That had been the final straw. ‘Won’t allow me to leave?’ she had repeated incredulously. ‘Let those damn grunts at the gate try to stop me.’
She had made her way from the tent, stalking through the vast sea of unwashed homeless wretches that populated the rest of the camp, pausing briefly to admire the main headquarters building and peer nosily through the windows. It had been a grand hotel once, and Melanie had stayed here, back in the days when all was well with the world, and a woman with Melanie’s qualities could expect to be wined and dined at the best hotels and restaurants. What was the name of the man who had brought her here? She couldn’t recall. Most of her clients had left little lasting impression on her. But she remembered the food. Dining in the sumptuous orangery, on Guinea fowl and Jerusalem artichoke. Her mouth began to water at the memory. Now look at the place. Overrun with soldiers and emergency staff, scurrying about, leaving dirty coffee mugs on the polished table tops.
She sighed. The world had changed, and wasn’t ever going back to the way it had been. In any case, she had changed too. She was no longer that woman. A harlot, James had called her, on learning the nature of her “job.”
‘Wow, how Biblical,’ she had retorted. ‘Factually incorrect too. I never accepted money from any of those men in payment for sex. I only stole from them afterwards.’
It was hardly something to boast about, now she came to think of it. Anyway, she was a harlot no more. Nor a thief. Now she had Ben.
Ben Harvey. What had that poor man ever done to deserve a woman like her?
She could have kicked herself at the way she had treated him. And poor Sarah too. Once again her fiery tongue had got the better of her. Never mind. She would make it up to them later.
She turned her back on the eighteenth-century mansion house and set off along the curving path that swept past what had once been a 27-hole golf course and was now a refugee camp. No golf would ever be played here again, and that was just fine with Melanie. She had always loathed golf.
She followed the road, crossing the bridge over the ornamental lake and arrived at the camp exit. A tall metal gate barred the road next to the lodge buildings, and it had been reinforced with sheets of solid steel. A dozen or so soldiers dressed in full combat gear stood on guard, their armoured vehicles parked on the nearby grass. They watched her warily as she marched up the road toward them, her boots clicking on the tarmac at a steady, relentless pace.
Two soldiers stepped forward to intercept her as she sought a way past the sealed gate. Their assault rifles twitched in their arms.
Melanie treated them to a dazzling smile and a toss of her long hair. ‘Would you open the gate for me, please? I would like to leave the camp.’
‘I’m sorry ma’am, that won’t be possible.’ The soldier’s voice was cold, impervious to her charm.
‘Won’t be possible?’ she asked innocently. ‘Whyever not?’
‘Orders.’
‘Well soldier, can’t you bend the rules just this once? I promise not to tell a soul.’
‘Sorry. No.’
She tried again, this time injecting as much scorn as she could muster into her voice. ‘Just stand aside and let me through. Or shall I raise a complaint with your commanding officer? I could make a lot of trouble for you.’
The man didn’t seem remotely daunted by her changed tone of voice. ‘Our orders are that no civilians may leave the camp at present. Under any circumstances.’
She studied the soldier more closely. He was an ugly brute, with big jug ears and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. His name was sewn onto the front of his uniform. Mackenzie. ‘Am I a prisoner here, Private Mackenzie?’ she asked.
‘Sergeant Mackenzie,’ he corrected her. ‘And no, you are not a prisoner. Nevertheless, it isn’t possible for you to leave. Not until the security situation changes, or I receive fresh orders.’
‘I see. Then tell me, Sergeant Mackenzie, how far are you willing to go to obey your orders? Are you prepared to shoot a woman?’
The sergeant chuckled unpleasantly. ‘Lady, I’m nearly a head taller than you, even in your heels. I’m double your weight. And I have extensive combat training. I don’t think I’m going to have to shoot you to stop you leaving this camp.’
Melanie stepped right up to him and poked a manicured finger in his chest. ‘You don’t frighten me,’ she said. ‘I’ve handled bigger men than you before.’
