High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  After that, they’d spent most of the evening arguing over strategy. Rick had insisted that they draw the werewolves here, to this house. It made sense. The place was rigged to make it as difficult as possible for the creatures to get inside. The only problem was that they couldn’t use any of those defences while Steven was in the house, except for the infra−red detectors that covered the grounds. Steven, understandably, objected to his home being used for the trap. He wanted to go after John Simpson first, and then deal with the assassins in Scotland before finishing up with the ones hunting them. Rick and Phil hadn’t been convinced. They’d argued that the last thing they needed was to get caught between two groups of werewolves, that it was better to deal with one problem at a time. By the time midnight arrived, the situation still hadn’t been resolved, so everyone had decided to turn in for the night, then look at things with fresh eyes in the morning.

  They’d agreed on taking two−hour watches through the night, and he was due to relieve Rick in fifteen minutes. He eased himself off the wire−frame bed, retrieved his weapon and telephone, and headed downstairs in search of coffee.

  Rick sat on the leather sofa, turning his Glock over in his hands. He nodded to Mark as he entered the room and put the pistol down on the coffee table. “Sleep well?”

  Mark rubbed his eyes, “Yeah, those camp beds are more comfortable than they look. All quiet, I take it?”

  “As the grave. I hate this time of the day. The temperature drops just that little bit, like the night’s giving one last ‘fuck you’ to the morning. My mam used to work in a nursing home, and she said that nine times out of ten, if some old dear died during the night it was between half three and half four.”

  Mark smiled. “Thanks for that, mate. Nice cheery conversation piece for me to mull over while you snore your head off upstairs.”

  “You’re welcome. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. I knew you’d want one when you dragged your arse out of bed.”

  “Cheers, mate. I’ll see you in a few hours. Phil’s got the last watch, but I’ll probably just stay up with him. I’ll make sure I get some bacon sarnies on the go before you surface.”

  “With that bacon in the fridge? You've gotta be kidding? It’s gone fucking green.”

  “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll pop out to the shops first thing.”

  Rick nodded in appreciation then left through the hallway door while Mark headed to the kitchen and the tantalising promise of caffeine.

  Mark poured a large mug of the steaming liquid, adding several teaspoons of sugar. He hated black coffee, but all of the milk in the refrigerator was at least a month old, and Wilkinson didn’t keep any coffee whitener about the place. With any luck, he’d not notice the bitterness if he piled enough sugar into his mug.

  Once he’d sweetened his drink into something tolerable, he walked to the patio doors and peered out into the darkness. This far out into the countryside, the blackness was impenetrable. Not even the comforting orange haze of the streetlights in nearby High Moor were visible. The freezing fog bank had settled over the moors, and if anything, had actually thickened during the night. It swirled like a living thing in the light breeze outside, reducing visibility to no more than ten feet from the window. It made Mark feel safe for some strange reason. Like it was some sort of blanket, come down to hide them from their enemies. Nonsense of course − what hid them could also hide something with claws and fangs, but he thought he’d rather stay with the positive image. Otherwise he’d be jumping at every shadow, and the paranoia would drive him up the wall. Besides, the alarm system would let them know if something made it onto the grounds. They were as safe as they could be, all things considered. He stepped away from the patio doors and wandered back into the living room.

  There were no television sets, anywhere in the house. Not that there would have been anything on worth watching at this time of the morning, but Mark was already finding the silence oppressive, so some background noise would have been welcome. He walked across the room to where Wilkinson’s sound system sat nestled in an alcove. The stereo was, predictably, top of the line. Mark flicked through the array of compact disks that lined the walls beside it, but found nothing that he felt like listening to. There probably wasn’t anything newer than thirty years old in the entire collection. He’d not expected to find any drum−and−bass, but would it have been too much to ask for something recorded after 1979? Instead, he turned the volume down and, after spending a few moments trying to work out the controls, turned on the radio. He was not surprised to find it tuned to Classic FM, so he changed stations to Radio 1, and settled onto the comfortable sofa with his coffee.

