‘We’re not entirely alone, though,’ said Ben. ‘There must be tens of thousands of people in this camp, and the army seems to have it running well.’
‘You think so?’ said Melanie. ‘After what just happened, I think it would be very stupid to trust the army. Millions of people died last night, and whoever did it might not have finished yet. You know, they might just be warming up.’
‘I don’t see how we have any choice. We have to stay here, at least until outside help comes.’
‘Where from?’ asked Melanie scornfully. ‘It may never come.’
They fell silent and Sarah guessed they were looking at her. She curled up tighter, keeping her eyes firmly shut. She wished Ben would turn the radio on again. The newsreader’s voice had been soothing, even as he reeled off his litany of disaster. London, Manchester, Birmingham, Leeds, …
It was hard to understand what the words meant. Dead cities. Dead people. Sarah tried to feel compassion for everyone who had died, but it was impossible. They were just numbers. And in any case, it was better that they were dead, than alive and looking at her, jostling her, closing in around her …
People are dangerous. It is rational to fear them.
Another panic attack was coming, and she willed herself to breathe calmly. If everyone was dead, it would be so much easier. If everyone was dead and silent, she might be able to live a normal life.
‘Sarah …’ said Melanie.
Sarah clamped her hands over her ears.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Melanie.
‘Ssh.’ The soothing sound was Ben’s voice. ‘Let her be. She just needs some time to get over the shock. We all need time to process it.’
‘Time?’ said Melanie. ‘I don’t need time. What I need is some fresh air. A chilled bottle of Prosecco would be even better. I’ll go look for some.’
The tent door opened and light rushed in as Melanie crawled outside. Sarah screwed her eyes tight to block it out. A few seconds later the darkness returned, soft and reassuring, and she heard the sound of Ben zipping the door back up. She lay there on the ground, eyes firmly closed, breathing slowly, trying to find a way to cope.
After a while the radio came back on. ‘This is the British Broadcasting Corporation. A nuclear attack has taken place …’
Chapter Nine
Pindar Bunker, Whitehall, Central London, waning moon
The Prime Minister surveyed her dingy domain with gloom. She had governed a nation once, now all she had was this. A dusty concrete chamber, spartan and sunless, buried deep beneath a city of ghosts. It might have been a mausoleum or a crypt, yet this was not the afterlife. Her heart still pounded steadily within her chest, her breast continued to rise and fall, so she was not dead. She had been lucky to escape the devastation with nothing more than a small gash across her forehead, the result of stumbling clumsily and falling against a desk when all the lights went out.
And yet the city above her was destroyed. The bombs had fallen, just as General Ney had promised. She had heard their thunderous roar and felt the terrifying quake as the underground bunker rumbled and shook. But somehow she had survived.
The building was designed specifically to withstand a nuclear explosion, yet even so it seemed like a miracle. Everything within the complex appeared to be in full working order, exactly as its designers had intended. The lights had shut off after the bombs had exploded, and she had been left in utter darkness. But after a minute of icy terror, believing that she would be left this way forever – a fate perhaps worse than death – they had flickered back to life. The power was still on, so the generators must be running. The air conditioning too was operating, and she knew that it would recycle air for as long as she needed.
She had clean water, and enough food to feed a hundred people for three months. It was all available for her use alone. She was the only survivor in the Pindar bunker. The bodies of General Ney, who had shot himself dead after ordering the nuclear attack, and the three men that he had murdered in cold blood still lay where they had fallen. She couldn’t bring herself to touch them, or even to look at them, although she knew that if she were to spend any amount of time in this place, she would have to move the bodies somewhere. Perhaps she could drag them into a storage room and lock the door. The corpses would no doubt putrefy, but there was nowhere for her to bury them. She would have to hope the smell did not come to permeate the entire bunker in the days ahead.
Already she was thinking of survival. That must count for something. Her determination had not faltered. Yet even if she lived, there was nowhere for her to go. She was entombed beneath a mound of rubble, with little prospect of rescue. Still, she was glad to be alive, and she would not give up, no matter how slender the chance of ever seeing daylight again. If she did, this place would certainly become her sarcophagus.
She had not yet moved from the communications centre of the bunker, the room where General Ney had told her of his insane plot to destroy the city. Where else might she go in this grim dungeon? It seemed like the best place to be, despite the presence of the dead men. If she continued to ignore them, they would surely take no notice of her.
I could think of worse people to share my bunker with.
The Leader of the Opposition, for example. Not to mention half of her own party. Spineless lizards, the lot of them.
She powered up the main computer which had shut down when the power briefly failed. Amazingly it booted up without a hitch. She logged in and found an email awaiting her. How could that be possible? Was she still connected to the outside world? Fresh hope rushed through her at the prospect.
She opened the message and saw that it had come from General Ney. And yet the man’s body lay on the floor beside her. She had watched him blow his own brains out with his service pistol.
From: Chief of the Defence Staff, General Sir Roland Ney ([email protected])
To: The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland ([email protected])
Prime Minister,
As you know, I am dead. However, if you are reading this message, the first phase of my plan has succeeded. You have survived the destruction of London. If you are to continue to survive in the coming days, you must read and follow my instructions very carefully. It is vital that you follow them to the letter, because my plans for you are not yet over.
