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

by Morris, Steve

  Chapter Seventeen

  Electric Avenue, Brixton, South London, New Year’s Day

  The violence began as soon as darkness fell. Ben, Mr Kowalski and Mr Stewart started their patrol at dusk, and within ten minutes of walking the streets, the sirens of distant emergency vehicles began to punctuate the night. A thick fog had descended too, deadening all sound and wrapping them in a cold blanket that made it hard to see more than a hundred paces. Ben turned up the collar of his coat and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

  ‘Trouble is starting already,’ muttered Mr Kowalski from under his moustache. ‘Will be worse than last night, probably. But this time we are ready.’ He reached a heavy hand inside his coat and brought out two steel knives secured in leather pouches. The tops of the blades glinted dimly in the eerie half-light of the fog. ‘Here,’ he said, offering one to each of the two men.

  Ben frowned. ‘I thought we agreed. Ms Ali said no knives.’

  ‘She say no. I say yes. What do you say?’

  Mr Stewart held out his hand and the Polish shopkeeper placed the handle of one of the weapons in his meaty palm. He wrapped his strong fingers tightly around it and slid it under his jacket. ‘This will give the bastards something to think about,’ he growled.

  The remaining knife was offered to Ben. He hesitated, then shook his head.

  Mr Kowalski shrugged and hid the knife away. ‘You are good with fists?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve never had the chance to find out,’ said Ben.

  ‘Then just hope that you are good,’ said Mr Kowalski darkly.

  Ben’s misgivings about this endeavour were growing with each moment, but it was too late to turn back now. ‘Where are your sons?’ he asked Mr Kowalski. ‘Are they out on patrol?’

  ‘Later. For now, they guard shop.’ He grinned. ‘Looters will get nasty surprise when they come tonight.’

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t come.’

  ‘Oh, they will come. But this time, we are prepared.’

  Ben didn’t want to ask what kind of preparations Mr Kowalski’s sons might have made. But he had to admit that the Polish man was probably right. Trouble was coming, and they needed to be ready for it. He wondered if he should have accepted the knife. But on balance, he was probably better off without it.

  Mr Kowalski strode off down the road, Mr Stewart at his heels. Reluctantly, Ben followed. Being left behind would be even worse than going with them.

  Another siren cut through the clammy night. This one was closer and sounded like it was coming straight toward them. The wailing sound grew louder, sawing at Ben’s head, and a blue flashing light emerged out of the fog not far away. The police car swept past at high speed and disappeared into the murk. They had no way of knowing where it was headed, but at least it hadn’t stopped. The emergency was elsewhere.

  The two men in front turned down a residential side street and Ben followed them. The fog grew thicker as they headed toward the river, swallowing the light from the streetlamps and shrinking their world to a small and ever-tightening circle. The only sound was the muffled tap of their own footsteps, and the other men’s heavy breathing.

  Mr Stewart turned back to look at Ben. ‘So what’s this act of heroism Ms Ali talked about?’

  Act of heroism. Ben wished that Ms Ali had never mentioned it. Now it just seemed to give him more to live up to. ‘There was an incident at the school where I teach,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re a teacher?’ Mr Stewart snorted contemptuously as if this was the worst profession a man might have. ‘Since when did a school teacher ever get the chance to be a hero?’

  Ben felt his anger rise at the needless provocation. ‘The school’s headmaster attacked two of the girls. Another teacher and I tackled him and took him down. But really, I’m no hero.’

  ‘What happened to the girls?’ asked Mr Stewart. ‘Did you save them?’

  Ben’s mouth went dry as he relived the memory. ‘We managed to save one of them. The other was … killed.’ He had almost said eaten. It was the truth, but saying it was too horrible. The headmaster, Mr Canning, had still been eating the girl when Ben had arrived to confront him.

  ‘You’re right, then,’ said Mr Stewart dismissively. ‘You’re no hero. You let her die. You were too afraid to save her.’ He turned his face away, leaving Ben staring angrily at his back.

