“Acknowledged, control. Proceeding to target area.”
He engaged the aircraft’s countermeasures almost without thinking, then clicked the intercom to the army munitions experts in the cargo bay. “We are approaching the target. T-minus ten minutes. Cargo ramp will deploy in T-minus five.”
He turned to Flight Lieutenant Dave Fowler, his co-pilot, and gave him a grim smile. “Okay, Dave, we’re on. Let’s get this over with.” Then he banked the C-130J Hercules to the North East, towards where the full moon crested the horizon.
11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:25
Phil looked at the clock above the door and sagged in the chair he was tied to. That was it. Even if he somehow managed to get free of the cable ties securing his limbs and overpower Doctor Channing without getting shot, he didn’t even have time to get out of the facility before the bomb hit, let alone reach the distance he’d need to escape being torn apart by the blast. He’d failed Steven, but more importantly, he’d failed Sharon and the kids. After everything he’d gone through over the last few months, it seemed almost ridiculous that his life was about to end in a wave of searing heat that would turn the earth to glass and melt steel like wax. All things considered, he supposed there were worse ways to go. He thought back to his friends. Olivia – slaughtered in the most appalling way imaginable, with her unborn child torn from her stomach by the monster, Connie Hamilton. Rick Grey and Mark Briggs – eviscerated in Steven Wilkinson’s home. All of them dying in blood and terror, screaming in agony as their lives ended. In many ways he was getting off easy. At least he, Sharon and the two children wouldn’t suffer. At least his family would never have to go through the excruciating transformation from human to monster. Their lives would be snuffed out in an instant. Quick. Painless. Clean. All fear washed out of him as he accepted his fate. Hell, once he stopped to think about it, he almost welcomed it. The nightmare would be over in a few short minutes. He relaxed and turned his head to Doctor Channing, who was busying himself with an array of video cameras, hastily erected on tripods, or balanced on chairs. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. They’re going to bomb this place flat any minute. And it won’t be a second too soon, you sick fucker.”
The Doctor chuckled. “Nonsense. My work here is far too valuable. Colonel Richards appreciates what I’ve achieved, even if it’s beyond someone like yourself. Perhaps in a few minutes you’ll understand.”
Doctor Channing walked over to the first of the bays and pulled back the stained curtains. Phil gasped. He recognised the sedated woman on the bed. Sergeant Peyton. The woman who’d been with Paul’s unit on Christmas Eve. The only other person to survive. But he was sure she hadn’t been injured. What the hell was she doing here? Doctor Channing adjusted the video camera to ensure it was pointing at the bed, then proceeded to repeat the action on the other bays, revealing five more unconscious soldiers with IV drips in their arms.
“You see, Mr Fletcher, I’ve managed to isolate the viral strain that causes the transformation. Culture it. Even improve it. Increase its virulence while exponentially reducing its rate of infection. Your friend, Mr Wilkinson,” he nodded towards the final, as yet unexposed bed, “was convinced that there was some other factor at work. A curse he called it. Superstitious mumbo-jumbo of course. It was simply a matter of extracting the canine DNA strands and replacing them with the subject’s own genetic material.”
Phil was unable to speak for a moment as the Doctor’s words sank in. “You don’t mean… all of those soldiers?”
“All willing volunteers from the Christmas Eve missions. They all wanted to be able to meet the lycanthrope threat on even terms. I can hardly say I blame them, given the casualties of those missions. The infected ones had to be euthanized, of course, but I’m confident that these fine people will become a new breed of soldier in…” he checked his watch, “a little over three minutes.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ve not even restrained them!”
Doctor Channing laughed – a thin, reedy noise that set Phil’s teeth on edge. “Oh, they are heavily sedated, Mr Fletcher. And you forget, these are trained, disciplined soldiers. Volunteers. Even if they do manage to overcome the effects of the tranquilisers, after a period of disorientation I’m confident that they will adjust to their new-found state of being rather quickly.”
Phil’s stomach felt as if someone had just pushed his chair off a rather large cliff. This wasn’t even remotely ethical, legal or sane. He now understood why Doctor Channing hadn’t been evacuated with the other medical staff. Colonel Richards might be a lot of things but stupid was not one of them. He intended to wipe the Doctor and his abominations off the map along with the werewolves. And not a second too soon. Phil found himself wishing the bomb would hurry up and fall. He did not want to spend his last seconds on earth witnessing whatever Doctor Channing had cooked up down here. He’d seen some terrible things lately, but felt with a sick certainty that all of it would pale into insignificance once these things turned into whatever-the-fuck they were.
“Now, just Mr Wilkinson to deal with. I have to admit, I am fascinated as to how the transformation will affect his internal organs. I’ve watched the change from the outside, of course, but this will be most illuminating, I’m sure.”
The Doctor pushed back the blood-stained curtains around Steven’s bed, then let out an abrupt, strangled squeal. His body went into spasm and a pool of blood, urine and faecal matter splashed around his feet. Steven stepped forward with his hands gripping an IV stand. He’d forced the front of it through Doctor Channing’s mouth with sufficient force to tear his cheeks open and burst from the back of his neck. Steven’s mouth was curled into a snarl, and he gave one last hefty shove that almost severed the man’s head above his jaw before letting the twitching corpse fall to the floor. He regarded his tormentor for a moment, then spat on the man’s ruined body and turned his gaze to Phil. “Alright, Phil. Did I miss much?”
