“It looks like some fucked-up dog/human mutant.”
“Sarge, do you think those sick bastards at the Institute did this?”
Yes, I fucking do. Marv holds his tongue. Whatever, whoever, was behind this wasn’t someone he wanted to cross. “We’re here to do a job, so let’s do it.” He stands, slips the torch back in its holder and unzips his bag, pulls out the cable ties and passes them to McPherson. O’Keefe lowers the stretcher next to the unconscious creature. “Secure the subject and get it on board.” He makes his way to the next body. A howl splits the air. A howl that sounds much closer than the last. His heart palpitates. Grabbing a handful of cable ties, he proceeds to bind the hands and ankles of the male’s feet. It twitches as he grabs its wrists and crosses them. Marv flinches, scans its face for signs of awareness. The black eyes are open, but don’t appear to see him. The pulse throbs steadily at its throat. He slips the thick black plastic tie around its wrist and then does the same for its ankles. He grunts with relief as he pulls at the tie—the thing was secured and sedated, showed no sign of waking, and he’d been reassured that the effects of the tranquiliser would last long enough for them to bring it back and secure it at the Institute. Sweat beads at his brow, the cloth under his arms is damp.
“Get these fuckers on board and get the hell out of here.”
His heart won’t stop hammering against his ribs until he’s back on board with the blades rotating and the chopper twenty feet off the ground. Take it easy, Marv. Just take it easy. He takes a breath, wishes he hadn’t. Despite the relief of easing the tension across his chest, his nose fills with particles of its stench, a revolting aroma like his Grandfather’s old gundog. Grandad would always put the dog, a very friendly, but sadly odorous, English Springer Spaniel, in the back-place after a day’s shooting. The dog would have mud up to its knees, black marsh mud that clung in thick lumps to its fur, and stank.
The first body has been hauled up into the helicopter, dumped unceremoniously on its bare metal floor, and the stretcher brought back for the male. He grabs beneath its armpits and hauls it across. The thing twitches again, then snorts. Marv scans its face. Still no sign that the thing is conscious, but Marston had promised that it would be in a state of complete paralysis, which meant that it should not be bloody twitching. For a moment he considers leaving it on the ground. If it woke during the flight … Just get back to base and offload the thing! “Let’s get it to the helicopter. O’Keefe, keep this one next to the door and a shot ready.”
“Yes, Sir.”
A screech splits the air. The skin of Marv’s scalp tightens.
“What the hell was that?”
“It was close.”
“Get in!”
At the open door of the helicopter, Marv jumps in, kicks at the female’s thigh – it makes no response – then gestures for McPherson and O’Keefe to lift the male on board.
The screech is followed by a howl. The noise is close, could be coming from one of the nearby gardens.
Startled, O’Keefe stumbles. One side of the stretcher slips from his grip. The creature slides to the ground, knocking its head on the tarmac with a grunt.
“For fuck’s sake!”
“Sorry! It’s those fucking howls. They shit me up.” The stretcher lowers to the road.
“Just haul the fucker up. Grab its wrists and ankles and throw it in.”
The men bend to grab its ankles and wrists. As they straighten, grunting with the burden, movement catches in Marv’s peripheral vision. He snaps his head to see. A figure, steps out from behind the brick pillar of a garden wall. More movement, this time to his left, and then another figure, its features contorted by the streetlight’s orange haze, jumps across the bonnet of a parked car.
“Drop the body,” Marv commands. “And get in!”
Breath catches in Marv’s chest as the men release the creature. It thuds once more to the tarmac, a spasm rocking its body. Eyes flick open, teeth instantly bare.
“In! In! In!”
He scrambles back as his men haul themselves into the helicopter. “Go! Take off! Take off! Take off!”
