Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf]

by Morris, Steve

  ‘Let me tell you this,’ said Chris, speaking loudly and clearly so the words would penetrate their thick skulls. ‘The bad stuff has certainly not come to an end. You don’t need visions or dreams to know that a shedload of bad stuff is waiting for us just around the corner. And if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, the bad stuff is going to land right on your head.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Ryan.

  ‘Yes. I’m in charge now,’ said Chris, ‘and you have to follow me, not Rose’s stupid dreams and prophesies. I only agreed to let you join our group because you had a smartphone, and now that doesn’t even work.’

  ‘We let Ryan join us,’ said Seth, ‘because he was the only person who knew the way to Hereford.’

  Chris turned to him, unable to keep his frustration at bay. ‘We would never have got lost in the first place if it hadn’t been for you,’ he shouted. ‘If you’d done what I told you in the first place, we’d have been in Hereford months ago.’

  Seth opened his mouth to say something, but Chris didn’t want to hear it. He planted both hands against Seth’s chest and shoved him as hard as he could.

  Seth toppled backward, tripping over a tuft of grass at the side of the chalk path, and down a grassy bank. His arms circled like windmills as he disappeared over the edge. ‘Ow!’ he screamed as he landed in a heap at the bottom of the ditch.

  Chris gazed on in shock. What had he done? He had completely lost his temper, and with it his authority. What kind of leader hurt his own followers? A few examples from history presented themselves – Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot. He shook his head. He had no desire to become that kind of leader.

  He ran down the slope to where Seth lay sprawled in the mud. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to his friend. ‘I didn’t mean to push you. Are you okay?’

  Seth tried to sit, but immediately doubled up in agony. ‘My ankle!’

  Ryan came down the bank and kneeled next to him, examining his foot.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ screamed Seth. ‘Oh my God, it hurts so much!’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Chris. ‘Can you fix it?’

  Ryan shook his head from side to side. ‘Nope. I think it might be broken.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire

  ‘May I come in?’ asked Chanita, peering around the door to Doctor Helen Eastgate’s laboratory.

  Helen looked up from her desk. ‘Of course. You don’t need to ask. Come right in.’

  Chanita pushed the door open and entered the lab bearing a tray of bone china tea cups, silver teaspoons and a pot of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea. Civilization might have come crashing to a halt, but at Stoke Park some traditions were still being upheld, at least for the time being.

  Helen cleared a corner of her messy desk for the cups and saucers while Chanita closed the door behind her. It had been several days since she’d had a chance to visit Helen, and it was time the two women had a proper talk.

  Chanita and Helen had been attempting to travel into London when the missiles had exploded. They had very nearly been caught in the blast. If they had started their journey ten minutes earlier, they would almost certainly have perished.

  Since returning from that trip to resume the running of the camp, Chanita had been so busy she had barely found the time to eat, drink or sleep. But she had a good team around her now, and they had taken on a huge chunk of the workload. Now at last she had found time to come and visit Helen. Seeing her friend’s lined and drawn face, she realized that her visit was well overdue.

  ‘So how are you feeling?’ she asked Helen, pouring the tea carefully into the two cups. The slow sound of the golden liquid made a refreshing and soothing change from the hubbub of the camp’s hectic command centre.

  ‘Good,’ said Helen.

  Chanita studied her face closely. Helen looked far from good. She seemed close to despair. Her long blonde hair was uncombed and tangled, possibly not even washed for days. Her youthful features seemed to have aged, and her eyes looked heavy and tired. Helen’s laboratory, which had never been tidy, was now positively chaotic, with books and paper spilling over every surface, and test tubes and glass slides scattered randomly amongst microscopes and bottles of coloured liquid.

  ‘Helen, if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look yourself to me.’

  Helen said nothing, but reached for a cup and took a sip of the tea. Her fingers quivered and the cup shook gently in her hand. She quickly replaced it on its saucer, spilling some of the hot liquid over the desk. She made no effort to mop it up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Chanita.

  ‘Do you even need to ask?’ Helen gestured at the mess in the room. ‘What’s the point of this? What am I doing here?’