Phil tried his best to avoid looking at the ruined corpse of Doctor Channing and to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. He shuffled around so the cable ties were facing Steven, and craned his neck. “Not that it’s going to make a blind bit of difference, considering Colonel Richards is about to bomb the place back to the stone age, but if I’m going to die, I’d rather not do it tied to this bloody chair. Any chance you could give me a hand?”
Steven took a step forward then cried out and fell to his knees. Phil watched in mounting horror as the old man’s body began to twist and contort. As one, the eyes of the soldiers on the beds snapped open and they began their own transformations. The moon had risen. There had been no explosion. No cleansing fire to wipe away the monsters. And he was still tied to the chair.
“Bollocks!”
11th January 2009. C-130J Hercules, Doncaster. 03:28
Ryan Lockwood hit the intercom button again. “We are two minutes from the objective. Are you ready to deploy the package?”
The radio crackled static.
“Sergeant? We are almost at the drop zone. Respond. Is the package ready to go?”
Silence.
Dave Fowler removed his headset and undid his harness. “The fucking intercom’s probably on the blink again. I’ll go back there and make sure everything’s okay.” He got up from the co-pilot’s chair then paused and removed his browning service pistol. He grinned at Ryan. “Better safe than sorry, though.”
“Dave. Be careful.”
“Careful’s my middle name. Don’t worry. I’ll give them a kick up the arse if they’re pissing about. Damn squaddies probably just yanking your chain. You know what the pongos are like when it comes to us flyboys.”
Dave eased himself past Ryan, unlocked the reinforced cockpit door and swung it open. Ryan was very aware that his colleague didn’t venture any further into the cargo bay.
“Dave? What is it? What’s going on?”
“Oh, God. It’s… it’s like a fucking abattoir in there. They’re…”<
br />
“Shut the damn door then, you bloody idiot. The ramp’s down. I’ll pull the nose up and drop the damn bomb that way. We’re close enough now. The GPS should take it in. Now get back in your fucking seat.”
Dave didn’t move. Ryan could see his friend standing motionless in the doorway.
“Dave. Get the damn lead out and shift your arse.”
He turned around, but Dave wasn’t there anymore. Instead, a large man covered from head to toe in blood and entrails stood framed in the doorway. “Good morning, Squadron Leader,” he said in a thick, German accent. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”
Ryan reacted with reflexes born from years of combat missions. He grabbed the control yoke and pulled it toward him. The aircraft responded and began to climb at a rate the airframe was, quite frankly, not designed for. The metal groaned and creaked under the strain and Ryan wished he’d been flying something more agile. The Hercules was a great aircraft, but it was as manoeuvrable as a truck sometimes. Then he felt a fist slam into the side of his head with more force than any man should have been capable of. Even through his Kevlar helmet, he barely held onto consciousness. The German grabbed the flight controls and pushed them forward, sending the nose of the aircraft straight down towards the city below them.
The German’s face was fixed in a maniacal grin. “My name is Daniel Braun and I’ll be your pilot for the rest of the flight. We’ll be on the ground in around twelve seconds.”
Then the man punched him again with sufficient force that Ryan felt his neck snap. The last thing he saw as his vision faded were the streetlights of Doncaster growing closer and brighter by the second.
11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:28
John didn’t have to see the rising moon to feel its effect. In a few short minutes, the survivors of High Moor would begin their first transformations within the flimsy prefabricated huts. And as soon as that started, the circling Reaper drones would unleash their arsenal of Hellfire missiles on the buildings, obliterating everyone within them. That is, unless they were given other targets to keep them busy. He nodded to the pack werewolves, then sprinted towards the perimeter fence closest to the guard towers. Seven of the pack wolves followed suit towards their designated spots by the fence, covering the distance before the snipers in the towers could react. He saw the dancing lights of laser sights on the ground behind him, but he was on the brink of his transformation and his movement, and the movement of the other werewolves, was too fast to follow.
He reached the perimeter fence and let his wolf out. Even now he felt fear as the familiar agony of the transformation tore through him. He’d only managed to change twice before and remain in control. Those two successes were weighed against decades of failure, where he’d become a mindless, savage monster. At least, if that happened this time and he lost himself in the change, the missiles from the circling drones would put an end to any threat he posed. Even if he held onto himself through the pain, there was a very real chance that would happen anyway. If he was too slow in turning, he would be blown to pieces by the high explosive warhead before he could react.
The change took hold and John fell to his knees. The colour leached out of the landscape and he cried out as his spine contorted and his jaw dislocated to allow the rows of bone daggers to burst from his gums in a spray of blood and foam. His hands stretched and twisted, fingernails splitting in half as vicious talons slid from his fingertips. His bones shattered then reformed in seconds, each crack and splinter a white-hot blaze of unendurable agony. Every second appearing to stretch out into hours of abject misery. He felt his face warp, and a strangled cry escaped his throat – more howl than scream. Then, as quickly it had begun, the change from man to monster was complete.
His senses were alive, picking out the frantic heartbeats of the soldiers in the towers, the panicked cries of the snipers as they tried to locate their targets, the thick stench of fear emanating not only from the soldiers, but from the survivors huddled in the huts, who would endure the same agony themselves in a few short seconds.
John didn’t waste any time. He began running around the perimeter of the compound. He couldn’t afford to wait. He knew the Hellfire missiles were already inbound and, as they travelled faster than the speed of sound, even with his enhanced senses, he would never hear them coming. But they were. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the remote pilots of those drones would see the spike in heat signatures by the perimeter fence and react accordingly.
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 o
n 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.
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