High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  He motioned for the others to follow and began the descent with heavy legs. The stairs came down into the centre of the hallway. Five doors led off from there, into the living room, kitchen, dining area, study and outside. Of the five, only the exterior door remained closed. Not good. Steven reached the bottom of the stairs, ears straining for the slightest sound that could indicate an impending attack, but the radio, now playing “All I Want for Christmas Is You”, drowned out everything. Steven felt a surge of fear as he realised that the volume had been turned up several notches. The werewolf was using Mariah Carey to hide itself. That could only mean that attack was imminent. He moved along the wall, sword held out before him, while the others followed. Phil was directly behind him, followed by Paul and Rick covering the rear.

  The predictable thing to do would be to head straight for the radio, turn the fucking thing off and take away the monster’s advantage. The werewolf, of course, would expect him to do that. Which meant that it was probably lurking somewhere in the living room, ready to kill the first thing stupid enough to walk through the door.

  But all the rooms of the ground floor were interconnected, so there were two ways to get into the living room. If they split into two pairs, and went through the doors at the same time, then maybe they’d stand a chance. Maybe. He motioned to Rick and Paul, outlining his plan with a series of hand gestures. Fortunately, both men were firearms officers and soon got the gist of what he had in mind. Rick led the way and moved through the open dining room door with his Glock raised, with Paul following. Steven looked at Phil. It was plain from the beads of sweat on Phil’s brow and the sickly shade of white his skin had turned, that the police officer was much more used to paperwork than combat. He’d probably not got his hands dirty in the best part of a decade. Still, the older man held the MP5 like a professional, and in spite the fear that billowed from him like bad aftershave he didn’t hesitate to follow Steven’s lead. They moved to the open living room door, raised their weapons and got ready to attack whatever was inside.

  A scream rang out. The noise was raw, equal parts agony, terror, and despair. Gunshots rang out from the dining room, three thunder−cracks in rapid succession. Steven sprinted into the living room, not bothering to check for ambush, thence through the adjoining door into the dining room. The fucking thing had played him, had used the layout of his own home against him. He’d have been impressed if the implications were not so terrible. The werewolf was smarter than he was.

  The ornate wooden chairs lay scattered and broken on one side of the large oak table. Rick Grey’s twitching legs protruded from underneath, and his flailing arms were just visible. He screamed again, higher pitched this time, until the sound was cut off with a wet crunch. The fucking thing must have been hiding under the dining room table when Rick and Paul entered the room. Phil appeared beside him, while Paul stood trembling in the corner of the room, pistol raised. No−one moved for a moment, until Phil raised the MP5 and screamed, “Fucking shoot it!”

  He opened fire with the sub−machine gun, while Paul began shooting round after round into the top of the table. Steven grabbed Phil’s arm. “Stop firing you fucking idiot. Wait until you have a target.”

  Steven strode over to the table, grasped its corner with one hand and flipped it over. He hadn’t expected that. He’d only intended to push it out of the way. Apparently, the werewolf hadn’t been expecting that either.

  The monster was huge. Thick red fur obscured the musculature of the werewolf, but there was no denying its power. The pulped remains of Rick Grey’s head oozed from between its jaws, while the bullet−ridden body twitched. The beast released its hold on Rick’s body and glared directly at him. Paul and Phil opened fire, the silver bullets slamming into it. The creature hardly seemed to notice. The physical impact of the rounds made it jerk and twitch, but the wounds healed up almost instantaneously, and its gaze never left Steven’s.

  After a few moments, Phil’s MP5 clicked empty, while Paul’s weapon fell silent as well. The werewolf’s eyes lit up with a mixture of triumph and absolute hatred. Its black lips curled back to reveal huge, blood−soaked fangs and its growl made Steven’s blood run cold. He backed away, into the doorway to the living room, then froze as he heard the unmistakable growl of another werewolf behind him.

  ***

  15th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 04.19.

  John wiped the sweat from his brow and shuffled to get comfortable. It had been almost twenty minutes since the grenade had gone off, but the expected attack had not materialised. Michael prowled the living room, periodically sniffing the air or cocking his head to listen. The presence of the werewolf terrified John. He’d been in proximity to other werewolves in the past, but he’d always been in a fight for his life at the time. Having one just a few feet away, even if Michael was supposedly on their side, was an unnerving experience. The creature was huge, closer in size to a male lion than a wolf. Thick brown hair covered its body, but despite that, the wolf’s muscles could be seen moving beneath the fur. Fangs like daggers protruded from the monster’s mouth, while vicious claws tore strips from the carpet as it paced. The sheer power of the thing was incredible. John could not imagine a more lethal killing machine. And there were three more of them, waiting outside to kill them. The tranquilizer gun in his hands felt like a meagre defence against such things.

  Marie sat beside him, her face a mask of tension. Every once in a while her face would fall for the briefest fraction of a second, her fear, grief, and anger framed in the set of her mouth and the light in her eyes. Then the mask would snap back into place and she’d become focused once more, the flicker of emotion gone. John suspected that, in those brief moments, Marie had instinctively tried to reach out with her senses, only to find them muted. He was beginning to understand what she’d lost.

