High Moor 2: Moonstruck (12 page)

Troy sighed. “Harder and more dangerous you mean.” The American turned away from his alpha and moved towards the overturned van, his pistol trained on the buckled rear door. Oskar moved alongside him, aiming his own weapon at the now silent van. Rivulets of dark blood ran from the wrecked door frame, running down the white paintwork to drip onto the road, mingling with the growing pool of black oil on the tarmac. He transferred his pistol to his left hand, and with his right, grabbed hold of the door handle, ready to pull it open.

The door flew off its hinges, smashing into Oskar’s face and throwing him to the ground. Something flashed past him. Something big and incredibly fast. The sense of raw power that he got from the moonstruck terrified him. He’d been hunting the beasts for two decades, but he’d never seen one so fast, or so powerful, in all that time.

Troy managed to squeeze off two shots before the beast was on him. The monster leaped into the air, reaching out for him, but Troy was close to the change himself, and he rolled beneath the slashing claws with ease, bringing his pistol to bear as he did so.

The werewolf didn’t stop. Instead of turning to attack Troy it leaped over a low wooden fence, and disappeared into the trees. Troy fired his weapon at the fleeing monster, then engaged the safety catch and put the pistol into the pocket of his hooded top. He ran to the ruined van and helped Oskar to his feet. “Did you see that? It should have torn me apart.”

Oskar dusted himself down. “Are you complaining? You’ll need to get after it. I’ve never seen a moonstruck that big before. Gabriela might struggle to contain it alone.”

Troy began to remove his clothes, passing them to Oskar as he did. “It took off to the northwest. Any idea what’s up there?”

“Open fields, hemmed in by the river. There’s a ruined abbey on the river bank and a caravan park, along with a footbridge over the river. Try and contain it before it gets to the caravans. If you can’t, then drive it over the bridge. I’ll clean up here, then take the van and block its escape route.”

Troy nodded his understanding as he passed the last of his clothes to Oskar, then began to change. His spine elongated in three distinct snaps, and he fell forward to all fours as his leg bones twisted into their new shape. His ears stretched out into ragged triangles, while fangs forced their way out of the werewolf’s muzzle. Troy had not so much as broken stride during the transformation, and by the time he’d gone ten paces, the change had completed. The huge, blond werewolf sniffed the air and let out a howl of triumph as it caught the scent of its prey, then it leapt over the fence and vanished into the woods in pursuit.

Oskar watched Troy leave, then hurried to retrieve the spiked strip and brass casings from Troy’s pistol. He made his way through the tunnel, to where their hired van was parked, disengaged the radio jammer, and set off to retrieve the fake traffic lights. He realised, as he put the keys in the ignition, that his hands were shaking and his heart still pounded. He pushed the fear down, but it remained a nagging presence, turning his stomach and flooding his system with adrenaline. He’d never seen anything like the creature that John Simpson had become. He prayed that Troy and Gabriela could finish the job alone, because he found that he did not relish the thought of encountering that monster again. Not one little bit.

Chapter 7

12th December 2008
.
Waldridge Fell Country Park. 17.42.

Marie’s lungs burned as she sucked in gasps of the frigid night air. The moonlight filtered down through the trees, providing just enough illumination for her to make her way through the small woods on the edge of the fell, for which she was grateful. The smallest trip or stumble could mean her death.

Gregorz or Daniel would have at least talked to her and consulted with Michael before making any decisions. Connie was another story. She’d never forgiven Marie for what had happened to her daughter. If she was honest, she’d not forgiven herself either. Where the others would have been reasonable, to a point, Connie would delight in the chance to interpret pack law as she saw fit.

Brambles slashed at her skin, while branches and stones stuck into her feet as they impacted on the cold ground. She ignored the pain and tried to control her breathing in an attempt to calm the rising wave of panic in her gut. She made out the first orange twinkle of the streetlights through the trees and almost cried out in relief. Then Connie howled. Somewhere close, off to her right.

There was no way that she could beat Connie to the car park. She’d be cut to ribbons before she got another ten feet. She stopped running and looked around for anything that could be used as a weapon, knowing that it would be all but useless against the werewolf stalking her.

The undergrowth rustled to her left, and her straining ears picked up the faint hint of a snarl barely held in check. Her eyes fixed on a broken tree branch − eight feet long and almost nine inches across, ending in a jagged point where the branch had split from the tree. Marie dropped to her knees, grabbing for the branch, just as the bracken parted and Connie pounced.

Marie’s instincts took over. She grasped her makeshift spear and rolled forward in a single, sinuous movement, bringing the branch up into Connie’s stomach. The werewolf’s momentum carried it over Marie, slamming it into the old elm tree behind her. The impact as the monster hit the floor forced the jagged piece of wood straight through the werewolf’s back, trailing a glistening black loop of intestine behind it. The beast howled in agony, snapping at the wooden stake that impaled it.

Marie wasted no time. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted through the last of the trees, onto the hard gravel of the car park. Luck was on her side for once. She grasped the cold metal handle of the car door, yanking it open, and threw herself inside. With trembling hands, she retrieved the keys from the glove compartment, feeling a wave of relief when the engine started first time. She put the car in reverse and slammed her foot down on the accelerator, whipping the car round to face the exit in a cloud of dust. Then Connie burst from the undergrowth.

The werewolf’s fur was stained black with blood, but there was no sign of any injury. The wound would have healed as soon as the branch was removed, although Marie could not help but hope that some sharp fragment was still lodged inside, slicing through organs with every move it made. The creature stalked towards the car, fangs bared, with hatred glistening in its glowing green eyes. Marie shifted into first gear, planted her foot on the accelerator, and aimed the vehicle directly at the enraged monster.

