Blood Moon (38 page)

Sure enough, he’d not made it twenty feet when the area he’d been standing moments before erupted in a ball of flame, noise and shrapnel. The blast threw him from his feet, hurling him forward, while red hot shards of metal tore through his flesh, slicing through muscle, rupturing internal organs and shattering bone. His ears rang with the sound of the explosion, and warm, wet fluid trickled down the side of his head. He struggled to get to his feet, trying to force the pain of his injured body from his mind. Trying to ignore the red dots on the ground that were zooming towards him at impossible speed. Willing his wolf to heal him enough to avoid the next missile strike.

Then he felt it. The tug was unmistakable. The full moon had risen.

All hell was about to break loose.

11th January 2009. Scarborough Barracks, Doncaster. 03:28

Colonel Richards’ fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “Would you remind repeating that, Corporal?”

The young man before him looked uncertain. His eyes flicked between his companions, as if looking for someone to help him or an escape route. “We lost contact with Ascot Four Six Three One a few moments ago, Sir. It’s not known if it’s a radio problem or something more serious. No word on whether they delivered the package before we lost them on the radar.”

“Of course they didn’t deliver the bloody package. Or did I miss an earth shattering explosion? What about the Reapers. Are they on station?”

“Yes, Sir. We’re getting reports that the drones have already engaged their targets. Four missiles away. No confirmed kills as yet, though.”

“Four? You’re telling me that the damned drone operators have fired off half their bloody armaments before the moon has even risen? What the hell are they shooting at?”

“Erm… They reported confirmed heat spikes consistent with transformations at eight separate locations by the perimeter fence. The pilots…”

A vein began to pulse in Colonel Richards’ head. “Those morons fired Hellfire missiles at targets alongside the perimeter fence? And we’ve lost contact with the Hercules?” He turned and stormed across the temporary command station to where Paul Patterson stood with the other members of the Quick Reaction Force. “It’s all gone to hell down there, Patterson. I want us airborne and on our way to Lindholme in three minutes.”

Paul snapped a salute. “Yes, Sir. But… Sir… Us?”

Colonel Richards’ mouth curled into a snarl. “Yes, Patterson. Us. I clearly can’t trust the cretins around me to do the job properly, so I’ll be leading the assault. Now, you have your orders. Get on with them.”

11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:28

Sharon removed the last of her clothes and placed them on the bed. It seemed ridiculous to take the time folding them, considering what was about to happen, but that simple act of normality helped distract her from the terror that threatened to overwhelm her. The air in the hut was freezing and she wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to keep warm. Not that she’d be cold for long.

The other occupants were mostly sitting on their bunks. A few paced back and forth, wringing their hands. Mandy sat beside her with a blanket draped across her shoulders to stave off the cold and hide her nakedness from the others. Not that anyone was paying attention. Each and every other person was lost in their own thoughts. All of them trying to come to terms with the monster within them, whose presence was becoming more apparent with every passing second. Sharon felt the creature on the edge of her consciousness, growing more powerful as the moonrise approached. She sensed no malice or anger from it, only an excited eagerness, like a dog waiting to be taken out for a walk. She did her best to hold on to the image. That was all it was. A puppy, longing to be let out for the first time. She put her hand on Mandy’s shoulder and almost recoiled from the heat emanating from her niece. The wool blanket was soaked through with sweat. “Are you alright, love?”

Mandy looked up at her aunt, and Sharon could see the terror in her expression; her face drawn and her eyes haunted. “I don’t want this to happen, Auntie Sharon. I don’t want to be like them. I’m scared.”

Sharon hugged her. “I know, sweetheart, but there’s nothing we can do to change that. We just have to remember what the others told us – not to fight it, not to try and stop it. If we do that, then everything will be okay. I promise.”

A tear rolled down Mandy’s cheek. “I wish I could believe that, Auntie Sharon.”

“You have to trust me, Mandy. You have to…” She didn’t finish the sentence. A sharp pain lanced through her torso and sweat burst from her pores. She fell to the floor as another wave of pain hit her, worse than anything she’d ever experienced in her life. It felt as if someone had stuck a blade in her stomach and was twisting it slowly. She felt the bones in her hands break as they began to stretch, healing in an instant, and then shattering once more as they warped into massive paws. The building was filled with screams of agony as the change tore through the others, but Sharon was barely aware of it, lost in her own torment.

Her skin felt as if it were on fire as thick, coarse hair pushed its way through her flesh, and the sensation of internal organs shifting within her was both terrifying and absolutely agonising. Every part of her body was being torn apart and reformed, but she was keenly aware of every last terrible change: Her coccyx splitting through the flesh at the base of her spine as it grew into a tail; her mouth feeling as if she were chewing broken glass; the thick, coppery taste of blood; nerve endings blazing in a white hot fury that it seemed would never end.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the transformation stopped. She felt clumsy, uncoordinated, as she pushed herself up on her four legs. Her senses were alive and she struggled to process the massive amount of information flooding through her mind. Individual heartbeats of not only the others in this building, but in the adjacent ones. Thick animal scents she couldn’t identify. Her body felt energised. Powerful in ways she could never have imagined. Sharon had never felt so alive in her entire life.

Then she remembered Mandy. She turned to her niece and let out a yelp of terror as the girl beside her stood up on two legs instead of four, then let out a savage roar of pain and rage.