The sergeant stared at her in astonishment, then broke into a grin. ‘I’m sure you have. But this time I promise you that your luck’s run out.’ He nodded at his comrades and two of the other soldiers grabbed Melanie’s arms and began to drag her away from the gate.
‘Get off me!’ she screamed. ‘Let me go!’
‘Melanie?’
She turned and saw Ben standing on the road. The soldiers stopped.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Ben shouted at them. ‘Let her go!’
Sergeant Mackenzie nodded once more and the soldiers released her.
‘What are you doing here, Ben?’ asked Melanie furiously. ‘Did you leave Sarah on her own?’
‘I had no choice. I had to come and look for you.’ He took her hand. ‘Come on. They’re obviously not going to let you out of the gate. Come back to the tent with me and Sarah. We’ll have to find another way to help James.’
She brightened ‘You’re going to help me find him, then?’
‘Yes. We’ll find a way, I promise. But not like this.’
She kissed him. ‘I knew you’d agree with me in the end.’
She walked back to the tent arm in arm with him, their earlier arguments forgotten. That was what made Ben so wonderful. He never bore a grudge.
But when they reached the tent, Melanie’s stomach turned a somersault. ‘Oh my God! Where is Sarah?’ Her sister was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Norbury Park, Surrey, quarter moon
Colonel Griffin had spent the last night sheltering in the lee of the broken helicopter. He had lacked the energy and the will to crawl back inside the cockpit, but that had been pure folly. Even in its battered state, the cockpit would have provided some shelter from the elements. He was lucky that it hadn’t rained overnight. If it had, he would have woken drenched and frozen, with likely hypothermia. He must not make that mistake again.
The birds woke him with their dawn songs, the light turning from grey to a pale yellow as he nibbled another of his protein bars and finished the last of the energy drinks. He watched a rabbit scamper from the bushes as he breakfasted, and took a moment to contemplate the yellow primroses clustered near the base of a tree. Spring was not far away now. His favourite time of year. As a boy he had known all the names of the flowers, and could tell the trees by their leaves and fruits. He had forgotten some. His life had steadily filled with other concerns. Perhaps now he would have time to return to those simple, far-off days.
Today was the beginning of the fifth day since the crash. It scarcely seemed possible. He had done so little during that time. Had he miscounted? He could hardly trust his own memory. He reached out and took hold of a thin stick lying nearby. It was about two feet long. He snapped it into five roughly equal lengths. Five days. Five whole days since the cataclysm. It would be many more days before he could walk. He lined the sticks in a row beside the helicopter and set about examining his leg.
He should really have changed the dressing yesterday, but somehow he hadn’t managed to find the time. Now, as he unwrapped his thigh, he realized his mistake. The wound needed thorough daily cleaning if he were to avoid infection. And an infection out here in the forest would be fatal. But at least there was very little fresh bleeding. The repairs to the damaged artery had held. Just as long as he managed to avoid any strenuous activity, the primary wound should heal, in time.
He examined his damaged leg further. The upper half was still severely bruised. He felt carefully along it, and didn’t like what he found. The leg was twisted slightly, about halfway al
ong the thigh. It was highly likely that he had suffered a fracture of the femoral shaft, the bone that ran from hip to knee. It would be impossible to repair the broken bone without surgery. And if the bone could not heal, he would probably never walk on it again. He could do nothing about that now. Instead, he cleaned the wound and rebound it carefully, resting his foot on a rock to lift it up. It was important to raise the leg as much as possible to reduce the swelling.
He rested for a while, then drank more water and refilled his bottles from the stream. When he felt strong enough he began the laborious job of dragging himself back over to the helicopter. This time he would search it thoroughly and take anything that was useful.