  Chanita knew what Helen was referring to. A week or so earlier, Helen had been filled with optimism after discovering that Chanita possessed natural immunity to lycanthropy, and that her immune system produced antibodies against the disease. She had hoped to use the discovery to develop a cure or a vaccine. They had planned to return together to Helen’s laboratory at the Biomedical Institute of Imperial College, London, to synthesize antibodies from Chanita’s blood. Together they could have found a way to defeat lycanthropy. But now those plans lay in ruins.

  Chanita took Helen’s hand and held it tight. She could feel a continuing tremble in Helen’s fingers.

  ‘It’s not only the facilities in London that have been destroyed,’ said Helen. ‘I had colleagues in Manchester I could have worked with. But Manchester is gone too. Not to mention Birmingham, Liverpool, Glasgow … All those people, dead. And now there’s no chance of taking my work forward.’ She snatched her hand angrily from Chanita’s grasp, sending her cup of tea flying across the room. ‘Shit!’ Helen threw her hands to her face and began to sob.

  ‘Helen, I –’

  Helen leapt to her feet and stumbled away out of Chanita’s reach. Her movements seemed jerky, almost clumsy.

  ‘Helen, what’s –’

  ‘There’s just no point to anything anymore,’ said Helen. ‘I came so close. After all the tests I ran, I finally discovered someone with natural immunity to the disease – you. I really thought I was on the brink of developing a cure, or at least a vaccine. And then –’

  ‘There’s still hope, Helen.’

  ‘No. There isn’t. It’s impossible to clone antibodies without the most advanced lab facilities. We can’t do it here, not with all the will in the world. It’s over, Chanita. Forget it. The only way we’re going to be able to stamp out this disease now is by killing every last werewolf. It’s up to the army to do it. I can’t help.’

  ‘There must be something you can do,’ said Chanita. ‘There’s always a way. Remember what I said to you on the day we first met? We have to keep doing the job we’ve been assigned. With patience and persistence we can make a difference. Look at me – a month ago I was just a nurse. Now I’m running a camp, responsible for thousands of people.’

  ‘That’s all very well. You’re very inspiring, it’s true. But look at this – ’ Helen reached across a worktop and picked up a test tube containing a red liquid – ‘Do you know what this is? It’s a sample of your blood. In here is the key to eradicating the disease. But what can I do with it? Nothing!’

  She turned to place the tube back on her worktop, but it slipped from her grasp and smashed to pieces on the tiled floor. The blood seeped slowly across the tiles, spreading slivers of glass.

  Helen slumped, wordlessly, her shoulders shaking with loud sobs.

  Chanita had never seen her friend cry before. She had never seen her act this way, so full of despair and hopelessness. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her, comforting her in shared silence.

  Eventually Helen’s tears dried up. She fished a handkerchief from her trouser pocket and blew her nose loudly. ‘What use was that blood anyway, if I can’t get access to a lab?’

  Chanita watched her clumsy, uncoordinated movements as she fol
ded the handkerchief away and bent over to start mopping up the spilled blood. ‘What is wrong with you?’ she asked gently. ‘Never mind all this business about finding a cure. What’s happened to you?’

  Helen looked up, her eyes still red with tears. ‘You mean the shaking? The clumsiness? I can’t hide it anymore, can I?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Huntington's disease.’

  Now Chanita understood. Huntington's was a genetic disorder that slowly and progressively destroyed the nervous system. She had seen the symptoms often enough in Helen, but had dismissed them as carelessness or clumsiness. Trembling fingers and slow, jerky movements were one of the more obvious first signs of the disease. The condition would steadily progress until she was no longer able to walk or even stand unaided.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Helen.’ She could think of nothing more to say. As a nurse she knew that the disease was incurable and untreatable. Helen might have only another ten years to live.

  Helen sat on the floor amid the debris, looking utterly defeated. ‘It’s over. You go back to running the camp. There’s nothing more you can do for me.’

  Chanita looked down at her friend. It broke her heart to see her in such a pitiful state. She had completely given up hope, not even caring that the blood from the test tube was soaking into her white lab coat.