You may imagine that I am a madman. However, I assure you that I took the step to destroy London and Britain’s other major cities reluctantly and only after careful consideration. I regret the loss of life.
Whatever your thoughts on the matter, all that is in the past.
The greatest challenge lies ahead. Now that you are trapped within the Pindar bunker, quite possibly assumed to be dead, the government will take emergency measures and appoint a new leader. The country cannot be without a leader at this crucial time. The most likely candidate is the Home Secretary. I am confident that you will agree with my assessment that neither him nor any of your other ministers are fit for purpose. They are weak, and you are strong. Only you are capable of completing the task of defeating our enemies and restoring order to the country.
Prime Minister, you must leave this place and travel to Northwood command centre where the emergency government is located. Once there, you must take control. I wish you good luck. Your journey there will be hazardous, but I have every confidence that you are capable of making it. To assist you with your task, I have prepared a helpful video.
Your ever-loyal servant,
General Sir Roland Ney, Chief of the Defence Staff (deceased)
The PM read the message in astonishment, then re-read it twice over. Outrageous. No apology for his behaviour, only a statement of regret. And even from beyond the grave the General sought to use her like his puppet, giving her orders that he clearly expected her to obey. She would not do his bidding. She had done her utmost to thwart his plans while he was still alive, and she was damned if she was going to carry out his posthumous commands.
She glared angrily at the dead man, still lying sprawled across the desk opposite, his service pistol by his side. ‘You obnoxious, arrogant bastard,’ she whispered. ‘How dare you!’
Yet even as the words left her mouth, she knew that she would do exactly as he wanted. What other course of action was possible? Obviously she would attempt by any means to leave this bunker and return to the surface. And what might she do then, other than seek to escape from the ruined city and make her way to Northwood and whatever remained of her government? As for the General’s comments on her fellow ministers, she could only agree. Of course she was the most able, the one best suited to the task of rebuilding this devastated nation.
She would do it, just as he had commanded, obeying him in every last detail.
‘Damn you, General!’ she bellowed across the silent comms room.
She clicked the video that the Chief of the Defence Staff had helpfully attached to his email and watched in appalled fascination as the face of General Ney appeared on her screen, and began to speak calmly to her, giving her his instructions.
Chapter Ten
Virginia Water, Surrey, waning moon
The old woman stared at James’ naked body with undisguised distaste. She hefted the shotgun easily in her stout arms. ‘What are you?’ she demanded angrily. ‘A werewolf on the run? Or some kind of pervert?’
‘Please don’t shoot,’ begged James. He froze, unsure whether to raise his hands above his head, or to use them to cover his nakedness. He opted to raise them, knowing how ridiculous it must make him appear. ‘I mean no harm.’
The woman’s gaze was on his face. ‘Answer my question. What are you doing in my house?’ Although she was old, her voice was strong and clear. She didn’t look frightened. On the contrary, she seemed fearless. And well she might, with a gun trained on him.
James’ throat had become dry, and he swallowed. ‘I came to ask for your help,’ he said. ‘I just need some clothes.’ But he could tell by her expression that she wasn’t impressed by this explanation. She was right to be suspicious. The country must be full of criminals and other kinds of wicked men, roaming freely, and looking to take what did not belong to them.
Tell the truth, he thought. The whole truth, and nothing less. To lie was a sin, and James was done with sinning.
‘I am a werewolf,’ he confessed to her. ‘Last night I changed into a wolf under the moon and lost all my clothes. I lost my friends too, and now I need to find them. But I can’t go anywhere without clothes. That’s why I came here. Not to steal anything, but to ask for kindness. To beg. That’s all I am, a beggar.’
He stopped, waiting to find out if the shotgun would blast him to smoky oblivion, but the woman didn’t move.
‘Your friends,’ she said eventually, ‘are they werewolves too?’
‘No. They’re human. Ben is a schoolteacher. Sarah is a stay-at-home carer. The other …’
The truth, he reminded himself. All of it.
‘Melanie works as a prostitute, or at least she used to, before she met me. And she stole money from people too. But she’s stopped doing that. I made her promise to become a better person.’
‘You did, did you?’ He thought he detected a slight sparkle in the woman’s eyes. But her voice was still gruff.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry for coming into your house. I didn’t break in. I knocked on the door first, and called out, but there was no answer. It was very cold outside, so I just came in. I wasn’t going to steal anything, honestly. If you can’t help me, just say, and I’ll go. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Young man, I’m not at all frightened. I’m the one holding the gun, in case you’d forgotten. But why should I believe you? Why shouldn’t I just blast your head clean off your shoulders?’
‘I don’t know,’ said James. ‘If you want to shoot me, go ahead. I would understand entirely. But if you could give me some clothes instead, then I would be very grateful, although I’m afraid I don’t have any way to pay you for them.’
‘I see. So let me get this straight. You’re a werewolf, and one of your friends is a prostitute and a thief, and you want me to give you some clothes with nothing in return. And I simply have to trust you?’