  At the end of the street they turned left again, into a busier road. A row of shops clustered together, mostly fast-food outlets and a cafe. The cafe was closed, but a pizza place and a Chinese takeaway had some customers inside. Mr Kowalski went into each restaurant, shaking hands with the owners and exchanging a few words, checking that all was in order.

  ‘Is good,’ he announced, stepping back onto the pavement. ‘No trouble yet.’ He paused and looked into Ben’s face, studying him with darkened eyes. ‘You saved life of one girl?’ he asked.

  Ben nodded, afraid of hearing the Polish man’s judgement. Now he thought about it he wondered if he really was the hero people had made him out to be. As Mr Stewart had pointed out, one girl had died, and it was Rose Hallibury who had stabbed Mr Canning in the eye with her pen. Ben had done little more than create a distraction, now he thought about it critically. The prospect that both these men would brand him a failure seemed suddenly terrifying.

  Mr Kowalski looked deep into Ben’s eyes as if seeing the event play out, and weighing his performance. ‘Sounds to me like you are hero,’ he said at last. He swept his gaze toward Mr Stewart and then back to Ben. ‘You were scared?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Ben. Terrified, although somehow he had managed to push the fear away, otherwise it would have paralyzed him.

  Mr Kowalski nodded, as if he knew exactly how Ben had felt. ‘Every hero is scared. But is hero anyway.’ His next words were harsh and he directed them at Mr Stewart. ‘Man who is not scared is not hero. Man who is not scared will soon be dead man.’

  Mr Stewart snorted with contempt, but the Polish man grabbed his shoulder and drew him closer. ‘Only a knife feels no fear. Don’t let knife make you stupid.’

  Mr Stewart glared angrily at him for a second, then shrugged him off and strode quickly away along the pavement. Ben and the shopkeeper followed in his wake.

  The fog became ever thicker as they walked, and Ben was glad of his warm coat. He quickened his pace so as not to lose sight of Mr Stewart. Mr Kowalski stayed beside him, seeming to move with ease through the night, as if it were his natural habitat. Ben found it hard to imagine that the Polish man could ever show real fear. He was glad to have him beside him.

  After a minute they caught up with Mr Stewart, who had stopped for some reason.

  Up ahead, a group of young men emerged from the billowing fog. Ben made out four shapes, most likely youngsters out to buy food from one of the fast-food restaurants, or heading to a nearby pub or bar. But Mr Kowalski wasn’t taking any chances. He stopped the men and held up a flashlight to their faces.

  The young men were masked, wearing scarves over their mouths and noses, just their eyes peeping out over the coverings. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ demanded one, holding a palm to his face as the shopkeeper dazzled him with the beam of light.

  Mr Kowalski continued to shine the light in their eyes. ‘Where you going?’ he asked. ‘Why you cover your faces?’

  The youngsters backed away. ‘Ain’t going nowhere,’ said the one who had already spoken. ‘And everyone’s wearing face masks now. Ain’t you heard? There’s a virus out there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said one of the other youths, taking a step forward. ‘Turns you into a wolf, yeah?’

  The Polish man swivelled the light toward him and the youth fell back a step, covering his eyes. ‘You better go home, son. Is not safe on streets. And masks won’t save you from wolves.’

  The youngsters eyed each other uncertainly. ‘Keep your cool,’ said the first one. ‘We ain’t causing no trouble. We’ll go, okay? But you should get yourselves some masks too, before it’s too late.�
� The four of them turned and sloped off, back the way they had come. Mr Kowalski watched them go.

  ‘Hey,’ said Ben. ‘I thought we were supposed to be protecting the community, not terrifying everyone.’

  ‘Better if they are terrified,’ muttered Mr Kowalski. ‘Then they stay safe.’ He headed off down the road again, Mr Stewart in his wake. With a sigh, Ben followed them.

  The fog began to thin a little as they moved away from the river and back toward the High Street. They were approaching another line of small shops when they heard an engine gunning. Mr Kowalski held up his hand for them to wait. A car sped past them, brakes screeching as it reached the corner with the High Street. A high-performance car, shiny black paintwork gleaming as it emerged from the mist. The car veered to the side of the road, its wheels crunching against the kerb, then lurched back on course, accelerating rapidly, its engine screaming under the stress.

