High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  The attack had taken John by surprise, taking him a second for him to register what was happening. He remembered the tranquilizer gun in his hands. He had no idea how long it would take for the dart to have an effect, but if he had to, he’d club the fucking thing to death rather than let it hurt Marie. He raised the pistol, took aim, then cried out as the weapon’s wooden stock exploded in a shower of splinters. John looked at the ruined weapon in his hands, unable to understand what had happened. Then a gunshot rang out, and the wooden window frame beside him blew apart. Suddenly, what had happened was all too clear. John dove to his side, behind a low wall as a stream of small explosions burst from the snow where he’d been standing.

  John looked up to Michael, hoping to see his childhood friend coming to the rescue. Michael was immune to silver bullets. John, however, was not. His heart sank when he peered into the flames. The creature that Michael was fighting had recovered before he could get clear, and the two werewolves were engaged in battle once more, tearing ragged ribbons of flesh from each other while the building fell apart around them.

  Marie screamed his name, and he peered around the wall to see the light−brown werewolf just a few short feet away from her. Then the brick next to his head exploded in a spray of dust and he retreated back under cover. Several more shots slammed into the bricks as he went, as if to emphasise the point. Stay down, we’ll get to you when we’ve finished with your friends.

  There was nothing else for John to do. He was unarmed, and both Marie and Michael would be dead in seconds if he didn’t act. It was his last roll of the dice, the only remaining option. Casting all doubt aside, John threw open the doors of his mind and let the wolf come out.

  ***

  15th December 2008. Steven’s House, High Moor. 04.31.

  Steven felt Connie’s hand retract and opened his eyes to see a look that could almost be called sheepish on the woman’s face. Gregorz looked ill, while the other werewolf snarled in the doorway. “Why, Connie? Why would you condemn us all?”

  “Ah was sorta hoping ye’d not hear about that. Ah thought that if ah gave ye lot a wee distraction, it’d keep ye off ma back long enough ta take care o’ business. Ah wasn’t expecting ye to turn up here.”

  The shock on Gregorz face was slowly turning to anger. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Of the damage you’ve caused? They will hunt us down. They’ll never stop. You’ve killed us all.”

  Connie’s lips curled into a sneer. “Why tha fuck should ah care? Ye bastards were the ones comin’ here ta kill me. Fuck the lot of ya’s.”

  “We were your family. We cared for you when you lost Isaac and Megan. We gave you a home. A purpose. And you do this? How could you?”

  The sheepish look on Connie’s face melted into a broad grin, “Oh, it’s worse than ye know. Ah’ve told them the fucking lot. About tha Pack, Simpson, everything. Ah’ve sent samples of ma blood to about a dozen different labs, and a list of every pack member living in this country that ah could think of. Not just tha field teams. Ah told ‘em about tha families as well. Ye shouldn’t hae fucked with me, Gregorz. If ye and that prick Michael had just let me finish Wilkinson off, then none o’ this woulda happened. If ye’r looking for someone to blame, try looking at yerself for a change.”

  Gregorz’ face turned scarlet. He rushed forwards, his hands grasping for Connie’s neck. The man’s face was twisted into a mask of rage. Veins bulged at his temple and his eyes turned into luminous green disks as the change began. Connie ducked under his outstretched hands and delivered a slashing blow to his throat, before skipping off to his side. Gregorz fell to the floor in a spray of blood, grasping at the bubbling wound in his throat. Connie took a step back from the dying man and brought her clawed hand up to her mouth, where she licked the blood from her talons. Her body was already covered with fine orange stubble, and the tips of her ears elongated before Steven’s eyes.

  “Now, lads. Where were we?”

  Chapter 19

  15th December 2008. Steven’s House, High Moor. 04.40.

  Steven looked on in shock at the spreading pool of blood beneath the old werewolf, then back up to Connie Hamilton. The change was sweeping through her, transforming her flesh with as little apparent effort as changing clothes. Already the thin covering of fur had thickened into a coarse, red carpet. Muscles swelled and stretched, while Connie fixed him with a flat green stare and grinned with rows of glistening fangs.