The creatures sprint. The one besides them twists, and with one smooth and powerful movement, jumps to its feet. Marv’s heart thuds. The helicopter tips. Marv grasps the safety handle as he’s thrown towards the road and the creature standing there. Hot breath brushes his cheek and the thing snaps its teeth, nearly scraping Marv’s skin as he leans back. The helicopter lifts from the ground. Angry grunts and yelps fill the air. Like a pack of dogs—a bloody pack of demented dogs! Teeth bared, the screeching grunts of the animals running towards them pierces Marv’s ear. They hurtle forward as the male at the helicopter’s open door gnashes its teeth and pulls at the cable ties. The plastic splits with ease and the ties flick from his wrists. Marv pulls at O’Keefe’s shoulder, grasping his shirt. The fabric bunches in his hand, leaving the man’s back bare. “Get in!” His voice is almost a scream as the thing next to O’Keefe reaches to release its feet. Razor-sharp talons slice through the thick plastic tying its ankles. It turns and Marv’s guts clench. He gives an almighty yank and O’Keefe stumbles inside, flailing, landing on the prone female. He scrabbles to right himself and reaches for his rifle. Light reflects in the creature’s black eyes. Marv fires a shot. It hits the larger male in the shoulder. Punched by the force, it staggers back, rights itself, then continues its sprint. He shoots again. The creature lurches to the left just as he shoots and the bullet misses. McPherson scrabbles to board the helicopter.
As McPherson heaves himself onto the platform, the creatures reach the helicopter. The blades thwack, thwack in a steady monotony as it lifts higher. A clawed hand slams down on McPherson’s back. He screams and the helicopter sways. Marv grabs McPherson’s arm as he’s pulled back towards the ground and three sets of snapping jaws. McPherson screams as another hand digs its claws into his back. Nails slice through his jacket, tearing open the fabric. The third creature scurries away from the helicopter, turns, then sprints forward and with one enormous leap lands on McPherson’s back. Teeth snap only inches from Marv’s face and the weight of the creature on top of McPherson breaks his grip and the man slides from his hands.
“No!”
Released, the helicopter sways, ascends, then rises above the road.
“No!” Marv shouts, spittle flicking back at him as blades aggravate the air.
On the road, McPherson disappears beneath a frenzy of biting jaws and grabbing hands. His screams pierce Marv’s soul. In one swift movement, he grabs a rifle, takes aim, and pulls the trigger. The bullet hits home, passing through a monster’s open jaw and hitting McPherson immediately above the bridge of his nose. The man’s face obliterates as the bullet explodes. It was the only humane thing to do.
As the helicopter lifts above the cottages and turns in the direction of the Institute, the female moves. Marston had assured him it would be completely paralysed—comatose for hours! Marv, still reeling from the death of McPherson, the image of his head exploding with a burst of blood and bone, the creatures sitting back for less than two seconds, then lunging back down to devour his headless corpse, grabs for the case strapped behind O’Keefe’s head. He grunts as Marv fumbles with the straps, but doesn’t complain, his eyes fixed to the jerking creature on the floor.
It doesn’t appear to be fully conscious, the spasm could be involuntary, but Marv is taking no chances. He rips open the case and grabs one of the pre-prepared syringes. Marston had told him exactly what to do in this eventuality; instructions that Marv now suspects were a back-up for Marston’s guesstimate on how long the sedative would work on the monsters. Not as bloody long as you calculated, Marston. Nowhere near. ‘An intramuscular injection at the ventrogluteal site is the best option for a rapid absorption of the drug. Use the Z-track technique, so pull the skin laterally away from the injection site, inject the medication, withdraw the needle, and release the skin. Using this site allows us to use a longer needle with a larger gauge the
refore penetrating deeper into the muscle with a larger dose’. Translated this meant, stab the fucker in the arse with a big dose of poison to close it down. Marv rolls the monster to its side, repulsed by the hairs on the woman’s hips and buttocks. A dark stain appears beneath the hairs at the lowest point of her back. A tramp-stamp! The damned thing’s got a tramp stamp! He stabs the long needle into its rump then pushes the plunger down until all the medication has been absorbed into its body and withdraws the needle.
Within two seconds, the jerking and spasms stop, and the creature lies still but for the pulsing throb at its throat.
“Jesus, it stinks.”
Marv stares down at it, grits his teeth, and clenches his jaw. Every ounce of his being wants to take his gun and blow its head off. Every rational, sane, instinctive desire wants to destroy it. He grips the gun in his hand and points the barrel.