‘Yes. But it’s your choice. My name is James, by the way. James Beaumont.’
She regarded him a while longer before a smile spread over her face. She lowered the shotgun and propped it against the wall. ‘It wasn’t loaded anyway. My husband used it for shooting pheasants and rabbits, but I’ve never fired it. I don’t even have any ammunition any more. I’m Joan. Joan Cunningham. Let me see if I can find you some clothes that fit.’
After she’d given him some clothes and let him warm himself by the fireside, she sat down in the chair opposite. She looked him up and down with wry amusement. ‘Well, James, I never imagined a werewolf would look quite like you. In fact you remind me of my Ted as a young man, especially wearing his clothes. He was about your height, though not as slim in later years.’
James smiled. Her husband’s clothes were old-fashioned, and a bit on the roomy side, but of very good quality. She had given him a tweed jacket and cotton shirt and trousers. She’d offered him a tie too, but he’d politely declined that. ‘I feel like a country gentleman,’ he told her. ‘You are very kind. You’re just like the Good Samaritan.’
‘I don’t know about that, but I do always try to help people whenever I can.’
‘Me too,’ said James. ‘It’s the only thing that still makes sense. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”’
‘You seem very devout, James.’
He nodded eagerly. ‘It’s how I was raised. By my parents, I mean. When I became a werewolf, I lost my way for a while. I … sinned, in all kinds of different ways. And then when I tried to return to God, He wasn’t there for me anymore. Everything I did seemed to go wrong. God was punishing me for my sins. But I think I’ve found my path again.’
‘And what is your path, James?’
He hesitated before replying. Tell the truth. ‘After I lost my friend Samuel, I resolved never to kill again. I committed myself to repentance. I refrained from hunting for a whole month and grew very weak. But it still wasn’t enough. God continued to punish me. My parents were killed, and I almost lost Melanie too. I was confused. It didn’t seem to matter what I did, God heaped misery on my shoulders, and refused to answer my prayers.’
‘So what did you do?’ prompted Joan, when he grew silent and pensive.
‘I decided to embrace my werewolf nature, but to use it for good. I rebuilt my strength, then fought to protect my friends and to defend the weak. And I vowed to punish the wicked.’ He paused. ‘I expect you think that sounds wrong. But I would never kill anyone unless they attacked me first, or tried to harm an innocent person. God still won’t answer my prayers, so I have to choose my own destiny, like Sarah said. Protect the weak; punish the wicked. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best I can do.’
Joan listened, then turned thoughtful. ‘But how to tell the wicked from the good, the wheat from the chaff?’
He shrugged. ‘Since God does nothing, it’s up to me to decide. Father Mulcahy once told me that in some circumstances it’s not only justifiable to kill another man in order to prevent greater harm, but is in fact a duty.’
The priest had told him that just before James had killed him and devoured his flesh. But he chose not to mention that to Joan. He had spoken enough truths for one day, and he had no wish to frighten her. Not that she showed any sign of being frightened.
‘My husband, Ted, always kept his shotgun by the bedside. He told me that if anyone ever tried to harm me, he would shoot them first.’
James nodded. ‘You should get some ammunition for the gun. And you should keep your doors locked. Anyone could be wandering around out there.’
‘You’re probably right. And I imagine that not all werewolves are like you.’
‘No.’ He thought of Leanna
, swearing bloody vengeance against him and Melanie and Ben. And of Warg Daddy, his huge bearlike body and yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, blood dripping from his tongue. But then he thought of Samuel, so full of kindness and generosity. Some werewolves were good and others were evil, much like people.
‘So where do you think your friends have gone?’ asked Joan.
‘They intended to travel to one of the evacuation camps outside London.’
‘Well, perhaps I can help you there,’ she said. ‘The nearest camp isn’t very far from here. It’s at Stoke Park. I can give you a map if you like, so you can find your way.’
‘That would be very kind, Joan. If only I could repay you somehow.’
‘Don’t worry about that, James.’ She smiled at him warmly. ‘You already have.’
Chapter Eleven
Beneath London
When Mr Canning had been forced to take refuge in the sewers before, he had spent a lot of time talking to rats. The rats, he was ready to admit, were not great raconteurs. They would never win applause for their after-dinner speeches. No one would ever laugh at their witty anecdotes. He had been glad to leave them behind and return to the surface, and to human company.
Now he was back here again, down in the sewers with the rats. He was like the Greek god, Hades, patron deity of the underworld, fated to wander forever among the dank and smelly corridors of London’s underbelly.
The bowels of the earth are now my domain. Well, he had once been master of a South London sink school, so this was not so different. He stifled a snort of laughter.
‘What are you laughing at now?’ growled Leanna from behind.
He turned and offered her a grin. ‘Nothing you would understand, my dear.’ He had come to realize that Leanna had no more sense of humour than a rodent. The first time he had lived in the sewers, he had longed desperately for human contact. But now that he had Leanna to make conversation with, he was beginning to think that he might prefer the rats after all.
Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf] Page 5