  He checked his watch. Yep, his shift had been going for ten whole minutes and he was bored already. He considered field stripping the H&K again, but he’d already taken the weapon apart to clean it the night before. Then he spotted Phil’s cigarettes on the table.

  He’d quit smoking ten years ago, back when Julie had got pregnant. When she’d miscarried and the relationship had fallen apart, he’d thought about starting again but had made the decision that he was better off without the ciggies. He’d not even thought about smoking since then, but now, seeing the packet of Marlboro Lights on the table before him, what he wanted, more than anything else, was a cigarette. Hell, if there was ever a situation that justified a crafty fag, it was this one. He deliberated the decision for almost an entire second before he picked up the pack, removed one of the white cylinders, walked into the kitchen and out through the patio doors.

  The night air was frigid. The tips of his ears and nose tingled, while each breath seemed to freeze his lungs. He thought about going back inside to get his jacket but shook off the temptation. He’d survive the cold for the few minutes it took him to smoke the Marlboro, then he could get some more logs on the fire and warm himself until the others got up.

  He took Phil’s lighter and lit the cigarette, enjoying the brief flare of warmth from the flame, inhaling the smoke deeply. It was like he’d never given up. The familiar rush of nicotine made him feel slightly dizzy, and he stepped away from the patio doors, onto the gravel path that ran around the farmhouse. The last thing he wanted to do was leave a lingering smell of smoke in the house. Wilkinson had been furious when Phil had sparked one up earlier, but given that until recently the bloke had been a terminal cancer patient, Mark could appreciate why he wouldn’t want anyone smoking around him.

  He took another long drag of the cigarette, noticing that he’d already gone through half of it. He should really have brought the pack. He turned to head back inside when he noticed the alarm panel in the corridor through one of the side windows.

  All the security systems were disabled. And the main gates were showing as being wide open.

  Suddenly, the blanket of freezing fog did not seem so comforting. Not one little bit. He dropped the still−lit cigarette onto the ground and slowly moved his hands towards the grip of the sub−machine gun that dangled from his neck.

  He didn’t see the attack coming. Wasn’t even sure that he’d been hit at first. A burning flash of pain tore across his abdomen, and when he looked down, he saw his innards unravelling into a steaming pile on the gravel. The pain, while bad, was nothing compared to the feeling of his body emptying out. The impact of every loop of intestine as it hit the floor seemed to dislodge more, at which point gravity took over. Too stunned to scream, he tried to catch his spilling guts, only to feel the slippery organs slide through his fingers, and land with a wet splash on the gravel. He tried to pick the glistening organs up. To force them back inside the gaping cavity in his abdomen. Then he heard the growl.

  He looked up, mouth wide open in a silent scream, and saw two green eyes staring at him from the billowing mist. The eyes vanished, followed moments later by something hitting him from the side.

  Mark fell to the ground amidst his own entrails. A rush of warmth spread across his face and chest. He attempted to speak, but only a strangled, bubbling wheeze escape
d his ruined throat. As the last of his life spilled out onto the path and the darkness closed in around him, he saw the huge, russet beast saunter away from him towards the open patio doors.

  Chapter 17

  15th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 03.50.

  Michael strode across the living room to Marie while John slammed the door shut and applied the deadbolt. Michael’s face was grim. “What weapons do you have?”

  Marie’s expression told him everything that he needed to know. She shook her head. “Not much. A standard tactical kit. I’ve modified the ammunition. Cross−hatched the bullets and reduced the charge in each round so that they break apart and stay in the body. I’ve got an AK−47 with two magazines. A Beretta with two more, plus a few silver knives, a tranq gun and some grenades set around the perimeter on tripwires.”

  “You set tripwires around the place?”

  Despite the situation, Marie gave her brother a knowing smile. “Yeah, you missed them because you walked straight up to the front door. Oskar’s too clever for that. He’ll want to attack from the cottage’s blind spots.”

  “What about access points? How many ways can they come at us?”

  “Three − front door, kitchen door, and the conservatory. That’s assuming that they don’t come through the windows.”