  It rounded the corner and crashed straight into one of the shop fronts on the High Street. Glass smashed and an alarm began squealing its distress call.

  ‘Ram raid!’ shouted Mr Kowalski.

  The front of the shop was protected by steel rollers, but the car’s impact had left a sizeable dent in the metal. The car reversed back a few feet, its tyres squealing, then rammed the shop window again, making the steel shutters buckle even further. The car reversed out into the street accompanied by the scream of metal tearing against metal as it ripped the shutters apart. The steel rollers that covered the shop windows were now twisted out of all recognition.

  The doors of the car flew open and two men jumped out, hooded and masked. They ran toward the shop entrance.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr Kowalski. ‘We end this now.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  A secret military location, North London, New Year’s Day

  ‘I think it best if we do not enter the autopsy room,’ the General told the Prime Minister. ‘We can communicate with the medical staff via an intercom.’ He indicated the grille of a speaker, and a microphone fixed to the wall below the room’s glass window. ‘The doctor in charge of the post mortem is Colonel Michael Griffin. He’s one of our most senior and experienced medical officers. Colonel Griffin is …’

  The Prime Minister cut him off with a sharp nod. ‘I’ve read his file.’ It had come out more abruptly than she’d intended. The shock of seeing the creature in the flesh had affected her more than she cared to admit. ‘Your briefing notes were extremely thorough. Thank you, General.’

  She had seen the Colonel’s photograph in the notes she’d studied in the car. A good-looking man with prematurely greyed hair, startling blue eyes, a firm jaw and the hint of a bewitching smile on an otherwise stern face – an archetypal military hero.

  She peered through the glass at the man in the room beyond, searching for recognition of those fine looks. But beneath the face mask and plastic helmet, the man on the other side of the glass window who acknowledged her with a raised hand could have been anyone.

  His file suggested that he was far from just anyone, however. Qualified as a doctor at the University of Cambridge, and trained as an officer at the Royal Military Academy in Sandhurst, he had been a high-flyer from an early age. He had served in Iraq as a combat medic with the Royal Army Medical Corps and then commanded a field hospital in Helmand Province in Afghanistan, where he had been decorated with a Military Cross. He had been promoted to the rank of Colonel at the age of just thirty-nine.

  Those were the cold facts, but if the PM had learned anything during her years in public office, it was that written briefings were no substitute for a face-to-face encounter. Staring through the glass pane at the man clad from head to foot in white overalls, his face concealed by a mask and helmet, she wished more than anything that she could see the expression on that face, and thereby know the man who wore it. She would have to settle for hearing his words and watching his body language instead.

  The voice that came from the intercom was deep, but warm; professional in tone, but with a trace of a country accent. ‘Good evening, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Good evening, Colonel Griffin. Please give us your assessment of the creature.’

  The Colonel adjusted the camera positioned over the post mortem table so that the head and shoulders of the wolf were fully visible on the overhead monitor. ‘Can you see that?’ asked the Colonel.

  The PM nodded. The creature’s snout, eyes and ears were uncannily like those of a German Shepherd or a Husky, but the animal stretched out before her on the metal table was two to three times the size of any similar dog.

  Colonel Griffin began to speak briskly into his microphone, his voice smooth and precise. ‘The subject was found dead at approximately 1:30am this morning by armed police patrolling the area close to the Battersea riots. Police officers secured the site and a forensic team was brought in to sweep the area. Initially the police wanted their own pathologist to conduct a post mortem examination, but General Ney received word of events and requested that the military assume charge of the investigation.’

  The PM nodded again. She had approved the General’s request herself in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘The cause of death was internal bleeding due to tearing of the blood vessels connected to the left kidney. This was caused by a single abdominal ballistic wound.’ The Colonel picked a small metallic object from a tray and held it up to the camera. ‘A round from a Glock nine-millimetre pistol, as used by the special police.’ He let the bullet fall back into the tray with a soft clink.