It took him over an hour to complete the task, but at the end he was pleased. His haul consisted of a second ration pack, another med kit, and an emergency pack containing a two-man tent, blanket, and torches. There was also a flare launcher, some fishing hooks, a knife and water purification tablets. He doubted he would need the water tablets as the stream was as pure as the fast-running brook where he had played as a boy. The flare launcher he put aside for later. The tent he managed to set up with relative ease. It was a sturdy four-season model with a fully waterproof membrane. He had used similar tents when training inside the Arctic Circle. It ought to withstand the Surrey climate well enough.
The protein bars and energy drinks would stop him from going hungry for a couple more days. But his leg would take far longer than that to heal. He had two options available to him: find food, or get help.
He knew enough about woodland plants to identify those that were edible – fungi, leaves, roots, shoots, and water plants. He might find acorns too, and tree bark. It was the wrong time of year for fruits, but there was plenty of fresh growth in the woodland during springtime. If he was serious about lasting longer than a few days, however, he would need to trap animals. He knew how to make snares for small mammals and birds, and he could use his fishing hooks to catch trout and other fish in the stream. Snails, worms and slugs were nutritious, and could be caught with nothing more than a keen eye. He had survived in the wild before and could do it again.
That night he waited until darkness fell, then unpacked the flare gun. It was a single-shot disposable gun and he would have only one chance. It seemed unlikely that he would manage to attract the attention of rescuers, and yet he had to try. He was not in the wilderness, but perhaps just a few miles from the nearest settlement. For all he knew, there might be a major road or even a town just out of view. He would try, at least.
He waited until it was fully dark, then fired the gun into the sky. The flare rose up and burst directly overhead, revealing his exact location to anyone who might be watching. It burned brightly, but all too briefly, falling back to earth and fading to blackness once more. If anyone was out there, he hoped they had been looking in the right direction at the right time.
He sat up waiting for a couple of hours, wrapped in a blanket, but no answering flare came, and no more light or sound disturbed his solitude. Eventually he gave up and crawled into his tent for the night.
When he awoke the next morning, he broke off a sixth stick and placed it next to the other five. It was the beginning of the sixth day since the world had ended.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire, quarter moon
The camp was vast and sprawling, and Melanie went from tent to tent, shouting out her sister’s name at the top of her voice. ‘Sarah! Sarah!’
Ben walked at her side, calling and searching, working up and down the rows of tents, hoping for a glimpse of Sarah’s mousy brown hair amid the chaos.
Melanie detested this place and its occupants already. Everywhere she went, unhelpful faces stared back. The stink of rubbish and rotting food filled the air, mingling with the choking smoke from bonfires. People sat outside their tents, doing nothing while Melanie rushed between them, tripping on the guy ropes in her urgency to find out where her sister had gone.
What on earth could have caused Sarah to leave the tent? It was inconceivable that she would have gone out of her own accord. She had been in a state of total shock since leaving London. She must have been abducted. But no one nearby had noticed any kind of disturbance. No one had heard a woman scream.
Someone must have seen what happened.
Yet no one had.
‘Sarah! Where are you?’ More eyes swivelled in Melanie’s direction as she shouted. Blank, indifferent faces. She desperately wanted to give these people a good shaking. Better still, a hard slap. One of them must know where Sarah was. Even if they didn’t, they could volunteer to help. Yet they seemed to know nothing and care less.
It was Melanie’s fault, of course. Predictably, she had shouted at Ben when she’d first discovered the empty tent, putting the blame on him, but that was unfair, as always. Ben would never have left Sarah alone if he hadn’t needed to come searching for her.
All Melanie’s problems were her own fault, she knew that. She had promised James she would change her ways and become less selfish, but that was turning out to be far harder than she’d expected. Now she was paying the price.
Learn the lesson, Melanie. How many times did she have to be taught it?
‘Over there,’ said Ben, pointing.
Melanie looked and saw a gathering at the very edge of the city of tents. People were milling around a small convoy of military vehicles. She had no idea what was going on.
‘Let’s go and check it out,’ said Ben.
Reluctantly, she followed. It didn’t look a very likely place to find Sarah, but something must be happening there. She didn’t have any better ideas.