  Michael mulled this over. The situation was grim, with little chance that any of them would survive. At least he could try to keep Marie safe for a little while longer. “Okay, you go upstairs and use the staircase as a bottle−neck. You should be able to keep them at bay for a while. I’ll stay down here and fight them as they come through the door.”

  Marie grabbed her brother’s arm. “You can fuck right off. There’s no way I’m leaving you down here alone. You can’t take three of them on at once. They’ll rip you to pieces.”

  Michael shook her hand away. “I’ll be okay. Oskar won’t come at us right away. He’ll let the other two come in first.” He nodded towards John. “I think his last encounter with your little moonstruck friend here put the fear into him. If I can take Anya out quickly, then I should be able to finish Leonid off without too much trouble.”

  “Bollocks. You’ve never been on a field team, Michael. I’m the only one here who’s trained to fight and has combat experience. You won’t stand a chance without us, and we won’t stand a chance without you.”

  “And you’re the only one who’s human here, Marie. I can’t fight them if I have to worry about you.”

  John strode over to them both. “Do you two want to postpone your little sibling spat until we’ve…I don’t know, barricaded ourselves in or something? Michael, give me a hand getting this sofa in front of the door. Marie, see if you can find something to block the door to the dining area.”

  Marie and Michael exchanged glances, shrugged, then joined John. The sofa was heavier than it looked, and both men had to strain to get it into position. Marie tipped over a large wall unit and shoved it against the other door, after which she began piling armchairs and tables around it. Soon the contents of the room had been stacked against each door. The windows were a problem, but both were small enough that a full−grown werewolf would struggle to squeeze through them before Michael tore their throats out. Even so, no−one seemed confident that the barriers would hold out for long under a sustained assault.

  John turned to Marie. “Where did you put those booby traps? In case we need to make a run for it?”

  As if on cue, the sharp crack of an explosion tore through the silence, followed by a high−pitched howl of agony. Michael’s frown deepened. “They’re coming. Get upstairs and hold them off from there. I’ll do what I can down here.” He turned to John. “Can you control it enough to fight?”

  John shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. If I change, there’s a good chance that I’ll kill you and Marie as well.”

  “Then get upstairs, and stay out of the fucking way.”

  Marie started to walk forward, her chest puffed out. “I’m staying here, with you.”

  Michael turned to face his sister. Hair was already flowing from the pores on his face, and blood trickled from his gums. “Marie, for once in your fucking life, do as your big brother says. Get upstairs. Now!”

  ***

  15th December 2008. Steven’s House, High Moor. 04.04.

  It was the smell that woke Steven. The thick metallic stench of blood, mingled with the unmistakable odour of excrement, permeated the air until it seemed to ooze from every surface. The weakened, alien presence of the wolf whined and growled in the deepest recesses of his mind. The silver in his system from the bullet wound may have been keeping it at bay, but it could still sense the blood and was becoming agitated. Steven felt like vomiting, but fought back the urge. His senses were aflame, as if someone had turned them up to eleven. He could hear the soft, rhythmic snores of Phil Fletcher, the troubled murmuring of Paul Patterson, and the shuffling of Rick Grey as he tried to get comfortable on the camp bed down the hallway. Downstairs, the drone of the radio in the living room drowned out any other sound. He shook his head in disgust. Some warbling woman was butchering one of his favourite Leonard Cohen songs, and the noise set his teeth on edge. He pushed his irritation aside and tried to concentrate. There were undertones of other scents, but the hot reek of blood and shit overpowered everything else, driving the wolf within him into a frenzy.

  Somehow the monsters had found them, made it past his security systems, and had managed to kill Mark Briggs without making a sound. It was impossible. There was no way that the pack should have tracked them down so quickly, when a few hours ago they’d been in Edinburgh. And there was no way they could have got into the grounds, let alone evade detection from the perimeter security systems. Not without help. Which meant that one of the police officers had betrayed them. There was a good chance that the dead man had been responsible, but there was no guarantee. It meant that he couldn’t trust any of them.

