By the time Freddie has washed, dressed, kissed Hayley goodbye, and pulled on his bike leathers it is six-fifteen am, but still dark. He wheels the Kawasaki out of the driveway, and cringes for a second as the bike’s engine roars into life. The neighbours would just have to put up with the noise; a man had to get to work, it wasn’t that often he had to start so early, and they were on the outskirts of the village after all.
Freddie manoeuvres the bike in the direction of the village, takes a quick glance back at the cottage, then releases the clutch. The bike powers forward and glides past Emily Carmichael’s cottage where light and movement catch his attention; Kathy is already at work. She’s a good soul. Washing a ninety-odd-year old’s backside day in, day out, wasn’t something he would be able to stomach. He shifts up a gear, passes the church, turns onto Main Street then rides past the shop where Sid had witnessed Freddie’s dressing down at the hands of Marjorie Maybank. The only light comes from his headlight and the orange haze cast by the sparse streetlights.
Movement to the right, between two houses, catches his attention. He dismisses it; spotting the odd cat, fox, badger, or even deer, at this time of the morning isn’t unusual. He increases his speed, being careful not to rev the engine; there is the odd house with a light on, but much of the village is still asleep. As he leaves the outskirts, passing the sign that proclaimed ‘Kielder Village’ and ‘England’s most isolated village’, a figure catches in the edge of his light then disappears. He swerves, nearly running into the verge then brings the bike back to the left. As his headlamp illuminates the edge of the road and the woodlands beyond, yellow light flashes over a figure, highlighting its limbs and head for those seconds. Its arm rises to block out the glare, its teeth bared in an angry snarl. What the hell had he just seen?
He changes up a gear, pulls down his visor, and opens the throttle. The Kawasaki revs and powers forward. He checks the mirrors. Nothing is visible. He checks either side, swinging his head round to peer beyond the visor’s limits. Nothing. He turns back to the front, focusing on the road ahead, attempts to process the bizarre images now stamped into his memory. That each of the figures had been female was obvious from their bare, and freely moving, breasts. Both looked human, but had been covered in – he grimaces – hair. It was particularly thick between their legs but appeared to cover the rest of their bodies too, even on their faces. And what had happened to their faces! The eyes had glinted in the dark, but when the light travelled across their bodies, the eyes were like dark pools of blood. What the hell were those things? The one that had raised its arms to cut out the bike’s light, had drawn back its lips in a grimace to reveal sharp incisors that resembled fangs.
Someone was winding him up. He wouldn’t put it past Craig to pull a stunt like this. Craig knew what time Freddie was leaving this morning. He’d also mentioned old Mrs Carmichael’s tale of seeing a stark naked wolfman jumping over Max Anderson’s wall. They’d laughed, said that it was the most action the old biddy had seen in decades, then got a little spooked when Hayley added that Kathy Oldfield had told her Billy had also seen one. They’d decided the whole village was getting over-excited, but now Freddie was seeing things too—unnatural things—things that shouldn’t exist. His chest tightens. Get a grip, Freddie. It was just a trick of the light. Yeah, two naked women running through the woods with their tits jiggling, snapping their fangs at him—just a trick of the light! He snorts with derision; the image of the two ‘women’ strong in his mind. One was lithe and young with small, pert breasts, and dark hair, the other obviously older, a natural blonde with larger breasts. Both were muscular though—two body-building, hairy as fuck, butt-naked werewolves. Globs of snot spray from his nostril and stick to the visor as his eyes flit from side to side. Heart hammering painfully, Freddie pushes the bike forward, increasing the distance between himself and the village, and whatever was running in the woods.
Pressure clamps down on his shoulder.
He screams.
Razors slice at his flesh.
The bike swerves. He fights to keep it under control, snaps his head to look behind, and screams again as a clawed hand disappears back into the gloom. What the fuck! The bike wobbles. He straightens it, forcing himself to focus on the road ahead, then checks his right mirror. Pain stings his shoulder as the blonde wolfman – wolfwoman? - drops out of view. Heart pounding as though it will burst, he accelerates.
Ahead, the rising sun is turning the sky from navy to thin grey and the forest sits as a thick band of jagged black turrets across the horizon. He checks the mirror again. Whatever had attacked him is nowhere to be seen. His heart pounds. Whatever had attacked him could go back to the village. His gut begins to twist. Whatever had attacked him could attack Hayley. Stomach knotted, he powers the bike forward, increasing its speed from eighty to ninety, then one hundred miles per hour. As the road disappears into another bank of trees, he slows and swings around. Behind, the forest looms black and the sky brightens. Before him is the road back to the village and whatever is crawling through the woods. He revs the bike then launches it forward, pushing the engine hard, and roars past the village sign at one hundred and sixty miles per hour. No hair-covered freak would stop him getting back home.
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The Wolfmen of Kielder: Bitten: An Apocalyptic Horror Survival Series (Lycan Plague Origins Book 1) Page 17
