwyn. Slumped at an awkward angle, his eyes closed, he rests in sleep. Each breath he takes rumbles in her ears. She champs her teeth. Hungry. Eat. Her belly growls and her gaze falls to the jogging pulse of his throat.

  “Kelly!” He sits forward, suddenly awake. She stares back at him. His eyes widen as their eyes meet, then he breaks away and pulls at the blanket to cover her shoulder.

  “I’ve cleaned the wound and been to fetch the doctor. He’s coming up to see you.”

  She reaches out her hand. He flinches then takes it. “Just lay still. Does it hurt?”

  She grunts her response, her voice is low and rasping, her throat sore.

  “You look hot. I’ll get some cool water and a flannel for your forehead. OK? Just wait there.” She can smell his fear. He disappears. Her belly growls and the need to eat, stuff her mouth with raw meat, feel it slide down her throat, is overwhelming.

  Alwyn steps back into the bedroom, bowl in hand. She sits up in bed and swings her legs to the floor. Alwyn’s step falters as their eyes meet. Ravenous, she pounces. His scream pierces over-sensitive ears as she sinks her teeth into his shoulder and the bowl bounces as it hits the carpet.

  24

  As Javeen returns from Emily Carmichael’s house to the station, the car park is nearly full, and a small group of peop
le waits at the door. They turn and watch as she walks. Intensely aware of each step, she waves then calls an awkward ‘hello’. The crowd parts to let her through. They swarm in behind her, filling the small room. It erupts with voices grabbing for her attention.

  “There were two of them.”

  “… looked like wolves …”

  “ … pulled the body across the road …”

  “ … monsters …”

  “Kelly Gray has been bitten.”

  “Please.” She raises her hands as a barrier. “I can’t hear what you’re saying.” The room quiets. “Janice, did I hear you say that a body had been dragged across the road?” The room falls silent.

  “Beryl Taylor at number fifteen on Main Street says she saw one of the wolfmen attack Jim Kendrick right in front of her house. She said it jumped on him and then a few minutes later she saw it drag the body across the road. I went round to Jim’s as soon as she told me. His wife says he’s been missing since last night. She’s been going mental with worry and not been able to get any help. No one will go out, what with the attacks, and there’s no phones working so we can’t call out for help.” Janice Bainbridge’s words tumble out in a desperate rush.

  Javeen remains calm, desperate to be logical, the face of calm authority. “When was this?”

  “Mrs Taylor said it was before seven.”

  “And nobody reported it?”

  “Beryl was too afraid, she said, and Jim’s wife went out looking but got spooked when she heard the howling. The phones aren’t working either so she couldn’t call. Their daughter Rachel’s missing too. They went to the shops together. Her mum’s frantic with worry.”

  The room erupts again with voices, the tension and anxiety in the room palpable.

  “We need the police from the main town up here.”

  “Or the military. It must be a wolf to drag off a grown man, or a lunatic.”

  “Mrs Taylor said it looked like a wolfman.”

  “Billy Oldfield’s seen it too.”

  Javeen catches Kathy Oldfield’s sharp frown as Janice shouts about Billy. “Shh! I told you not to say-”

  Someone snorts. “He was drunk!”

  “Not that drunk!” Kathy Oldfield snaps from the back of the room.

  Someone sniggers. Other voices rise in pitch.

  “It was dark,” Janice says in Mrs Taylor’s defence. “She’s old. But she says she saw what she saw. Said it was naked, and she could tell it was a man because she could see its … well, she said she could see its ‘dangler’.” Laughter. “Her words, not mine.” Janice blushes.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I say we hunt them down.”

  “No, that’s-”

  “Someone’s got to do something!”

  Javeen has to take charge. The room is about to descend into panic and that will only spread to the rest of the village. “I assure you, we have got the situation under control.”

  A muffled snort.

  “People are being attacked and you’ve got it ‘under control’!”

  “PC Stangton and I have arranged for a team of police marksmen and specialist trackers to come and search for the dog, or wolf-”

  “What if it’s a serial killer?”

  “Max Anderson hasn’t been seen since the Institute was broken into.”

  Take control Javeen. “Now, please! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If it is a serial killer, which is highly unlikely, …” she makes eye contact with the most vocal villagers in the room, “if it is a man that is carrying out these attacks, we’ll be carrying out a thorough investigation. In the meantime, I can assure you that PC Stangton and I will be doing our best to keep this community safe.” If she can find him!

  Another snort of derision.

  “There’s only the two of you.”

  “That’s correct, but we are committed to helping the people of this village and surrounding areas.” She’s beginning to sound like one of the dry emails from her superiors. Where is Stangton? Things were getting out of hand and they needed a plan of action, pronto. “And we have called for extra personnel-”

  “We should go into the forest and kill it ourselves.”

  “If there’s an animal loose, perhaps we should all stay inside until it’s caught?”

  A mumble of assent.