  ‘The blood –’ said Chanita.

  ‘Never mind about that,’ said Helen. ‘I’ll clean it up.’

  ‘The blood –’ An idea was taking shape in Chanita’s mind. She was no doctor or scientist, only a humble nurse. And yet …

  ‘What about the blood?’ asked Helen.

  ‘What would happen if you simply took a sample of my blood and injected it directly into someone else’s bloodstream? Would the antibodies be passed on? Could you use it as a cure?’

  Helen stared at her. ‘I …’ Suddenly she was a scientist again, a glimmer of optimism flashing in her blue eyes. ‘Direct intravenous infusion? It’s possible that the antibodies from your blood could be passed on. The blood group … it would have to be compatible.’

  ‘I’m O Negative,’ said Chanita quickly. ‘My blood can be given to anyone.’

  Helen sat up. Her eyes stared into the distance, unfocussed, thinking. After a moment she reached out a hand and Chanita hauled her back onto her feet. ‘We can try it. There’s a chance.’

  Never mind if there was a cure. For Chanita, seeing Helen find hope again was more than enough.

  ‘But to test a cure,’ said Helen, ‘we’d need to get hold of a live werewolf.’

  Chanita held onto her hand and smiled. ‘I’ll see if I can find you one.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  M40 Motorway, Oxfordshire

  Warg Daddy pulled up before the next motorway junction, right in the middle of the carriageway, at the very brow of a hill. The tarmac stretched out for mile after empty mile, both ahead and behind. He had encountered no other moving traffic for miles now. The road was his, and his alone.

  The Brothers pulled to a halt beside him, brakes screeching, rubber burning, all wrapped in black leather, white wolves riding on their backs. They scanned the horizon, seeing what he had already seen, asking themselves the question he was asking himself.

  Only Slasher had the courage to voice it aloud. ‘Which way next?’

  Warg Daddy was in no rush to answer. He was happy to enjoy the view over the rolling hillsides, the warm sunshine on his face. The fields to either side of the road were studded with spring flowers, welcoming the warmth of the new season. Baby lambs wandered through the grass, their legs wobbling as they followed their mothers. Birds tweeted in the hedgerows. Warg Daddy felt a sudden rush of … happiness? Was this what he had been seeking all along? He lifted the visor of his crash helmet to see better.

  His vision was clear now that he had left Leanna and all her troubles behind. She had been the cause of the pain that had drilled into his skull like an unrelenting jackhammer, day after day. He understood that now. She had made him her slave, rewarding him with nothing but suffering. Now she was gone. The skies stretched out from distant horizon to blue infinity, and the roads were free of jams. He could do whatever he willed, go wherever he chose. But how to choose? When you had no destination in mind, one road was as good as another. Too much choice made it impossible to decide.

  ‘North?’ suggested Slasher.

  ‘I say we continue west,’ said Bloodbath.

  ‘What say you, Meathook?’ asked Warg Daddy.

  ‘We should go south. South is best.’

  Behind him Vixen shifted noiselessly in her seat. Whatever her opinion on the matter, she kept her counsel to herself. She was a quiet one, Vixen, speaking only when asked. In any case, it was for Warg Daddy to make the decision. He was Leader of the Pack and they would follow where he led.

  He lifted his Ray-Bans cautiously, but the bright sun burned his eyes and he dropped them back into place. No matter. Even with his sunglasses on he could see further than any of the Brothers. His senses of hearing and smell were keener too, not that there was anything much to hear or smell right now over the roar of the bikes and their smoky exhausts. And he was used to leading. It was as natural to him as breathing.

  But for some reason it was hard to make a choice.

  His thinking wasn’t coming as easily as it should. He shook his head, struggling to free himself from the traces of brain fog that still lurked inside his skull. The mists swirled in the corners of his mind, wrapping grey tendrils around his thoughts. He pulled off his helmet and rubbed the smooth baldness of his crown until the mists receded a little. North, south, east or west? The choice seemed overwhelmingly difficult.

  He rubbed at his head some more, working his thumb into the skin until clarity eventually came. Now he saw clearly, and the choice wasn’t as hard as he’d imagined.

