Lycanthropic (Book 2): Wolf Moon (The Rise of the Werewolves)

by Morris, Steve

  Kevin punched him playfully on the shoulder. ‘Just you wait and see, kid. Just you wait and see.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Brixton Village, South London, New Year’s Day

  Salma Ali was true to her word. In less than an hour, she was back, hammering on Ben Harvey’s front door, making his head pulsate with each quivering thump. ‘Sorry, did I disturb you?’ she asked, when he yanked the door open. Her hand was poised to knock again.

  ‘I have a headache,’ he explained. ‘Is it time for the meeting already?’

  ‘Everyone’s gathering at my house now,’ she said, smiling. ‘Number sixty-eight. See you there?’

  He swallowed some more painkillers and made his way across the road. Ms Ali’s house was one of the largest in the street, a prime example of the kind of property that had powered the housing market in this part of Brixton to sky-high levels in the past few years. Ben had bought when house prices were still relatively cheap, although at the time it had felt like an extortionate amount to pay for a two-bedroomed terraced house.

  A group of neighbours had already assembled in her elegant living room, and more were arriving as he entered. The chairs and sofas were fully taken, so he found a place to lean against the back wall. Bright sun shone through the French windows, making his head ache more than ever, and he found himself wishing darkly for more seasonal weather. A black thundercloud would have better matched his mood.

  More people pressed into the room, and Ben was surprised at how many had turned up. Then again, Salma Ali wasn’t a woman to take no for an answer. She had probably spent the last hour knocking on doors up and down the street and bullying her neighbours until they relented. Ben was slightly alarmed to realize just how few of his neighbours he recognized. Modern life didn’t seem to leave much time for building local community relations. Perhaps this meeting was well overdue.

  Salma Ali waited for everyone to arrive before she started speaking. She was dressed in her customary black jacket and white blouse, black trousers and shoes. Her black hair was tied back from her face, and she wore a concerned expression. Her delicate hands crossed and uncrossed impatiently as she waited for everyone to sit or stand.

  ‘Thank you all for coming, and welcome to my home,’ she began as the last person squeezed in next to Ben. ‘I’m sure you all know why we are here. Last night, rioters and so-called vigilantes took to the streets of London, unleashing a wave of criminal activity. Our local supermarket was attacked and looted and the police were unable to do anything to protect us. Isn’t that right, Mr Kowalski?’

  The Polish shopkeeper nodded vigorously, his oversized moustache bristling with indignation. ‘That’s right. They steal cigarettes, they steal alcohol. I try to stop them, but they are too many. They steal from me, and the police do nothing.’

  ‘If Mr Kowalski’s shop can be attacked, then none of us is safe,’ continued Salma Ali. ‘We must hope that the police will be able to stop these rioters and looters before too long, but in the meantime we are not powerless to help each other. We must take action to protect our own community. Am I right?’ There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I propose that we organize around the principle of the existing Neighbourhood Watch scheme. I will be the coordinator, and I will organize groups to patrol the local area at night. I will also organize a network of contacts, so that anyone who notices anything suspicious can report it to the Watch.’

  ‘Who will be in these patrol groups?’ asked a woman sitting on the sofa.

  ‘I will ask for volunteers,’ said Salma Ali. ‘The task is not without some risk, so no one will be asked to join if they don’t want to.’

  ‘I will join,’ said Mr Kowalski. ‘And my two sons.’ He indicated two strapping young men at his side. Both nodded enthusiastically. ‘And we will fight!’ declared the shopkeeper.

  The woman who had asked the question frowned. ‘Surely we aren’t authorized to fight anyone? We aren’t vigilantes.’

  Ms Ali smiled widely. ‘An excellent point. And speaking as a lawyer, I can give you a definitive response. The law states that a person may use reasonable force in the prevention of crime. They may also effect or assist in the lawful arrest of suspected offenders or persons unlawfully at large.’

  ‘A citizen’s arrest?’ queried Ben.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harvey. Exactly. As long as the offenders are engaged in criminal conduct, reasonable force can be used to prevent the crime, or to detain them afterwards.’

  ‘And what exactly is reasonable force?’