“Chapman, put the gun down.”
“It’s unnatural. Obscene. Things like that shouldn’t be alive.”
“Yeah, but it is, and it is our job to bring it in.”
He glares at the monster laid out across the floor—this repulsive parody of a woman. Something glints in its hair and he bends to retrieve it.
“What is it?”
He plucks the metal from the lock of hair. “It’s a hairgrip.” He holds it up for inspection, a prong of softly zig-zagged metal sits between his thumbs.
“My sister uses those.” O’Keefe gently moves the creature’s black hair to the side to reveal its ears. A stud of gold sits at the centre of its lobe. “What the hell have they been doing at that laboratory? This is … was … a woman.”
Marv sits back hard against his seat. “Something fucking evil.”
50
The night had been uncomfortable. The sound of the helicopter taking off, along with the haunting noise of the wolfmen’s howling, had penetrated the confines of the canteen’s food store. Sleep had been broken and shallow as they took it in turns to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps, or, Javeen’s worst fear, the breaking of the orangery’s glass walls. Her heart had palpitated as they’d stepped inside the cupboard and she’d realised just how vulnerable the glass structure made them. If one of them got in, it would be goodbye cruel world, hello a savage death or, perhaps worse, a walking death. Either way, it wasn’t good. To her relief, as the grey light of morning filtered in through the small window, the glass hadn’t been shattered, and she hadn’t been savaged to death by a stinking and hairy beast. Their stink was one of the abiding details of Ben’s story of the two females’ visit to his bedroom. ‘Stank like shit, it did—their breath. Shit and wet dog.” Strange how that detail seemed more repellent than the knowledge that they’d rip out your innards and eat your kidneys.
Andy pulls a packet of biscuits from the shelf, tears at the packaging, and offers it to Javeen. She takes one and follows it with a sip of water. If they had to hide out somewhere, then the store cupboard would at least help them stay alive. “Shame we can’t take this lot with us.” She gestures to the stocks of biscuits, bread, crumpets, teacakes, water, tea, and coffee. It hadn’t crossed her mind until now that if the village was fenced off then there could be no trips to the supermarket in the next town and no food deliveries to the shop. She, Andy, and the remaining villagers, once they’d munched through their stores at home, would begin to starve. She huffs. If there were any villagers left today; please let them be alive!
“We can take some. There are bags over there.” Andy proceeds to fill a couple of bags with supplies as Javeen brushes off the biscuit crumbs and leans an ear to the door. All is silent. By the light seeping in through the window, given the time of year, it must be getting on for eight o’clock. She hasn’t heard a howl for the last hour. “Time to go, Andy.”
She opens the door with slow ease then checks across the room. All is as it was the night before. There is no sign of the guards or scientists. “Clear,” she whispers and takes a tentative step out of the store room before sprinting to the glass door. Beyond, the mist lies heavy across the grass, hiding the landing gear of the helicopter. Its position has moved since she’d seen it last, confirming that the noise she’d heard last night had been the helicopter taking off.
Andy nudges her, and they both sprint across the back of the Institute, check that the space to the fence is clear, then race across the dew-sodden grass and slip through the wires to the other side. Javeen’s breath billows as white clouds as she huffs. Andy grabs her arm and they run together back to the car and fall inside, suddenly cut off from the world by the fogged windows. Javeen clicks the central-locking and drops back against the seat. The relief is huge. She starts the engine, waits for the condensation to clear from the windscreen, then turns the car to face home.
As they approach the village, dread settles like a damp cloth. She hardly dares to imagine what carnage the night brought to the tiny, and rapidly shrinking, community. First stop will have to be home to freshen up, then she’ll make the rounds again with the map and pen. She dreads having to put a red cross against a single home.
As the car passes over the village threshold, and then moves past the first houses, not a single soul can be seen. In the distance black smoke twines into the grey drizzle. Javeen clicks on the windscreen wipers to clear her vision. Smoke rising from chimneys is not unusual, most of the houses still had coal-burning fires or, more commonly, log burners, but the smoke that is visible on one of the village’s easterly roads is more like a bonfire. Andy mirrors her unease.