A small crowd was gathered around an army truck and a couple of Land Rovers. Soldiers were holding them back, but the people were angry, shouting at the soldiers, demanding something. Melanie knew there was a general mistrust of the army following the nuclear strike. Rumours were circulating that the government had conspired with the military in ordering the attack, and that the army was now tightening its control over the surviving population, gathering them into camps and holding them prisoner. Melanie could quite believe it after her failed attempt to leave through the gates. There was certainly a lot of tension between army and civilians, and those tensions seemed to be spilling over now.
Ben dragged her by the hand through the jostling crowd, using his height and strength to muscle people out of his way.
When they reached the front, Melanie threw her hand to her mouth in shock. ‘Ohmigod! It’s James!’
The boy was crouched down in the middle of the circle, stripped naked and bound with thick ropes. His hands were strapped behind his back, and more ropes tied his ankles together. He was kneeling in the mud, and as he lifted his head, she saw that he had been badly beaten. His face was a bloody mess, and his torso showed signs of severe bruising. One of the soldiers grabbed his hair and forced him roughly back to the ground.
‘Werewolf!’ the crowd was jeering and shouting. ‘Kill him!’ They pushed forward, hungry for blood and vengeance. Only the ring of soldiers with their rifles raised stood between them and James.
‘Stand back,’ shouted their commanding officer, a man with a bristling ginger moustache. ‘This creature is our prisoner. He poses no danger to you. You have my word.’
The mob bellowed back, telling the officer just how much they valued his promise.
‘Those monsters killed my family!’ shouted one man.
‘They murdered my husband!’
‘We’ll rip him to pieces!’
The commanding officer raised his rifle into the air and fired off three shots in quick succession. A hush fell over the baying mob.
‘This facility is operating under the rule of martial law. I am Lieutenant Colonel Sharman, and I am in command of security within the boundaries of the camp. I will not tolerate any attempt to disrupt the peace.’
The officer swept his gaze over the crowd. ‘This creature has been captured by my men to be used for experiment
s under the supervision of our medical director. I guarantee that he will be kept securely caged at all times, and that there is no risk to any civilians. Does anyone have a problem with that?’
‘I do,’ said Melanie.
Ben grabbed at her but she broke free of his grasp and took a step forward.
The colonel walked over to her, the gun still in his hands. ‘And you are?’
‘My name is Melanie Margolis. You can’t treat the boy like this. He’s not an animal.’
‘No,’ said the colonel sharply. ‘You’re right. He’s a lycanthrope. Many people here would say that he is worse than any animal. If they had their way he would be dead already. My men are here to protect him.’
Melanie opened her mouth to speak, but a blonde-haired woman in a white coat was pushing her way through the soldiers toward James. She bent down at his side and lifted his chin to study his bruised and bludgeoned face. James looked mournfully up at her, and then across at Melanie. He turned away as if he did not know her.
‘Bring him to the lab,’ said the new woman, standing up.
‘What are you going to do to him?’ called Melanie.
The woman hesitated, then came over to her. Her long blonde hair blew across her face, and she brushed it aside, revealing bright blue eyes. She spoke to Melanie in a soft Australian accent. ‘I’m Doctor Helen Eastgate. You have some concerns about his treatment?’
Melanie nodded. ‘You bet. Do you want to hear a list?’
‘There’s no need for your concern. I’m going to try to cure him.’
‘Cure him? How? You can’t just use him as a human guinea pig.’
‘He’s not human. But I’m going to try to restore his humanity.’
‘It’s all right,’ cried James. ‘I want to be cured.’
‘There,’ said Doctor Eastgate, curtly. ‘It seems we’re all in agreement.’ She turned to walk away.
Before Melanie could say anything else, another figure stepped out of the crowd and tugged at the doctor’s arm. Melanie caught a glimpse of a woman with mousy brown hair. Her voice was barely audible above the murmurings of the mob. ‘Please, let me come with you. I want to help you run your experiments.’
Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf] Page 12