  The Colonel moved the camera round so that the monitor behind him displayed the location of the bullet wound in the animal’s belly. ‘The blood loss was heavy, and the creature would have died within minutes of being shot, which is consistent with the times recorded in the police reports. The subject had also sustained an injury to its hind legs, perhaps when jumping over a wall. In addition, the front claws of the creature were blooded.’ Griffin panned the camera to show the ferociously curved knife-like talons of the beast, enlarged several times on the big screen. He looked up at the PM. ‘Human blood,’ he added.

  ‘What is it, exactly?’ she asked, ‘The creature, I mean. If that’s not a stupid question.’

  ‘Not a stupid question at all. The answer is that I don’t know for sure. The creature is male, and appears to be youthful. Before it was killed it was in a good state of health, although steel pins in one of its legs indicate previous historic injuries.’

  ‘What?’ The PM interrupted him. ‘Steel pins? Please explain.’

  ‘The steel pins are of the type commonly used to repair broken bones after severe fracture. I have sent them away to see if we can identify their make and date of manufacture. It may be possible to discover where and when they were used.’

  The General leaned toward the intercom. ‘Colonel, are you saying that this creature, this wolf, has received medical treatment?’

  ‘Quite so, General. But may I correct you in one important regard. This animal may look like a wolf, but it is most definitely not a wolf. Anatomically there are very clear differences.’ He swung the camera again, this time zooming out to show the whole of the beast. ‘The spinal structure and rib cage are roughly identical to that found in wolves and dogs, however the tail bone is missing entirely, and the tail that you see here is almost certainly without any real function.’ The camera zoomed in on the tail, and the Colonel flapped the loose appendage up and down to demonstrate. ‘The bones that make up the front and rear legs are approximately what we would expect to find, but the metacarpal, proximal, medial and distal bones in the paws are quite out of proportion.

  ‘There are other notable differences. For example, wolves have claws.’ The Colonel shifted the camera again to show the vicious front paws. ‘This creature has talons, similar to those of a bird of prey. They are large hooked claws, used to stab and kill its prey.’ The Colonel zoomed in on the razor-sharp talons, still reddened with blood.

  ‘Other differences – wolves don’
t have sweat glands, except in the nose. This creature has sweat glands in its skin, like a human. And if this is a wolf, it is the first to possess opposable thumbs.’ He moved one of the front toes to indicate how it rotated.

  ‘Opposable thumbs?’ queried the Prime Minister with a frown. ‘Like humans have?’

  ‘Indeed. Exactly so. But that is far from being the most intriguing aspect of the skeleton.’ The Colonel picked up a remote control and pressed a button. The view on the overhead monitor switched to an X-ray image.

  ‘What are we seeing now, Colonel Griffin?’ asked the PM.

  ‘An X-ray of the creature’s skull, Prime Minister.’

  ‘But surely that is a human skull.’

  ‘It is certainly not what we would expect from a wolf,’ confirmed the Colonel with a trace of irony. ‘Nevertheless, this is the bone structure of the creature you see before you.’ He switched the view on the screen back to the camera and moved it to show the animal’s head. ‘If you look closely you can see that all is not quite as it appears. First of all, the creature’s head is disproportionately large for a wolf. That is due mainly to the fact that it has a brain identical in size to a human. A normal wolf skull has a projecting maxilla, or jawbone, that supports the nasal bone and sinus cavity. In this creature, by contrast, the upper jaw is flat, like a human jaw. This creature’s snout is supported by cartilage, not bone. You might almost think of it as a mask, or a disguise.’

  ‘A disguise?’ demanded the General, knitting his eyebrows together in a frown. ‘Disguise for what?’

  ‘A disguise to hide the fact that it began its life as a human being.’

  The General’s booming voice was suddenly hushed. ‘How can that be possible?’

  ‘How, I cannot say, sir. But the subject’s core anatomy is human. The wolf appearance is largely superficial. Genetic analysis confirms it. The subject’s DNA is almost entirely human.’

  The corridor and the adjacent room fell silent. All those present stared in mute disbelief at the image of the wolf head on the overhead screen, the wolf that was not a wolf at all.