Steven fought the panic bubbling up from his stomach, and shoved his hands into the bag, discarding handfuls of loose tampons and pieces of makeup until he found a set of keys. He fished them out from the bag and pressed the unlock button on the key−fob. A surge of pure relief washed over him when one of the cars lights flashed, swiftly replaced by dismay when he realised that he’d unlocked the Smart Car instead of the Mercedes. Still, in his position, he really couldn’t afford to be picky. He sprinted barefoot to the parked car and forced his frame inside, then started the engine and accelerated away. He looked over his shoulder, fearful of pursuit. From the darkness of the playing field, his gaze was met by two sets of glowing green eyes.
***
12th December 2008. Finchale Priory. 18.05.
Gabriela burst through a hedge and darted across a field. The crops had long been harvested, and the loose soil shifted beneath her paws as she ran, throwing up a lingering stink of the manure the fields had been sprayed with in late September. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of scrubbing it out from under her fingernails later. The moonstruck was heading straight for the ruined Priory to the northeast. She picked up Troy’s unmistakable scent to the southwest as he pursued the other werewolf. He was gaining on the bipedal creature, but would not get to it before it reached the caravan park and more witnesses. She’d have to head it off before it got that far. With her ears flattened to her head she accelerated her pace, hoping that she’d make it in time.
The ease with which the moonstruck had escaped Oskar and Troy bothered her. By rights, John Simpson should have been chained up in the back of the prison transport, and it should have been a simple matter of putting a bullet through his brain. Instead, another of Oskar’s brilliant plans was unravelling before her eyes. She respected her team alpha, but was not without her own ambitions. When this was over, she’d have to think about how she could use his repeated failure to her own advantage. Before that, though, there was the small matter of John Simpson. How hard could it be? He was just another rabid moonstruck, waiting to be put out of its misery. It was nothing they had not dealt with a hundred times before, even if this bastard was making things difficult. At least he was out of police custody. The hard part was over. Now all they had to do was kill him.
She reached the corner of the field, making a decision. In front of her was another ploughed field. It would be the most direct route, but the soft ground would slow her progress, reducing the likelihood that she would intercept the moonstruck in time. To her right, through another hawthorn hedge, was the small road that serviced the caravan park and the Priory’s visitor centre. It was less direct, and there was always a chance that she’d run into someone, but she should be able to get ahead of Simpson. She hurled herself at the hedge, bursting through without losing a step, then tore along the dark lane as fast as she could manage.
The ruins came into view at the end of the road. She made out the darker silhouettes of crumbled walls and towers, outlined by moonlight reflecting from the ancient stones. To her right, the warm glow of the lights in the caravan park spilled out through the darkness, encroaching on the cool silver moonlight until it was overwhelmed. She heard the sounds of a dozen television sets, playing through the flimsy walls. Smelled a dozen different meals being cooked. A dozen families with no idea of what lay just beyond the relative safety of their caravans.
She leapt a fence and angled herself back to the north. The moonstruck was close now, its raw animal reek assailing her nostrils. The creature stank of blood and death, and she was eager to feel its throat in her teeth.
Then she saw it. It was bipedal, like all moonstruck were, caught halfway between man and wolf. An abomination. The monster was covered in thick brown fur and used its arms in tandem with its legs to hurl itself forward, almost falling onto all fours in an effort to gain more speed. It was working too. Troy burst from the tree line, struggling to keep up with the creature, let alone catch it. She needed to slow it down.
Instinct took over, and Gabriela veered off to the right to intercept the beast. It seemed to register her presence for the first time, and changed direction to increase the distance between them. Heading for the ruins. It leapt over a low stone wall then vanished from her sight. A long, savage howl tore through the silence of the night. She heard the televisions in the caravans turn off, almost in unison. The exterior lights on the caravans flicked on. Faces pressed up against the glass with hands cupped around their eyes, trying to locate the source of that awful sound. Electronic beeping from dozens of telephones, all dialling the same number. She suppressed a snarl and vaulted the wall into the ruins, not expecting the heavily muscled, clawed arm to slash out from the darkness as she jumped.
Claws tore through her chest, but thankfully they glanced off her ribcage and did no real damage. She was hurled against a stone wall and fell to the floor, momentarily dazed.
That was all the time that Troy needed. He leaped over the wall with a roar of rage and crashed into the hulking moonstruck werewolf. The pair of them thrashed on the floor, gouging and biting at one another. Gabriela got to her feet and paused to assess the battle. There was no clear shot at the moonstruck. The combatants were moving too quickly. Whenever she thought she saw an opening and prepared to pounce, the moonstruck would shift position, and Troy would end up between them. She whined in frustration. When this was over, she’d make Troy pay for this. After she’d finished fucking him, anyway.
The battle moved into what would have once been the centre of the Priory. Now only jagged parallel walls stood, with neatly tended grass filling the area where wooden pews once would have been. Teeth tore at flesh, and talons raked jagged wounds through hair, skin and muscle. Blood splashed across the grass, staining it black.