  ‘Another excellent question. The law defines reasonable force as whatever a reasonable person regards it to be.’

  ‘That sounds a bit circular to me,’ said Ben, rubbing at his forehead. ‘So what is a reasonable person?’

  ‘Let’s not get too hung up on this,’ said Ms Ali. ‘The law always sides with honest people acting to defend themselves against criminals, especially when protecting their own homes.’ She smiled her practised smile. ‘Trust me. I’m a lawyer.’

  ‘I wonder if we shouldn’t just leave this to the police?’ wondered Ben aloud. ‘I mean, they’ve drafted in a lot of additional armed officers, and now soldiers too.’

  Ms Ali turned her smile up another degree. ‘The police? Did you watch the news last night? Did it look to you as if the police had the situation under control?’

  ‘Well, …’

  ‘With every respect, Ben, when the law breaks down, it’s not people like you that are most vulnerable. It’s people like Mr Kowalski here. Many of those thugs on the news were racists and hard-line political extremists. They’re using this opportunity to further their own hateful agenda. When the rioters come, anyone whose name doesn’t fit, or whose skin is the wrong colour will be the one who gets hurt. We can’t afford to stake our lives on police protection.’

  There was a murmuring of agreement from some of the others present.

  ‘So who will volunteer for night patrols?’ asked Salma Ali.

  The three Polish men were first to raise their hands, followed quickly by half a dozen others. Mr Stewart, the man who had argued with Mr Kowalski earlier, nodded and lifted a muscular arm. Reluctantly Ben raised his hand too.

  Salma Ali went around the volunteers, taking names, addresses and phone numbers. ‘That’s excellent. I suggest dividing into three groups, each with three or four men. That will be enough to patrol the district between the hours of six and midnight, when the curfew begins. Mr Harvey, you can go with Mr Kowalski and Mr Stewart.’ She reeled off a list of names for the other groups. ‘I will drop leaflets through all the doors, letting people know what is happening, and explaining that you are authorized to patrol the area. If anyone sees anything suspicious they can report it to me, and I can pass the information on. Any questions? No? Then good luck!’

  The meeting began to break up. Mr Kowalski came over to where Ben and Mr Stewart were standing and shook hands solemnly with them, closing his thick fingers tightly over Ben’s hand and pumping it vigorously. He seemed to be assessing how well the two men might handle themselves in a tough situation, a thought that had occurred to Ben too.

  ‘You have weapon?’ enquired Mr Kowalski. ‘Knife? If not, I give you one.’

  ‘A knife?’ said Ben. ‘Hold on, you can’t just wander around the streets with a knife.’

  ‘Not in normal time,’ agreed Mr Kowalski. ‘This is not normal time.’

  But even Ms Ali looked uncertain about the suggestion. She hesitated, then said, ‘No knives, Mr Kowalski. We must stay within the boundaries of the law, if the law is to be on our side.’

  The Polish man narrowed his eyes. ‘Okay then. No knives for us. Then hope that looters don’t bring knives.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Upper Terrace, Richmond upon Thames, West London, New Year’s Day

  The sound of a key turning in the front door of the house could only mean one thing. Sarah dragged herself away from the TV screen and ran down the stairs. The door to the house was opening wi
de as she reached the entrance hallway. ‘Oh my God, Melanie!’

  It had been weeks since she’d seen her sister. In all that time she’d received not a single message. Not one of her voicemails had been answered. Neither the police nor the local hospitals had any record of Melanie, or anyone matching her description. Sarah had almost abandoned all hope of seeing her alive again.

  She ran to her sister, expecting to be scooped up in an extravagant embrace, but Melanie stood still in the doorway, stooping forward pitifully. She looked dreadful, her hair dulled and dry, her skin pinched and pallid, her bloodshot eyes vacant and hollow. Worst of all, dark bruises covered one side of her face. Her arm trembled as she leaned against the doorframe for support.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ cried Sarah. ‘Let me help you in.’

  Her sister staggered forward and almost collapsed into Sarah’s arms. Sarah caught her, and hugged her, wrapping her arms around Melanie’s frail body, clutching her tight. She kissed her sister on the forehead, covering her face with hot tears. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ she said. ‘This time, I thought it was the last.’