  Without realising it, over the last ten minutes or so, John’s own senses had come alive. The wolf had slunk from its cave in the deepest recesses of his psyche, waiting just below the surface of his mind. He felt energised, as if he’d taken some sort of powerful drug. His senses gathered information from the surrounding area, processing it until he had an awareness of everything around him for twenty metres. Each fragment of scent or sound added to the constantly updated picture. He felt connected to the world in a way he’d never have thought possible.

  There was no fury in the wolf this time, no attempt to break through and initiate the transformation. The beast seemed to be waiting, like a dog lying by its master’s feet, tail thumping and ears pricked, eager to go outside, but knowing that it had to wait a little longer. John wasn’t sure that he liked this change. The wolf and he had been at odds with each other for decades, and the monster had tried to break free on more than one occasion. The change in its behaviour was suspicious.

  He turned to Marie and said a little too loudly, “Why aren’t they attacking?”

  Michael issued a warning growl from downstairs and Marie put her finger to her lips. When she replied it was barely above a whisper. “The booby traps have made them rethink their strategy. Unfortunately, Oskar excels at things like that. The best we can hope for is that it was Leonid who found the grenade. He’s younger than Anya and Oskar and doesn’t have the same level of silver immunity. If it was him, then there’s a decent chance that it fucked him right up. If it was either of the other two, they’ll probably have recovered by now.”

  “So they’re just going to let us sit here and stew in our own juices for a while, until they work out a better way to get us?”

  Marie gave him a grim smile. “I know. Part of me just wants to get it over with. The rest of me wants to hold off the inevitable for as long as I can.”

  John reached across and took Marie’s hand. He was about to say something reassuring when Michael let out a thick, menacing growl from downstairs. John reached out with his senses, searching for the threat. It wasn’t long before he found it. A surge of fear washed over him and he turned to Marie, “I can smell smoke.
The bastards have set fire to the cottage.”

  Chapter 18

  15th December 2008. Steven’s House, High Moor. 04.25.

  Phil stepped from the doorway, letting the empty MP5 clatter to the floor. The air stank of gun−smoke and blood, but the combined animal reek of the werewolves overpowered everything else. He found himself beside Paul, in the corner of the room. Paul’s eyes were wild, and he held his empty Glock in a double−handed grip so tight that his knuckles had turned white. Steven stood directly opposite the first werewolf, but now two more of the monsters had entered the room, one from the living room and another from the hallway. The massive creatures blocked the exits. There was no hope of escape. Phil realised that he was going to die and felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. He almost laughed. Having a heart attack right now would be the best thing that he could hope for. Better that than to be torn apart by those cruel jaws and vicious talons.

  The two newcomers snarled and their muscles tensed while the hair rose on the backs of their necks. The first werewolf snapped at the air and crouched as if to pounce. Then, to Phil’s astonishment, it began to transform. The creature’s bones snapped and twisted, stretching flesh as they shattered then reformed. Thick orange fur retreated into skin, while the bloody fangs sank back into the creature’s gums. Within a matter of seconds, the werewolf had been replaced by the naked form of Connie Hamilton.

  She picked herself up from the ground, settling into a crouched position that made Phil think of a cat, ready to pounce on its prey. She turned her head to the werewolf that blocked the door to the living room. “Nice ta see ye too, Gregorz. If ah’m honest, ah’m a little surprised. Ah thought ye’d have bigger things to worry about than me right now.”

  The werewolf that she’d called Gregorz snarled and took a step forward, its teeth bared. Connie put up her hands. “Let me have Wilkinson. After that, ah don’t give a shit. Ah’ll bare ma throat to ye, if that’s what ye want. Just let me have ma revenge.”

  Phil looked at Steven. The colour had drained from the old man’s face and, while he still held the sword out before him, his legs sagged, as if unable to bear his weight. Steven’s eyes never left Connie Hamilton, even when Gregorz began to transform beside him. Phil wanted to look away, but couldn’t. The change from wolf to man was not as easy for this werewolf as it had been for Connie. It growled in pain at each dislocated joint and shattered bone. The whole thing went on for more than a minute, and when the man got to his feet, his body was covered with a slick sheen of sweat and blood. With some effort Phil swallowed the vomit that surged up into his mouth and realised that his legs were shaking. That was not something he ever wanted to witness again.

  Gregorz looked at Steven, a sneer of contempt on his lips. He turned back to Connie. “We can’t let you live, Connie. You went against a direct order from the Alpha, so we have no choice. However, I know what that piece of shit did to you. We won’t stand in your way. He’s all yours.”

  Connie’s face cracked into a bloody smile. She lifted her head and fixed Steven’s gaze. “Do you know me? Do you know who I am?”

  Steven straightened himself up, returning the woman’s glare. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another fucking werewolf.”

  Connie laughed. “An’ that’s been yer attitude all along, hasn’t it? It didn’t matter what ye had in yer sights. Moonstruck or Pack, they were all the same. Just another fucking werewolf. Is that what ye thought when ye blew ma little girl’s brains out?”

