“So … what we’re talking about is a pack?”
“Yes! Conrad is sure that’s what’s happening. They’re hunting in packs. They waited, Andy. They waited at the treeline until Max Anderson showed up. He appeared to give a signal for attack.”
“Signal?”
“He howled. After that they charged. The villagers didn’t stand a chance.”
Andy is silent with his thoughts. It was all so outlandish, would sound unbelievable to anyone who hadn’t seen it.
“So … so people are being bitten and becoming werewolves? Is that what we’re saying?”
“… kind of.”
His stomach knots as realisation dawns. “So, they’re being bitten and develop superhuman abilities and a desire to eat human flesh?”
“I think so.”
“And we’re trapped here with them …”
“Yes.”
“I went into the woods earlier. There was no sign of them.”
“That’s so dangerous, Andy.”
“I know, but I had to try and find Topsy.”
“Did you?”
“No, not a sign of her.”
The kettle boils and Andy spoons coffee into two mugs, covers them with milk, and pours in the water.
Javeen takes a sip of coffee and leans into him. Even though she’s more than a foot shorter than Andy, he feels comforted by the arm that slips around his back.
“Tilly said something odd. Kelly – the monster – she sniffed at Conrad and then went for Tilly. She’s only alive because Mavis tried to save her.”
Andy takes another sip of coffee as Javeen continues.
“It was like she smelt him and decided he was off or something.”
“Maybe he’s sick? It would make sense. They obviously see us as food—if the food’s bad we can’t stomach the smell so leave it. Didn’t that happen to the Reverend too?”
“It did!”
“He’s got pancreatic cancer.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Billy told me. Kathy said he’s terminal—only got a few months left.”
As they stand in silence, holding each other, sipping their coffee, a howl waves in through the open window quickly followed by another.
“Sounds like playtime again.”
Andy reaches for the hammer sat on the kitchen table and walks across to the window and nails the last few wooden boards into place.
Squatting at the edge of the forest, the purple haze of twilight hangs as a mist over the village. Lights flick on, bright points of life against the dark. The pain of hunger stabs at Lois’ stomach and she pulls in the sweet stench of the Screamers hiding in their light. The particles of their life-smell … their meatiness ... their loving blood … their intestines, their hearts, their livers – she groans with pleasure – their slipping, dripping kidneys, hangs in the air among the trees like tendrils of smoke. She raises her nose to it and sucks it in. Her mouth waters. A door bangs somewhere among the lights. An engine starts. A Screamer calls, his voice is distant but tapping at her eardrums. ‘Topsy!’ it calls. ‘Topsy!’ Behind her the Others gather, pushing their warmth against her. A Small clings to her side, wrapping its arm around her back. Sharp claws dig into her flesh as it anchors its hand. She growls but lets it lay its head against her shoulder.
The One steps to her side, kicking at the Small. It scurries to her other side, clings to her there. The One, The Max, grunts. She cackles as he points at the lights, the urge to tear warm, pulsing flesh riding her, making her jaw ache, and teeth gnash with anticipation. Kelly-Bitch, slides up beside him, her arm passes across his back. Lois springs up, knocking the Small to the ground, and slaps at Kelly-Bitch’s arm. She yelps and bares her teeth, but moves back, and Lois stands against Max, then squats, looping her arms around his leg narrowing her eyes at the Kelly-Bitch. Mine. The One, the Max, is mine. Only mine. She strokes at the muscle of his thigh, and waits. The Small sits crouched beside her. She grunts at it. Later, Small, you will eat later.
The One tips his head back and howls.
With a bound, Lois springs out from the treeline and runs. The One is ahead, Kelly-Bitch behind. The small waits behind the trees. Lois’ arms slide rhythmically at her side, powering her down the hill. She jumps with ease over rocks and fallen trunks. The air whistles as it passes her ears. Behind her she can discern the pounding of feet, the breath of the Others that have joined them, the ones she curls with, warming her body as they sleep.
Another light flicks on as she reaches the village boundary. She runs to it, crouches beneath the window, then peers inside. A man sits in a chair, a fire burning in the hearth. For a moment, a sadness rides over Lois. Before … her infected synapses poke at her memories … tears prick at her eyes … A memory rises; a woman smiling at her, bending low to offer her a mug swirling with mist. The liquid inside was wet and sweet, warm as it ran down her throat. The woman passes the man a mug and another figure, smaller than the others, runs through the door. Lois’ belly aches and saliva drools from the corner of her mouth, catching on the hairs along her jaw. She grunts as Kelly-Bitch pushes up beside her. They both drop beneath the sill as a figure pulls at the curtains and draws them to, blocking out the scene. Kelly-Bitch laughs then scurries around to the side of the house. Lois follows, pushing past Kelly-Bitch.
In the near distance a scream erupts. Lois licks her lips. The first kill. Memories of slashing and pulling and sinking of teeth transport her to past moments as she listens to the Screamer. She pushes down on the backdoor’s handle. It moves with ease and the door swings open. Inside, a girl sits at the table, blonde hair pulled up on top of her head, skin honey-brown, dark lashes rimming a perfect circle of brown. Broad shoulders, lean body, swelling breasts. Her lips part as her eyes widen and Lois pounces, reaching her within a second of opening the door. The table smashes against the kitchen counter as Lois lands on it, kicks it back, and straddles the girl forcing the chair to tip back and her head to knock against the floor. In the next second, before the girl has had a chance to gasp for breath, Lois bites down on her shoulder, she licks at the blood as it oozes from the wounds. The girl stills beneath her and she withdraws. In the background, as she watches the girl’s eyes roll to the back of her head, thuds and screams that spike her eardrums, sound from the living room.