  ‘Hey, sis,’ said Melanie with a weak smile. ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily. I always come back, even when you think I’m lost. Besides, I had a knight in shining armour to save me.’

  Behind her on the steps that led up to the house stood a dejected-looking teenage boy Sarah had never seen before. The boy wore ill-fitting clothes and an expression of inconsolable grief. His hair was the colour of straw, and was styled like a haystack. He lifted his chin to look at Sarah and she saw immediately that his eyes were ringed with red.

  Sarah turned away from the boy, her face burning. Melanie never brought strangers back to the house. It was one of the unwritten rules that held Sarah’s life in place. Melanie knew how badly Sarah reacted to anyone new. ‘What is he doing here?’ she hissed.

  ‘This is James,’ said Melanie. ‘He rescued me. Without him, I’d be dead now.’

  The boy stood glumly on the steps, his shoulders stooped, his face like misery itself.

  ‘Are you bringing him inside?’ whispered Sarah.

  Melanie shrugged weakly. ‘He has nowhere else to go.’ She clutched at Sarah’s arm for support. ‘He’s just a boy. Can he stay with us? Please say he can.’

  Sarah gripped her sister tightly to support her. This was no time for an argument. Melanie needed her, and the boy lurking outside obviously did too. She would just have to deal with it somehow. ‘Come on in, James,’ she said, looking at the wall, not able to turn her eyes toward him. ‘I’m sorry if I seem rude, but I’m not very good at meeting new people.’ She flicked her gaze over him quickly as he hobbled up the steps. There was nothing to be afraid of. He was just a young man who had been through some kind of trauma. Just a boy, not even a man. And a skinny, bedraggled-looking one at that. ‘You two look as bad as each other,’ she said. ‘Should I call an ambulance?’

  ‘No,’ said Melanie quickly. ‘We’re okay, we just need to rest.’

  ‘Come inside and let me examine you,’ said Sarah, letting Melanie lean her weight against her. She didn’t weigh much more than a child. ‘You’ve lost pounds. Haven’t you been eating?’

  Melanie tried a weak smile. ‘You can never be too thin, huh?’

  ‘So they say.’ Sarah had never had that particular problem herself. She had always been big-boned compared with her sister, and now Melanie had withered away to almost nothing. She helped her to a chair in the hallway and looked back at James.

  The boy hadn’t moved, just stood in the entrance. A tear ran down one dark-stained cheek. He didn’t look malnourished like Melanie, but there was a desperate wretchedness to him that was just as worrying. He looked like he might drop dead with sorrow.

  ‘Come on in, James,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ll make you a nice hot cup of tea.’ It was what she did best. Look after the sick.

  The boy shook his head, his sandy thatch sweeping his forehead, his face turned down to his shoes.

  ‘James doesn’t drink tea,’ explained Melanie.

  ‘Coffee then, or perhaps something stronger?’

  Melanie laid a fragile hand on Sarah’s arm. ‘Nothing for James. No food or drink. He just needs rest.’

  Sarah nodded. Still not looking at him, she said, ‘I’ll make up the guest room for James.’ Guest room was a joke. When had they last had a guest at the house? When had Sarah last spoken to a stranger, other than a few words to the postman, or some delivery guy? When James didn’t respond, she added. ‘He can sleep, or take a shower, or whatever he likes. I expect he’ll feel better after some rest. I expect you both will.’

  Leaving Melanie slumped in the hall chair, she stepped gingerly over to where the boy still stood and slid her gaze cautiously in his direction. If she was brave, she could do this. He was just a boy, not a monster. She reached out a timid hand to him.

  He lifted his face, gazing at her hand as if he had no idea what it was. She gave him a tentative smile, but his eyes stayed blank and expressionless. She realized then just how damaged and unthreatening he was. Gently, she took his hand in hers and led him inside. ‘Come with me, James. I’ll look after you.’ She smiled down at her sister. ‘You too, Mel. You know that looking after people is what I’m here for.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hammersmith, West London, New Year’s Day

  They were on the road again at last and Chris Crohn could hardly believe it. The hire car was a gleaming black SUV exactly like he’d envisaged. Tinted windows, integrated satellite navigation, the lot. The only features it lacked were built-in machine guns and flame throwers, but the car rental company hadn’t offered those as options.