  Steven’s tough facade fell, and the old man seemed to age visibly. He lowered his eyes to the floor. “Germany, 1996. That was you. The one that got away.”

  Connie stepped forward and grasped Steven’s chin, bringing his eyes back up to hers. “Yes, tha one that got away. Do ye like what ye’ve made? Ah never used to be a killer. Ah was a wife and a mother before ye took away ma reason to live. Because ye decided that all werewolves needed to die, regardless of whether they were killers or not. Ye’r a fucking monster and now ah’m going ta end ye like you ended ma Megan.”

  Steven’s shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes, as if he accepted his fate. Then, in the brief moment of silence, the radio’s half−hourly news bulletin began.

  “Are werewolves real? Astonishing footage has been broadcast online where murder suspect Connie Hamilton states that she is exactly that, before apparently transforming on camera and killing a woman and a young child.”

  Paul sagged back against the wall, the Glock falling from his hands. A high−pitched, strangled wail escaped from his lips and he covered his face with his hands. Phil realised then who the dead woman and child were. All of the pieces finally fit.

  Gregorz’ mouth fell open. He looked at Connie with an expression of pure horror. “My God, Connie. What have you done?”

  ***

  15th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 04.28.

  John and Marie stood in the centre of the living room while Michael continued to pace back and forth. The first tendrils of smoke had begun to seep through the gaps around the kitchen door and John felt the heat against his skin. The crackling flames on the other side of the door had not become the roar of an inferno. Not yet. But it wouldn’t be long before the fire caught properly and the wood−framed cottage was consumed. They had to get outside, even if that meant facing the werewolves in the open. They’d die if they stayed here.

  John began to clear the front door, throwing furniture aside in a frenzy. Marie grabbed his shoulder. “No, not that way.” She nodded toward the other door. “They won’t expect us to go through the fire. It might buy us a couple of seconds.”

  He nodded his agreement, and they both began clearing the door, working frantically as the smoke from the other side began to thicken. Marie coughed, covering her mouth with part of her T−shirt. John’s eyes stung, and he had to keep blinking away tears. By the time they pushed aside the heavy wall unit, John felt ready to drop, and Marie looked much worse. Smoke inhalation would kill them as quickly as the claws of a werewolf. They didn’t have much time left.

  He grabbed Marie’s arm and motioned for her to cover the doorway. She nodded her understanding, raising the AK−47 while John grabbed the door handle. His skin sizzled, and the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He ignored the pain, gripped the red−hot handle harder, then threw open the door.

  The heat was like a physical wall. John could smell his hair and eyebrows singe. There was no way that they could make it through there. It would be like trying to run through a blast furnace. He was about to say this to Marie, when a dark shape burst through the conflagration in a shower of sparks. The werewolf ignored the flames springing across its black fur and hurled itself towards the open door with its jaws wide open. John threw himself to the side while Marie raised the AK−47 and stitched the werewolf’s flanks with silver bullets. The impact of the rounds knocked the creature aside, slamming it into the doorframe. By the time the creature hit the floor, the bullet wounds had already healed over. It looked at Marie, snarled, then leapt forward with its claws spread wide. She tried to bring the weapon up, but the look in her eyes told John that she knew that she’d be too slow.

  Michael flew across the room, a blur of brown fur and flashing talons that intercepted the werewolf in mid−air, sending them both crashing back through the open door into the inferno. Marie raised the AK−47 but was unable to get a clear line of sight on the black−furred monster without hitting her brother. She lowered the weapon, grabbed John’s wrist and said. “Come on, we’re going.”

  They both plunged into the burning room, racing for the conservatory at the far end. The intense heat had already shattered the glass and the freezing winds fanned the flames even higher. The wooden panelling on the walls ignited, while the timbers of the ceiling groaned in protest. A wooden beam crashed down before them, sending a cloud of sparks into the air. Marie leaped around it, narrowly avoiding the thrashing werewolves that fought in their midst.

  It was difficult to tel
l which of them was winning. Both beasts bore terrible wounds, their fur matted with blood where teeth or claws had connected with flesh. The air was filled with the stench of burning hair. Smoke already had begun to curl from the werewolves’ fur.

  John tried to ignore the searing pain and pushed on after Marie, leaping over obstacles while he held his arms up to try to shield his face from the worst of the heat. They burst from the blazing room and leaped through the shattered windows in unison, relishing the cold night air against their scorched flesh as they landed in the snow.

  Marie raised her weapon and turned back to the blazing cottage. “Michael, move your fucking arse.”

  The brown werewolf bounded away from the black, feigning an attack before changing direction, while Marie opened fire with the AK−47. Silver bullets tore into the enraged black monster, throwing it sideways into a burning table. Marie switched magazines in a single, fluid move and was about to resume firing when something leapt from the cottage roof toward her. She threw herself backwards into the snow, narrowly avoiding the slashing claws of a second werewolf who’d remained hidden until now, waiting for the opportunity to strike. She struggled to scramble to her feet as the new werewolf, a smaller, light−brown creature, landed beside her and advanced, fangs bared. Marie swung her weapon round, but the creature lashed out with its claws and the rifle spun out of her hands, landing in the snow several feet away.