  The truth was, it made no difference which way they rode. Choices only mattered if you had a plan, and Warg Daddy was done with plans. He’d had enough of Leanna’s relentless planning and scheming. Strategies, objectives, goals and deliverables. Where had all that got them? They had raised a generation of werewolves, built a Wolf Army, led it into battle, and almost defeated the British Army. They had tasted victory, and stood at the very cusp of triumph. Together they might have taken over the entire world. So, yeah, maybe planning had its uses. But the price was too great. It had robbed him of his will to live.

  He reached deep into his pocket and drew out an old coin. The coin was tarnished, its two faces faded and grimy but still just legible. With a flick of his thumb he flipped it high into the blue sky, up towards the clouds. The coin spun, once, twice, many times, until falling back to earth. He caught it on the back of his hairy hand and covered it with his palm.

  The Brothers gathered round to see, as if he were a sideshow conjuror performing a cheap magic trick. Their fate hung in the balance. Whatever the coin revealed, their destiny would be fixed. He slid his palm away to reveal the coin, lying heads up. ‘We go west,’ he announced, as if it had been his choice after all. The Brothers nodded sagely, affirming his decision. But there would be no more decisions. From now on, there would only be fortune. He had given himself up to chance, and with it, the freedom and adventure it would bring.

  Chapter Twenty

  Norbury Park, Surrey

  Colonel Griffin spent another night in the helicopter, this time wrapped in a thermal blanket, but still shivering from the cold. Now that March had come, the days were growing noticeably longer, but there was a deep chill at night, and frost in the morning. He knew that to survive this coming day he would need to address the critical needs of water, food and shelter, not to mention dealing with his medical care. As soon as the sun rose above the treeline he made his first attempt to escape the wreckage of the aircraft.

  The effects of the morphine had worn off, and now all movement was sheer agony. His leg was useless, just a heavy weight that he must drag with him, trying to move it as little as possible. The helicop
ter lay on its side, making it impossible to open the nearest door. The open doorway on the other side of the cockpit was lifted up to face the sky, requiring a climb of some six feet or so. In his current state, it may just as well have been a mile high.

  He gritted his teeth and pulled himself out of his seat, clambering into the front of the cockpit over the body of the dead pilot. There was no dignity in his escape, and he slithered across the pilot’s body, oblivious to the touch of dead flesh. He yelled with every breath, fighting the pain, afraid of passing out yet again. The windscreen had been entirely shattered in the crash, and he hauled himself out over the jagged teeth of glass at the front of the helicopter. Somehow he made it out of the mangled cockpit and lowered himself to the ground.

  The forest floor was cold and frost-hard under the shade of the trees, but the dark leaf mould that covered it was soft and crumbly. He scooped up a handful and breathed in its old, earthy smell. It was good to be back in the open air, free at last from the metal cage that had almost trapped him forever.

  After a short rest, the sound of trickling water through the trees was enough to spur him on. He hauled himself along on his back, dragging his mangled leg along the ground, trying to protect the wound from dirt and further damage. He hadn’t investigated his injury since carrying out his rudimentary operation, and he suspected that the leg was fractured in at least one place. But that could wait. First he needed to quench his thirst.

  It took an age to reach the running brook, but he made it eventually. He leaned down into the shallow ditch and scooped up welcome handfuls of pure, freezing water. It stung his throat as he swallowed, but he was grateful nonetheless. He drank until he was satisfied, then refilled his water bottle.

  Looking back at the helicopter, the spot where he had crash-landed seemed to him like a miniature paradise on earth, a tiny undiscovered Eden hidden deep within the English woodland. Trees, early wildflowers, birds and forest creatures called it their home. He lay on his back resting, watching the sun slowly climb in the sky. The frost melted away as he listened to the birds, saw the early morning wind stir the trees, and felt the weak sun begin to warm his face. It would be sweet to lie here all day, among the yellow daffodils and wild crocuses, thinking of nothing. But that was the path to a quick death. Reluctantly he turned from the stream and began to drag himself back to the wreckage of the helicopter.