  The only trouble now was Seth, as usual. His friend tossed his long hair out of his eyes as he wrestled with the gear stick.

  ‘I thought you knew how to drive,’ Chris accused him.

  ‘I do,’ said Seth. ‘But this car is twice as big as my old one, and I don’t know what half the controls are for.’

  So far Seth had stalled the car twice driving out of the parking area, opened the sunroof by mistake while setting the climate control, and told the navigation system to direct them to Hereford Road in London instead of the small town of Hereford in the west of England.

  ‘Remind me again why we’re going to Hereford?’ said Seth.

  ‘Because it’s the wilderness,’ said Chris. ‘No one lives there.’

  ‘That can’t be literally true,’ said Seth.

  ‘No,’ agreed Chris, as the navigation system instructed them for the tenth time to make a legal U-turn. ‘But it’s one of the least populated areas of England. It’ll be a good base.’

  ‘Can’t you turn that thing off?’ asked Seth.

  Chris studied the dashboard through his thick lenses. He prodded the touchscreen control panel and cancelled the directions. The navigation system fell silent at last. ‘That wasn’t difficult,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could drive this car myself with a little practice.’

  ‘You don’t even have a driving licence.’

  ‘Once the apocalypse comes, I won’t need one,’ said Chris darkly. Seth went silent. Mentioning the “A-word” always sent him into a sulk. In the old days, Chris had never been any good at getting people to do what he wanted, but now it seemed that manipulating Seth was as easy as programming a computer. And if Chris could learn people skills, he could surely learn to control a vehicle.

  They drove along for a while in silence, Chris studying the car’s handbook to get an overview of its key functions. It really didn’t look that hard at all. The only problem was that the car was a physical object, and Chris preferred dealing with things that he couldn’t touch. He and the real world didn’t always see eye to eye.

  At least they were on the move now, although the going was slow. The police had advised motorists to stay home unless their journey was absolutely necessary, and the result was that half of London had taken to the roads. All the major routes out of the capital wer
e heavily jammed, and they were struggling to push through the congestion.

  ‘I wish I could have brought my vinyl collection,’ mused Seth. ‘I miss it already.’

  The car didn’t even have a CD player, only a wireless connection for digital music. The world had gone virtual in the past few years. But soon everything that had been digitized would vanish forever. Chris found his mood turning melancholy just when he should have been glad.

  ‘What else will you miss?’ he asked his friend.

  ‘So many things. Cappuccinos, selfies, texting, emojis, animated GIFs. All those things will be gone, right?’

  ‘Right. Yeah.’ A silence hung over them as they considered the full ramifications of the situation.

  ‘There’ll be plenty that I won’t miss though,’ continued Seth. ‘Like Twitter trolls and laggy Wi-Fi. What about you? What will you miss?’

  It was an excellent question, but too awful to truly consider. Everything Chris loved was destined to disappear when the Information Age came to an end. Nothing would be saved. He gazed out of the car at the raindrops making trails down the outside of the windows. The traffic was coming to a complete halt, and the sky was already beginning to darken. They would need to make it out of the city before the curfew began at midnight. Would the army really make mass arrests, or perhaps even shoot civilians? If the authorities were serious about stopping the apocalypse, they would need to take extreme measures. Even the curfew would do little to stop the werewolves from spreading. Like a virus infecting a host, or a cancerous tumour bringing about its own ultimate demise, the spread of the condition was a mathematical certainty. Soon the modern world would be swept away, and Chris would have to learn to survive in an age for which he was totally ill-suited and woefully unprepared.

  ‘I’ll miss the abstract,’ he said at last. ‘Words, symbols, codes, numbers. All the things that don’t exist in the real world.’

  Red lights from the car in front cast a gloomy glow over them, and Seth slipped the car into neutral. ‘Those things will still exist,’ he said. ‘As long as you remember what they are, you can keep them for as long as you like.’