  “That may be a good idea,” Javeen agrees. “Staying inside, that is. Not going out to hunt it down. It’s up to the authorities to deal with the situation. Staying at home, at least until we know just exactly what we’re dealing with, is perhaps the best solution.”

  “What if it is a werewolf?”

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “I’m not. Mrs Taylor said it was a man but it looked like a wolf. Said it was on two legs. What else would have the strength to drag a man’s body across the road like that?”

  “Beryl Taylor’s going senile, Janice. She’s eighty-four years old and last week she was talking to her mother in the park. Her mother’s been dead for ten years.”

  Are Billy Oldfield and Emily Carmichael senile too? All three are unreliable witnesses: a drunk, an elderly lady with dementia, and another who talks to her dead husband. Even so, their stories were unnerving. Javeen listens as the villagers chatter among themselves.

  “It’ll be one of them rabies dogs from Whitby.”

  “Or a killer dressed up as a wolf.”

  More murmurs of agreement.

  “Kelly Gray has been bitten by it. I went up to the cottage with Alwyn. We found her on the floor.”

  “Is she alright?”

  “Yes, but she was out cold. Alwyn’s taking care of her. I’m going back up to take some antiseptic-”

  “She should go to hospital—for a bite.”

  Another murmur of assent.

  “What if it’s one of us?”

  The room falls to silence and the tension becomes palpable. Then Janice laughs and the others join in, though the sound is tinny and fake.

  Take control, Javeen. “Iain, I’ll take your statement in a minute. Janice, could you repeat for me exactly what Mrs Taylor told you this morning.”

  Javeen takes her statement and then speaks to the others individually. Most had come to report the strange noises that had marred the night, and only one had actually seen something that could be useful. Tension at the back of Javeen’s head throbs as she closes the door behind the last ‘witness’. Coffee—she needs another coffee.

  After the unsettling meeting at the police station Iain is determined to check on Kelly and suggest that Alwyn takes her to the hospital. If she’s been bitten by a rabid dog, then time was of the essence. He has heard that the new strain of the virus is deadly, and someone had mentioned that none of the victims had survived so far. He knocks at the cottage door, his rap urgent. No answer. He knocks again. Still silence, but Alwyn’s Land Rover is still parked beside Kelly’s Volkswagen. He tries the door handle. It opens.

  “Hello!”

  No answer.

  “Hellooo!” he shouts just a little louder and longer.

  Still no answer. He steps inside and then moves into the kitchen. He feels like a snooper. He moves through to the warm kitchen where the morning sun filters through the kitchen window. Dressed with a cream fabric woven with pink rosebuds and twining green tendrils, it makes a pretty frame for the forest outside. The painted yellow cabinets and honey-coloured kitchen tops add to the feeling of warmth and comfort, although the dark smear beneath the sink mars the scene.

  He steps forward with a stoop to inspect the smear. It’s a brownish-red and chalky like dried blood. He wets his fingers and wipes it then rubs the residue between his fingers before bringing it to his nose. Blood. More blood smears the tiled floor. He makes a quick check around the kitchen. Nothing else looks out of place. Perhaps Alwyn has already taken her to hospital—but both cars are still here. An ambulance then?

  Iain steps out of the kitchen and checks the other rooms. The cabin is arranged on ground
level. A short corridor leads to the living room and opposite are two doors which he presumes are the bedroom and bathroom. He takes a tentative step forward, notices a flicker of movement through the living room door as he passes, dismisses it as a bird, and walks to the bedroom. The door is open. His gut wrenches as he scans the room; the fleece blanket Alwyn had laid across Kelly this morning, is strewn across the bed. A bowl lies empty on the carpet, a pinkish flannel at its side, but the chair is what causes him to start. Large patches of dark red are spattered across its light blue velvet and, as he skims the area, other splashes of blood become obvious. At the edge of the rug something lies drying in a repulsive lump. He takes a step forward to see it clearly, gasps, and pulls back. By the curved shape of its edge, he can tell it is a section of kidney. He gags. Movement from beyond the window catches his attention once more and he stumbles as he turns to leave.

  Back in the thin sunshine, he reaches for his phone and scrolls through his list of contacts. He glances up, nervously checking the area for movement, then looks back down to his phone. At ‘S’ he clicks on ‘Stangton’ and dials. Holding the phone to his ear, he turns in a circle, checking into the trees, and again to the house. The phone doesn’t ring. No signal. His hands tremble as he slips the phone back into his pocket.

  Something is wrong, and he needs to get out of here. Now!

  A voice calls. Though muffled, it could be that of a woman in pain. It calls again and he’s sure he can hear his name.

  “Kelly!” he calls back. “Kelly? Is that you?” If it is Kelly shouting, does that mean the kidney was Alwyn’s? His sphincter contracts.

  He listens. The noise repeats and is followed by a knocking that seems to come from the shed. It can’t be her … unless, unless she’s gagged. Calm it, Iain! You find a bit of blood and now you’re imagining that your friend’s dead and his wife has been captured and tortured.