  The other werewolf, a muscular, silver−furred creature, leaped to attack, snarling in utter rage. It crashed into the half−transformed Connie, and they flew across the room into a glass wall unit in a flurry of teeth and claws.

  Steven grabbed Phil’s arm. The police officer’s eyes were glazed, and for a moment he didn’t seem to register him at all. Paul still had his hands over his eyes, as if to deny the horror unfolding before him. Steven leaned into his face and yelled. “Fucking run, you idiots.”

  That broke the spell. Phil and Paul lurched for the doorway and out into the corridor. Steven reached the door close behind them, risking a look over his shoulder. The two werewolves tore into each other with a fury he could not believe. Their attacks were blurs, so fast that his eyes hardly registered the movements. Claws sliced through flesh, while teeth tore away chunks of muscle. Both beasts were terribly wounded, but their savagery remained undiminished. The silver wolf launched itself into the air, diving forward and lashing out with its claws across the flank of its opponent, sending a spray of blood and fur into the air. The orange monster twisted at the last moment, taking the hit, but putting its jaws in range of the silver beast’s neck. It bit down with a sickening crunch of bone, and the silver monster went limp. Then it turned its head to Steven and howled.

  Steven glanced over his shoulder. Phil and Paul had already reached the front door. Phil was fumbling with the lock, while Paul’s face was blank, devoid of anything approaching emotion or reason. Steven knew then who’d betrayed them. He’d sacrificed his friends to save his family and had ended up losing everything. Steven realised that he didn’t blame him. He would probably have done the same thing in his position, but it wouldn’t make it any easier to live with the consequences. Not that it would matter when Connie Hamilton finished with them. They were defenceless against her. All he had was the sword and the weed−sprayer filled with the acid and silver nitrate mix he’d taken from…

  Of course. He could have slapped himself for not thinking of it sooner.

  Phil managed to get the door open. He turned back to Steven. Steven nodded. “I’ve got this, Phil. You two get the fuck out of here.”

  Phil didn’t say anything. He led Paul through the door and out into the night, letting the door click closed behind them. Steven shifted the grip on his sword, and turned around to face his death.

  Connie stood in the doorway, less than ten feet away. She’d sustained terrible injuries. One of her front legs was broken, with white shards of bone protruding from the blood−stained fur. Chunks of muscle had been torn away from her shoulders, and the blue bulge of internal organs was visible through the ragged tears on her abdomen. Steven wasn’t even sure how she was still standing until he realised that it was hate. Connie Hamilton’s hatred for him had kept her going long beyond where she should have lain down and died. She would spend her last breath tearing out his throat.

  She glared at him, wrinkled her snout and snarled. Steven looked into her eyes, and let the world fade around him. All that mattered was the monster. Time stretched out. The scent of blood washed over him, energising him. The werewolf’s eyes twitched, a tiny movement that lasted for a fraction of a second and betrayed the creature’s intentions.

  It sprang forward and Steven rushed to meet it, driving the sword before him. The blade sank into her chest up to the hilt and Steven drove Connie backward, pushing steel through the wall to impale the monster. The beast howled in agony as the blade sliced through internal organs, its attempts to escape inflicting more damage than the initial wound. He
r claws lashed out, tearing through Steven’s flesh and her head darted forward. Steven felt her jaws close around his collarbone, shattering it in a single bite.

  The pain was unbelievable. Steven had suffered some grievous wounds in his life, but nothing like this. He reached up with his uninjured arm while his shoulders exploded in a white bomb−burst of pain. Connie ripped her head back and forth, rending his body into tattered strips of meat. Despite the pain, he managed to gasp. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your daughter.”