Simpson hurled Troy against one of the stone walls, but Troy angled his body, and instead of crashing into the stone, he used the wall as a springboard to hurl himself back at the monster, jaws agape. The moonstruck’s arm slashed out, passing through Troy’s open mouth, tearing through the inside of this throat with vicious claws. Its other hand grabbed the underside of Troy’s muzzle to prevent him from biting down, before ripping his entire lower jaw away.
Troy went limp, impaled on the moonstruck’s arm like some obscene, twitching glove. The werewolf howled in fury, and ripped its arm free from its fleshy prison, bringing a trail of internal organs with it. Hair retreated back into pores. Bones snapped, reforming the ruined corpse from wolf to man. What remained of Troy slumped to the floor. Then the moonstruck turned to Gabriela and snarled.
Gabriela weighed her options. The urge to throw herself at this monster that had killed her pack mate and lover was almost overwhelming, but the simple fact was that Troy had been among the strongest of them, and the creature before her had torn him apart as if he’d been nothing. She was faster than Troy, but the moonstruck was no slouch either. If it managed to grab her, then she’d be finished. She needed help. She needed Oskar.
She curled back her lips and snarled a challenge to the blood−soaked moonstruck, then feigned an attack at its flanks. The creature responded as she’d predicted, changing its stance and lunging forward. Instead of returning the attack, however, Gabriela darted away from the beast and dashed through a hole in the wall.
She landed in a vaulted undercroft, beneath the main section of the Priory. Stone pillars supported the ornate arched roof, and the remains of inscriptions, long since faded through exposure to the elements, decorated the thick sandstone roof arches. Moonlight shone through a doorway at the far end of the room, and she started running toward it, just as the moonstruck crashed through the opening, dislodging several stone blocks in the process.
Gabriela ducked her head down and ran as fast as her four legs were capable. The heavy musk of the moonstruck filled the enclosed space like a cloud, and the smell of Troy’s blood in its fur inflamed her senses. She heard the monster’s breath and the clack of its claws against the flagstone floor. The creature was pursuing her and
, impossibly, was gaining. An icy finger of fear ran down her spine as she realised that the moonstruck was not only stronger than her, but was faster too.
She leaped through the doorway onto a hard gravel path, then bounded over a metal hand−rail onto the top of one of the Priory’s exterior walls. The bridge lay to her north, just beyond the ruins. In the distance she heard the first sirens and knew that the authorities would arrive soon. Even if she and Oskar were able to destroy the moonstruck, there would be no time to retrieve Troy’s body before they arrived. She shook off the thought, knowing that she had more immediate problems to deal with. She leaped from the wall, just as the moonstruck swiped at her. She landed on the neatly manicured grass, and bolted for the footbridge, praying that Oskar was in position.
The moonstruck was right behind her. She zigzagged her way across the lawn, doing her best to anticipate and avoid the creature’s attacks. The beast snarled in fury as its talons met empty air. Gabriela had felt the air shift behind her that time. It was getting closer, and she knew that there was no way she could avoid it for much longer. She changed direction again, ducking under the moonstruck’s outstretched arm and leaving a deep slash across its thigh, hoping that would be enough to slow it down. Then she ran flat out for the bridge with the enraged monster on her heels.
The bridge was narrow and much longer than she would have liked. Wooden boards set on long iron girders, held above the river by five stone columns. She extended her senses, trying to find any sign of her alpha on the opposite shore, but the roar of the river beneath her drowned out any noise, and her nostrils were filled with the stink of the blood−soaked monster pursuing her.
She’d made it half way across when she saw Oskar step from the trees with his weapon raised. Her heart fluttered at the sight. She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life. Oskar would blow the cursed thing’s brains out, and then they could work out what to do next.
She tried to urge one last burst of speed from her tired body when she felt hot breath on the back of her neck and a flash of searing pain across her back. Her legs gave out beneath her and she crashed onto the bridge. She struggled to regain her footing, but her back legs wouldn’t work. The pain in her back flared into a sunburst of agony, and she realised that the moonstruck had severed her spine. The creature plunged its claws through her back and lifted her from the blood−drenched wooden boards. She felt its fetid breath on the back of her neck, and she knew that it was over.
As long as Oskar takes the fucker out, then I’ll die happy.
Her vision began to fade, and she looked up to the far side of the bridge, expecting to see her alpha preparing to blow the beast’s head off, but Oskar had gone. She had just enough time to feel a wave of despair at her abandonment before the moonstruck tore her in half.
Chapter 8
12th December 2008. Finchale Road, Brasside. 19.00.
Olivia started to realise how bad things were when she turned off the main road towards the prison and saw the traffic. The line of stationary cars stretched for over a quarter of a mile, while dozens of irate commuters argued with the uniformed officers as to why they were not allowed to go home. There was only one access road to the Brasside estate, and from what she’d heard over the radio, it seemed unlikely that the forensics teams would be finishing up any time soon.
She flashed her ID at a uniformed officer, and he waved her through on the opposite side of the road, much to the irritation of the stranded motorists. One of them pulled out of line and tried to follow her, but the police officer moved into the centre of the road and blocked him. Olivia sympathized with the man to some extent, and didn’t think that the harsh rebuke from the uniform would do much to improve his mood.