Chapter 23

11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:30

Phil struggled against his bonds and did his level best to ignore the terrible sounds coming from behind him. His heart raced in his chest as adrenaline flooded his system. He had no idea whether Steven Wilkinson was able to control the transformation. From what he remembered from the hospital reports, the old man had escaped on two legs instead of four, which meant that he was in serious trouble. And that was before he factored in whatever was happening to those soldiers on the beds. One thing was clear. The sedative Doctor Channing had given them was no longer in effect. They could, of course, simply become what the Doctor had intended – enhanced versions of themselves, ready to fight the werewolves on their own terms. Somehow he doubted that. The chances of a lunatic playing with the genetics of the werewolf transformation resulting in anything other than something ungodly were remote to say the least.

The cable ties were not budging. Doctor Channing had done a pretty impressive job of immobilising him. The vinyl straps were not breaking any time soon, and the wet sticky sensation on his wrists told him that his body was going to break before they did. Plus, making yourself bleed in a room full of monsters was probably not the best idea in the world. He couldn’t let this happen. There was no sodding way he was going to let himself get torn to pieces tied to this damned wooden chair.

One last desperate thought occurred to him. If he couldn’t break the cable ties then perhaps he’d have more luck with the chair. It creaked beneath him as he wriggled, so it was certainly not the sturdiest piece of furniture ever made. And he was not a small man. Whatever was going on behind him was going to end any second, and when that happened, he would be out of time. If he was going to do something, it had to be right now.

He managed to get into a crouching position then threw himself with all his strength to the left, away from where Steven’s transformation was coming to its conclusion. The impact jarred him to the bone, but he was rewarded with a loud crack and the splintering of wood. The chair had survived his initial assault, but he’d definitely weakened it. He stood again and threw his entire body weight against it. That did the trick. The chair fell apart beneath him, shattering into long, sharp wooden spikes. Phil rolled over onto his stomach and scrambled to his feet with pieces of the chair still secured to his limbs. Then he saw what Doctor Channing had created and felt what little hope he had left drain out of him.

The creatures that had once been soldiers were horrific. Twisted, misshapen things in shredded military uniforms. The transformation had not gone well. Corded muscles rippled beneath pale, hairless skin. Mouths filled with rows of blade-sharp fangs, sending rivulets of blood trickling across their chins and down their torsos. Fingers tipped with vicious talons. Eyes blazed with pain, hunger and utter malevolence. They weren’t werewolves. Whatever Doctor Channing had done had removed a lot of the wolf from whatever they were, but not all of it. Not by a long shot. And every single one of them was looking directly at him.

Then he remembered Steven. He flicked his eyes to his left, dreading what he might find, and while seeing the old hunter on four legs instead of two was a relief, it did little to assuage the absolute numbing terror that left him rooted to the spot. His fight or flight response was conflicted and he was frozen – unable to think of a single course of action that could save his life, or put an end to the monstrosities before him.

Steven let out a guttural roar and launched himself across the room towards where the creatures crouched. Time seemed to slow. The werewolf was fast and incredibly powerful, but the beast that had been Sergeant Jayne Peyton caught him in mid-flight and simply swatted him away. Steven sailed ten feet through the air and crashed into the pile of chemical containers next to Phil, rupturing them and spraying the toxic substances across the laboratory. Smoke curled from Steven’s fur, and the stink of the solvents made Phil’s head spin. The air was thick with the odour of ethanol, and he realised he was going to lose consciousness very quickly. This was it. Steven was hopelessly outmatched by the things Doctor Channing had created. They would tear them both apart then rampage through the rest of the complex, slaughtering everything they came into contact with. He was going to die. The only choice remaining was how he met his death. He looked at Steven, and in that brief meeting of the eyes, they both understood each other. Man and beast.

“Save my wife, Steven,” he said, and pulled his cigarette lighter from his pocket. As Steven launched himself through the medical centre windows and the creatures surged across the laboratory towards him, Phil struck the flint. He was going to get his cleansing fire after all.

***

John struggled to his feet, despite the pain. His wounds were already healing, but as he moved, he could feel the red hot shards of shrapnel cutting into his flesh and slicing through his ruptured organs. His wolf roared in pain and outrage, wanting to lash out at the enemy that had inflicted so much appalling damage to it, but finding no immediate target for its wrath. It would get its chance, assuming the snipers didn’t manage to get him in their sights first.

He realised the snipers were the least of his worries. The air was filled with the furious roars of newly turned moonstruck werewolves and the sporadic crackle of gunfire as the panicked soldiers began opening fire at anything moving within the compound. Four missiles had been fired at transforming wolves by the perimeter fences, including the one that had caught him in the blast. The ploy had worked, however. Each of the high explosive charges had utterly destroyed the fences and, in one case, had brought the wooden sniper post beside it crashing to the ground. They had a way out now, but they needed to act before the Reapers could come around for another pass and before the military personnel could organise themselves.

The pack wolves stayed in formation at the rear of the compound, waiting for those newly turned who had not gone moonstruck to join them. Once they’d gathered as many survivors as they could, the plan was to make a break across the open countryside before reinforcements could arrive. John was very aware that all it would take was for a helicopter gunship or two to turn up for their plan to lie in tatters.

The door to
Moonstruck Mansion
exploded outwards in a hail of wooden splinters, and dark shapes began to pour from the building. John had hoped that the moonstruck would fight among themselves before escaping the building, but it seemed the animal instinct to escape captivity was stronger than even the urge to kill. For now at least. He needed to get as far away from them as possible. He was strong – stronger than most other werewolves. From what Daniel had told him, he’d dispatched two of the pack’s most highly trained killers without breaking a sweat at Finchale Abbey. But against this many moonstruck, even he wouldn’t stand a chance. Especially not when he was still recovering from his injuries. His body was pushing the shrapnel out, but it was a long, slow and painful process. He needed to buy himself a little time.