  The werewolf’s eyes flared with fury and it plunged its head forward again, this time aiming for Steven’s heart. As the fangs punctured his skin and cleaved through his sternum, his hand found what it had been looking for: the activation panel for the house security systems. He jabbed at the buttons frantically while Connie chewed her way into his chest.

  The world dissolved into a red cloud of agony. The security system had registered werewolves inside the property and took appropriate measures. The ultrasonic siren dropped him to his knees, while Connie thrashed on the sword, howling in anguish at the all−consuming shriek of the alarm. Steven felt a warm trickle of blood run down his face as his ear−drums burst. He knew what was coming next.

  Rough hands grabbed him under his arms, pulling him away from the screaming figure of Connie Hamilton, who tore herself apart on a samurai sword. He looked up and saw Phil and Paul drag him towards the open door. At which point, the sprayers burst into life, filling the air with a grey mist that burned everything it touched, a mixture of sulphuric acid and silver nitrate, concentrated enough to eat through flesh in seconds. Phil and Paul both cried out in pain as the acid began to dissolve their skin. Steven wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d dropped him and run. Instead, the two police officers redoubled their efforts, dragging him outside into the cold night air.

  Once outside, the howl of the ultrasonic siren lessened to the extent that Steven was able to think. The pain from the wounds Connie had inflicted were agonising, and he was dizzy from blood loss, but he didn’t think she’d disrupted anything vital. The alarm had stopped her attack before she’d finished chewing through his ribcage. The acid, however, was another story. The pain was worse than anything Steven had ever experienced. The corrosive chemicals ate into his flesh, as his wolf tried to heal the damage. Unfortunately, the silver nitrate weakened the monster further, making its regenerative abilities less and less effective while the acid seemed to burn hotter with every passing second.

  How much worse then, for Connie? Steven looked back through the door to her screaming form, pinned to the wall like a bug, caught halfway between human and wolf states. The acid melted her skin faster than it could regenerate, but not by much. Her face trickled down her mangled chest, washed away by the constant stream of fresh sulphuric acid, while the burn marks grew gradually larger. Connie Hamilton was dissolving before his eyes. After long minutes, her screaming stopped and she slid off the sword, crumbling into a smoking pile of ruined flesh on the floor just as the acidic deluge stopped.

  Phil grabbed two bottles of water from Mark’s Range Rover, splashing the liquid over his own injuries before passing the other bottle to Paul. Phil reached his side and poured the rest of the water across the worst of his burns. Steven grabbed Phil’s wrist. “Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.”

  Phil nodded. “No problem.”

  He looked up, past Steven to where rows of headlights could be seen through the thinning mist. “Looks like the cavalry’s turned up then. Late as usual.”

  Steven coughed and looked again at the headlights. Too big for a squad car or ambulance. Even with the shriek of the ultrasonic alarm reverberating through his skull he could still make out the heavy diesel growl of the vehicles’ engines. The same sound that military transports made. He shook his head. “Phil, something tells me that’s not the cavalry.”

  ***

  15th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 04.40.

  Marie scrambled back, trying to put some distance between herself and the werewolf in front of her. During her time with the pack, she’d known Anya, but they’d kept a respectful distance from each other. She’d always had a typical moonborn stick−up−her−arse attitude, however they’d tolerated one another and even worked together on occasion. Friends would have been pushing it, but they’d certainly respected the other as a colleague. One look at the elation in the werewolf’s eyes told Marie that none of that counted for a damn thing anymore. Anya was enjoying this. She knew Marie was defenceless and was savouring her prey’s fear before moving in for the kill.

  Another gun−shot rang out, blowing a chunk from the wall that John was hiding behind. Marie couldn’t help but feel a surge of contempt for Oskar. It was just like him to stay back and not get his hands dirty. The Norwegian rarely transformed on an operation, claiming that he was more effective as a strategist in his human form, orchestrating the assault like a conductor. Marie knew the truth, however. Oskar had not responded well to the silver immunisation process. His wolf form was small, stunted in comparison to the other wolves on field teams. He was still a formidable killer in human terms, but in reality little more than the poisoned runt of the litter.