She passed a row of houses, curtains open and faces seeming to peer from every window, before heading back into the open countryside. It was then that she saw the crime scene for the first time. The front of the tunnel beneath the train tracks was covered in a heavy white sheet. Halogen lamps blazed from inside the tunnel, and she saw the outlines of the forensics officers, in their white suits, working within. Dozens of police officers stood around at the periphery of the crime scene, while a helicopter roared past them, flying to the north to search for Simpson in the fields and nearby woods.
She parked her car behind an ambulance and got out. The two paramedics stood by the rear of their ambulance, smoking cigarettes in trembling hands. That wasn’t a good sign. She made her way towards the largest group of officers, when Rick noticed her and stepped forward to meet her.
“How bad is it, Rick? I heard some things over the radio and it sounded like a fucking disaster.”
Rick shook his head. “It’s beyond a disaster. So far we’ve got six confirmed dead and there’s no sign of Simpson.”
Olivia’s mouth fell open. “Six? Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. The two guards in the prison transport were torn apart in the back of the van. And I really do mean torn apart. The forensics guys are struggling to work out which part goes with which body. The driver was found with his throat torn out in the woods past the tunnel, along with some poor old bastard who’d been out walking his dog.”
She frowned. “That’s only four. What about the other two?”
“They are about a mile up the road, in the ruins of Finchale Priory. One of them…one of them had his lower jaw torn off and part of his digestive tract pulled out through his neck. The other one was on the bridge. Well, half of her was. We think the lower half must have fallen in the river and been washed away, towards the city. Oh yeah, and both of the bodies at the Priory were found stark, bollock−naked.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, my thought’s exactly. Best we can tell, Simpson took off over the footbridge into the woods. The chopper crews are searching for him with the IR gear, but they’ve not found anything bigger than a badger yet.”
“Is Phil here?”
Rick motioned towards a riot van with his head. “He’s in there. Using it as a temporary control room. He’s not in a very good mood.”
Olivia let out a long sigh. “He’s not the only one.” She reached over and put her hand on Rick’s arm. “Why don’t you go and get a cup of tea or something? You look like shit. I take it your team was on point again?”
Rick’s face contorted into a grim smile. “What do you think. Apparently, because we were lucky enough to bring Simpson in the first time, that automatically means that we’re the most experienced. I’ve got to tell you, Liv, I wish that I’d just put a bullet in that cunt’s face when I had the chance. I can’t believe that one bloke could do those things to another human being.”
Olivia hugged him. “I know that you’ve been through it the last few weeks. If you need anyone to talk to, you know where I am.”
Rick gently pushed her away. “Won’t Matt mind?”
“Matt will be fine. He knows that we are ancient history, and he knows that sometimes coppers need to talk about stuff to other coppers. I mean it, Rick. Give me a call if you want to talk.”
Rick gave a small, sad smile. “Thanks, Liv. I appreciate it. Now, you’d better not keep the boss waiting.”
She smiled at him, then turned and walked towards the riot van. As she approached, Phil got out from the rear doors, took out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled about a quarter of it in a single drag. That wasn’t good either.
“I thought you quit those years ago.”
Phil looked up and, for a moment, looked like a schoolboy caught smoking by his parents, before his face darkened once more. “I did. As of today, I’m taking them up again, and if you breathe a word of this to Sharon, then I’ll make sure you never hear the end of it.”
She shrugged. “Fair enough. They’re your lungs, just don’t do it anywhere near me. I don’t want the baby getting poisoned by your bad habits.”
Phil looked at the lit cigarette, took another long drag from it, then dropped it into the earth and ground it under his shoes. “Did anyone tell you what we�
��ve got here?”
She nodded. “Yeah, Rick filled me in on the gory details. I’m sorry, Phil, but something’s not right with this situation.”
Phil’s right eyebrow arched at the comment. “Well, of course there’s something not bloody well right about it. There’s no way that van crashed without some outside assistance, which either means that Simpson has someone working with him, or that someone wanted him dead so badly that they didn’t care about how many people they killed to get to him.”
“And judging from the trademark naked corpses, I’d say the latter is more probable. Oh hell, I forgot to tell you…”
Phil’s phone rang and he raised his hand to silence her. “What? Say that again? You have got to be fucking kidding me. Well, check your bloody security tapes. It’s not like he just got up and walked out of there on his own. Yes, call me when you find something.”
He hung up the call and clenched the phone so hard that Olivia thought he might shatter it. “Do I dare ask?”
“It seems that Steven Wilkinson has gone missing from the hospital, and his whereabouts are currently unknown. According to the officer that was supposed to be guarding him, there’s some evidence of a struggle in his room, and the window’s broken. There were also two brass nine millimetre casings on the floor. We now have officially no suspects in custody, no witnesses and no fucking leads. Oh yes, and apparently Franks is on his way over here, just to put the icing on the fucking turd.”
Olivia stood silent for a moment, to absorb the new information, then looked up at Phil and in spite of the circumstances, managed a sly smile. “Well, I wouldn’t say that we don’t have any leads. You know your mysterious, red−haired woman? I think I might have found her.”
High Moor 2: Moonstruck Page 10