  He’d let the police officers keep their firearms with the silver bullets. He’d taken the Beretta, despite knowing that it was all but useless without silver ammunition, as well as the silver−edged sword and the weed sprayer. Hardly the weapons he’d have chosen to go into battle with, but unfortunately, they were all he had.

  He needed to assess the situation. To find out how many enemies he was facing and where they were. He grabbed the weapons from beside the bed, hastily fastening the straps of the weed sprayer, wedging the scabbard of the sword through them. He drew the blade, took a deep breath, and opened his bedroom door.

  The hallway was empty, but far from silent. With his senses enhanced, every creak and groan that the old building made was almost deafening. He tried to filter the noise, to sort through the flood of information and ignore the tortured version of Halleluiah coming from the living room: the light breeze outside, rustling the last of autumn’s leaves on the trees; the frantic heartbeat of a mouse in the attic, as it sensed the predators in its midst; the slight chill in the air that emanated from the open patio doors in the kitchen; the clack of claws on the polished wooden floor.

  He gripped the sword with both hands and took light, careful steps along the corridor to where the police officers slept. Each footfall sounded like the first uncertain steps of a baby elephant. The werewolf in the house (because he was pretty sure that there was only one) would know exactly where he was. That it hadn’t come tearing up the stairs after him meant that it either didn’t care, or was being cautious, stalking its prey like a cat toying with a mouse; assessing the men’s ability to fight back. Once it realised they had almost nothing that could hurt it, the situation would change. He reached the door to the spare room and pushed it open, wincing at the amplified squeal of the hinges.

  Rick sat upright as he entered, saw the expression on Steven’s face, then shook Phil and Paul awake. “Lads, I think we’ve got trouble.”

  Phil sat up on the camp bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The rest didn’t seem to have done him much good. If anything, he
looked even more tired than he had when he’d turned in. The muted light accentuated the lines on his face and the bags under his eyes. He could have been Steven’s age instead of twenty years younger. The other one, Paul, looked nervous, although Steven couldn’t really blame him. He looked around the room, then turned to Steven. “Where’s Mark?”

  Steven shook his head. “He’s gone. I’m sorry. Somehow they got past the perimeter alarm. There’s at least one downstairs.”

  The colour drained from Paul’s face. “Gone? You mean…”

  “Do you want me to spell it out for you? I can smell the blood. He’s dead, and you need to get your shit together or the rest of us won’t be far behind.”

  Phil picked up his MP5 from the floor, chambered a round and got to his feet. “So, what do we do now?”

  “What do you think? We take the fucker out, and then see if it brought any friends with it. Come on, get your kit and form up.”

  The police officers gathered their equipment and fell in behind Steven. The stink of fear billowed from the men like a cloud, and the frantic hammering of their heartbeats filled his ears, momentarily masking any sounds from the rest of the house.

  My God, how did I ever manage to hunt something with senses this sharp? If I’d had any idea of what I was really facing…

  He pushed open the bedroom door and they filed out onto the landing, weapons pointing at the hallway beneath them. Rick opened his mouth to speak but Steven shook his head and put a finger to his lips. The silence would do nothing to conceal them from the monster below, but at least it would be one less distraction for him as he struggled with the influx of sensory data. He cocked his head, trying to find one sound among hundreds and failing. He couldn’t hear the other werewolf. Not its breathing, not its heartbeat. It would have been nice to believe that the creature had retreated, but Steven knew better. The monster was somewhere downstairs, waiting for an opportunity to strike. There was no chance of them digging in and waiting for the dawn because the day wouldn’t turn the beast back into a man. This was a cunning, intelligent thing that wouldn’t leave until every one of them was dead. Despite years of experience, Steven had never felt so vulnerable, or as unsure about how to proceed. The staircase was a choke point. It would make sense to try to defend the landing because there was only one way that it could come at them. Unfortunately, the beast didn’t seem to be inclined to charge in. Which meant it had something else on its mind. Another plan. One that Steven couldn’t fathom. There was only one option. They had to draw the werewolf out and pray that they could take it down before too many of them were killed. As plans went, it was shit. Unfortunately he didn’t see too many other options.