  Anya’s eyes blazed and she snapped at the air by Marie’s feet, sending her scurrying back until she hit the low wall separating the gardens from the woods beyond. She had nowhere else to go. Anya’s lips curled into what could almost have been considered a smile. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Anya surged forward and sank her fangs into Marie’s side.

  The pain was nothing compared to the horror she felt when she realised that Anya was eating her. The werewolf tore its head back, ripping away a bloody scrap of her abdomen in the process. It tilted its head down so that it fixed Marie’s gaze, then slowly chewed and swallowed the chunk of flesh. It darted forward again, but despite the pain and terror, this time Marie was ready for her. As Anya’s muzzle snapped at the wound in her side, Marie’s right arm flashed out, driving a silver knife through the bottom of Anya’s jaw into her brain.

  The monster let out a high−pitched squeal of agony and fell to the side, its claws leaving deep gashes across Marie’s thighs as it twitched and thrashed on the ground.

  Marie started to crawl away from the wounded creature, not daring to look at the wound. She felt nauseous and weak. Her vision began to darken around the edges, but she fought against it. If she passed out now, she was dead. Her hands closed around the stock of her assault rifle. She brought it up to her shoulder, then looked through the conservatory into the blazing house.

  Michael and Leonid’s combat had slowed in pace. The heat, smoke and combined injuries taking an obvious toll on both of them. Part of Leonid’s fur was on fire, but the black werewolf ignored the flames and circled its opponent, searching for an opportunity to strike. Michael bled from dozens of dreadful wounds. One of his eyes was little more than a pulped, bloody mess, and white bone gleamed from beneath the tears across his ribcage. Another part of the ceiling crashed down into the room, sending the flames higher. Marie didn’t hesitate. She opened up with the assault rifle. Bullets punched into Leonid, the wounds erupting in flowers of blood across his side, throwing him backwards, away from Michael.

  Michael surged forward, using the distraction to his advantage. He slammed into Leonid before the black wolf was able to recover, clamping his jaws around the other beast’s neck. Leonid howled in fury and lashed out with his lethal claws, opening more gaping wounds across Michael’s chest. Michael ignored the fresh injuries and bit down. Blood sprayed from Leonid’s throat, and his howl of pain turned into a bubbling cry of anguish. Then Michael’s jaws closed. Leonid’s head rolled from his body. Michael turned to face his sister, hardly able to stand. Then the roof of the cottage collapsed.

  Marie dropped the assault rifle and brought her hands up to her face. “Michael!” The grief hit her like a punch in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs, constricting her throat until drawing breath was painful. Her broth
er was dead. There was no way that he could have survived that. The loss threatened to overwhelm her, when, from behind her, came a savage growl. Her heart froze in her chest. She turned her head, knowing what she’d find. Anya had managed to dislodge the blade and stood four feet away from her, with bloody saliva dripping from her open jaws. She reached around for her only remaining weapon, the Beretta tucked into the waistband of her jeans, knowing that she might as well throw snowballs at Anya for all the good it would do.

  A furious roar split the night, freezing Anya in her tracks. The werewolf turned away from Marie, to the source of the noise as John burst from cover.

  Marie’s heart sank. John had not fully transformed into a wolf, as she’d hoped. Instead a hulking, seven−foot−tall moonstruck werewolf hurtled towards her and Anya. The beast’s eyes shone with a feral rage. There was no reason behind them, only fury. John would probably kill Anya, but then she would be next.

  A gunshot rang out, and the snow beside her erupted into a white cloud. She’d almost forgotten about Oskar, hidden in the trees with a high powered rifle. There was nothing she could do about John. When the time came she’d go without a fight and hope that eventually John would be able to come to terms with it. Oskar, on the other hand, was a problem she felt able to handle, comparatively speaking. First, however, she needed to get something. Clutching her wounded side, Marie threw herself over the low wall, then staggered away into the trees.