For a terrible moment, as the car hit the werewolf, Marie thought that she was going to lose control. The impact jarred her, and the steering wheel lurched in her hands, while the beast’s blood splattered across the windscreen. She grasped the wheel in a death grip, holding on for her life as the werewolf disappeared under the vehicle with a satisfying crunch of breaking bones. Marie twisted the wheel, sliding sideways onto the main road, before she straightened the vehicle and accelerated away from the car park with a tortured squeal of rubber.

She checked the rear view mirror, but the road behind her was empty. She breathed a sigh of relief. By the time Connie healed enough to give chase, she’d be a mile or more down the road. Not that she could be complacent. Connie could be particularly single−minded when her blood was up. Marie had no doubt that she’d be giving chase, tracking the scent of the car for as long as was practical. She’d have to put a few miles between them before she could risk stopping to retrieve her clothes from the car boot. Then all she would have to do is figure out what the hell she was going to do next.

***

12th December 2008
.
Aykley Heads Recreation Ground. 18.00.

The red tide in Steven’s mind began to recede and, for the first time since the change had begun, he was aware of himself. Trees flashed past in a blur, and his / its shoulder burned in a white hot blaze of agony. The beast’s thoughts filled his mind in a tumble of emotions and images..

Run. Hide. Kill. Eat.

The werewolf was weakening from blood loss, and its mind swam with confusion at its conflicting urges. Steven could visualize its memories. The werewolves bursting in on him mid−transformation, for the newborn beast had recognized the intruders for what they were instantly, and had known fear. The crack of a pistol being fired. The pain as the silver bullet struck home. The building terror at the knowledge that it was being hunted. The creature scent marked the trees around the hospital, then darted over a busy road to the surprise of the passing motorists, into another small, wooded area.

OK, you fucker, let’s have a little talk.

Steven forced himself up through the layers of the creature’s consciousness, like a drowning man clawing his way to the surface, then folded his will around the raging, but weakened, alien presence. The werewolf struggled to free itself from his grip. It snarled and snapped at him, but Steven just tightened his grasp and forced the beast down. The transformation began almost immediately.

If anything, the experience was worse going from wolf to human than it had been from man to beast. The savage fangs pushed their way back through his gums, feeling as if a dentist was drilling all of his teeth at once, without the benefit of anaesthetic. Black talons forced their way under his already forming fingernails, while every bone in his body splintered and reformed, flowing like liquid into their original shape. The worst thing, however, was the itching burn across every inch of his skin, as thousands of coarse black hairs pushed their way into his flesh. He cried out in agony, but his vocal chords were half way between human and werewolf, so all that escaped his lips was a strange combination of howl and scream.

Then, after what felt like hours but was in fact just a few seconds, the transformation finished. He lay in the cold, wet dirt and brought his trembling hands up to his face, to reassure himself that he didn’t still have a muzzle and fangs. The wound in his shoulder screamed in outrage. He pulled the last, tattered remains of the hospital smock over his head with his uninjured arm, and craned his neck to assess the damage. The bullet appeared to have passed straight through without hitting bones or vital blood vessels, and although the exit wound was ugly, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. If his would−be assassins had been using hollow points, or something like his mercury rounds, then things would have been a hell of a lot worse. He folded what was left of the smock and tried to wrap it around the exit wound, where the blood flow was heaviest, grasping one sleeve with his teeth while he knotted the other around it with his free hand. It wasn’t much use as a bandage, but it was better than nothing, and would hopefully keep him from bleeding to death. Assuming he didn’t die of exposure first, of course. The temperature had to be below freezing. Frost was forming on the mouldering blanket of leaves beneath his bare feet, and an icy wind whipped through the trees. If he didn’t find some shelter and, some clothes pretty sharpish, then he’d be in trouble. Assuming that he could get away from the pack of assassins stalking him, that is.

He tried to put together the pieces in his mind. He’d obviously been brought to the hospital after the incident at the school, and the nearest major hospital to High Moor was in Durham. If his fragmented memories were to be trusted, he’d headed east, towards the rising moon, after the escape from the hospital. He grinned. He knew exactly where he was. He’d worked here for almost fifteen years. The Durham Constabulary Headquarters at Aykley Heads lay less than half a mile east of the hospital. And just to the south of the main building was the Aykley Heads Recreation Ground, the private sports club that served the people working at the police HQ. The place would be quiet at this time on a Friday night, with most of the officers either getting ready to deal with the inevitable drunken riots in the city centre, or heading home after a long shift. If he was lucky, there would only be one or two people using the facilities. Wincing at the pain, he got to his feet and pushed his way through the undergrowth towards the distant glimmer of the sport centre’s lights.

Steven emerged from the trees after five anxious minutes of making his way through the woods, listening out for any sign of pursuit. The sports centre lay across a playing field with the skeletal outlines of goalposts visible against the light spilling from the building. The centre itself was a squat, ugly building, made from pebble−dashed concrete panels and steel. There were two cars parked outside, a silver Mercedes and a bright yellow Smart Car. His hearing, still enhanced from the transformation, picked out the sounds of a squash ball being slammed against a wall. Perfect.

He ran across the field as quickly as his injury allowed, keeping himself low and ensuring that he kept the main bulk of the building between himself and the front door. Being discovered now would be awkward.

Steven made it across the field without incident, and flattened himself against the cold concrete wall. The squash game continued, but now that he was close, he realised that something was wrong. The grunts of exertion from within were not made by men. Two female police officers were working the stress of the week off, complaining to each other about their colleagues and taking out their pent up aggression on the squash ball.