“Who’d have a bonfire at this time of day? There’s something not right over there, Jav.”
Despite her desperate need to go home and freshen-up, she accelerates and turns to the smoke.
“Looks like it’s coming from Conrad’s place.”
Ahead, the smoke rises above a small cottage sat in its own grounds surrounded by trees. As they draw close, the source of the smoke becomes obvious. Javeen had expected to see the burned-out shell of the cottage, instead the remains of two cars sit charred and smoking on the driveway.
“What the hell has happened here?”
Javeen scans the scene. Apart from the two cars, which have been parked about ten feet across the front of the cottage, there are the remains of other burning objects. On closer inspection, the metal furniture of what was once perhaps a chest of draws, sits among the charred wood and ashes. More peculiar, is that the ashes circle the house. At one point, the whole house would have been circled by fire.
“Andy, what does this look like to you?”
“Well.” He rubs at the stubble on his chin. “I reckon that someone has put a barricade around the cottage and it’s been set on fire.”
“That is my conclusion, too.” Her chest tightens. “Something very bad happened here last night.” Movement at the window catches her attention, and then a hand waves. Her relief is undisguised. “Conrad!”
Within ten seconds, the front door swings open and Conrad, face pale, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, stands with rifle in hand. Behind him is Moira, her blonde hair pulled back in a functional pony-tail. She too looks tired but defiant with it.
“Come on in,” she beckons.
Javeen looks for a narrow section across the wide and dying bonfire and jumps. Her foot lands at the edge of the dark, wet ash.
“Sorry about that.” Conrad takes her elbow almost as soon as she’s in reaching distance and guides her through the door. The stench of petrol is pungent. “Good to see you, PC Latimer, and you too, Blackwell.”
The door clicks behind them and Moira gives a sigh of relief. “Sorry to pull at you like that, but after the night we’ve had, we’re both a little jumpy.”
“What happened here, Mr Shelby?”
“Moira, let’s get that kettle on,” he says as she steps through to the kitchen.
“Already on it, love.”
“Come through.” Conrad leads them through to the kitchen, asks them to take a seat, and then begins his story.
“
After it became obvious that we weren’t going to be able to leave the village, we decided that we would make this place a fortress.” He motions to the panel of wood that sits propped against the kitchen cabinets. Javeen notices the screw holes in the wooden frame of the window above the sink. “I’ve taken this one off this morning to let some light in, but the other windows are all blocked in.”
“I hate it being so dingey,” Moira cuts in.
“You don’t mind it keeping us safe.”
“No, of course not, love.” Moira drops teabags into the teapot and reaches for the cupboard. Javeen notices the quick frown that passes over Conrad’s face as Moira tightens her lips but lets her hand drop. She takes the exchange as evidence that Conrad is also aware of their predicament; no deliveries will be made to the village which means food supplies will soon run short, so no biscuits to be offered with the tea.
“I did the same at mine,” Andy adds.
“Good man.”
“I hate it though,” Moira adds as the kettle boils. “It makes me feel trapped.”
“That’s exactly how I felt,” Javeen replies. Andy’s house had quickly become claustrophobic as each window had been blocked up. “I hated not being able to see outside.”
“See if you were being attacked?”
“Precisely.”
“We have CCTV so we could see what was coming for us.”
“Coming for you?”
“Yes, and they did.”
The tea is poured and handed round as Conrad describes the attack. After the previous night, when many of the villagers had been attacked in their own homes, he’d decided that the only way they would survive was if they were prepared, so the windows were blocked, his rifle was cleaned, loaded, and ammunition made ready. The garden had been booby-trapped. Every piece of old furniture and wood he had was laid out as a bonfire around the house. He’d sloshed it with lighter fuel and petrol, and waited, watching for any sign on the CCTV monitor. He’d waited all night, and was almost ready to give up and go to bed when the first one arrived outside the house. It had tipped its head. He heard the howl through the boarded windows, listened as others joined it.
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