Leaving the girl, as blood streaks across the whites of her eyes, Lois bursts through to the living room. Kelly-Bitch is straddling the man, holding his wrists down hard against the carpet. As he bucks at her, she lunges down, jaws snapping, and rips at his throat.
A voice erupts behind her. “Lois! It’s Lois Maybank!”
Lois turns to the woman. A flicker of recognition. The woman’s lips are orange and the colour has leaked into the crevices of her aging skin around her mouth. A memory of rage. A memory of – her cheeks begin to sting – humiliation. Dog’s arsehole. She has a dog’s arsehole for a mouth. The woman’s pulse beats at her throat as she holds an iron poker high in the air.
“Don’t take another step!” she threatens. “I’ll smash you!”
Lois cackles and licks her lips. This one is flesh. This one is warm, dripping blood. The woman screams as footsteps thunder down the stairs. The door slams open and a boy stands in its frame, his eyes screwed with anger, his lips pulled back from his teeth. In his hands he holds a long iron rod.
As Lois turns to the boy-nearly-man, Dog’s Arsehole screams in rage. Lois staggers forward as pain rips through her skull. She falls against Kelly-Bitch as she rips at the man. Blood smears her arm and she slips before righting herself and facing the room. Kelly-Bitch drags the man behind Lois and pulls him out into the kitchen. Dog’s Arse screams and launches herself at Lois. The boy springs forward.
With a swift movement of her arm, Kelly bats the woman away and pounces to meet Boy-Nearly-Man. As she jumps, she knocks the rod away from her body and lands her weight against his chest. He topples backwards and she grips his shoulders as they fall. Before his head hits the wall,
she sinks her teeth into his throat and sucks. Blood fills her mouth as they crash to the floor, entwined as lovers. The woman staggers to her feet, raises the iron rod, and arcs it down. Extracting her fangs from Boy-Nearly-Man, she jumps to her feet and with a swift twist kicks at the woman. She falls to the floor and Lois pounces, sinking her teeth into the soft pulse of her neck. The house falls silent as she crouches over the female. In her hand, the woman’s heart beats for the last time as she bites down.
9
The woman lies curled up beside the fireplace, the shadow of orange flames flickering on her cheeks. Max waits. His belly full, blood smears his cheeks and dries among the hairs of his chin. Another of the pack drags the body to the back door and through the forest for the Smalls to devour. The woman lies silent, her ribcage rising and falling with quick pants. She would be his. Later, among the trees, in the earth, with the soil and leaves, he would make her his. He strokes her cheek. She is beautiful. A memory pricks at him. A scene of her smiling, the bright pink of her fringe hanging above blue eyes, around them cages, inside the cages things moved, and Max is sad. The girl groans, then jerks, bucking against the wall. Her eyes spring open, the whites tracked with blood. She screams as a spasm of agony takes her. The house is empty but for She … Sally. Her name is Sally. Oh, no! Sally. He stares into her reddening eyes with sadness punching at his heart, and strokes at the blue veins threading across her pale skin.
Laura. Laura. Laura.
The name invades his memory, an earworm that takes him by surprise. Laura. Pain rips through his chest. Laura.
The Sally curls into a tighter ball then rips at her t-shirt, face contorting with pain. Max will be back for the Sally, but now it was only She, only Laura, that he wants. He walks from the house to his own. Beyond the orange haze of the street light comes the desperate cries, quickly silenced, of the Screamers. Max chuckles. They think they can hide from him in their light, but there is nowhere to hide from Max.
Two minutes later he vaults the front wall of his house and slips down the driveway to the back. The garden stretches out to the forest and solar lights swing as bright globes in the old apple tree. He crouches behind the low wall that divides the lawn from the patio and watches. Laura. The kitchen light is on and She moves there. As Laura walks up to the window, he crouches low, watching as she works at the sink.
He waits. Listens to the tapping, running footsteps of the Others as they hunt, the quickly silenced screams, the low chuckles and snickers as they play. White breath billows in the cold air. The moon rises brightening the black sky to midnight blue. Lights disappear until finally his bedroom lamp is switched on. Max listens to the slow beat of his heart, each moment a torture of wanting. Wanting to touch her, feel her warm body close to his. Wanting to run his hands over her breasts and his fingers within her dark spaces. One more time. Just one more time. Saliva drools from his lips. He wants to lick her flesh. Smell the heat between her legs, the soft, glistening flesh, wants to lick it and – he salivates – bite it and rip it and devour her. He knocks his head on the dividing wall. No! No, Max. Love She. You love She. Yes, but to love is to devour. To lick and bite and swallow is love. Aroused at his thoughts of Laura’s body, and seared by memories of their past unions, Max is tortured by the urge to fornicate. But the urge to rip at flesh and devour it, to fill his body with hers, consumes him. She would be his forever—a part of his body forever.
The lamplight in the bedroom disappears. Max waits. When he’s sure she will be asleep, he takes the key from its safe place – he snickers – safe for me, safe for me to … I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down. He unlocks the door and steps inside, sniffs at the familiar aromas, and takes the stairs with quiet steps two at a time. On the landing he pauses, taunting himself with the smells that catch in his nostrils, of her sweat and her sex. The door is open, the landing light on. He switches it off and steps inside the bedroom. Moonlight falls onto the duvet, her hair laid out across the pillow, her face hidden. The bedclothes rise and fall with each breath.
The urge to jump across to the bed, pull back the duvet and sink his teeth into her throat is intense. He wants her blood to ooze over his teeth, wants to suck at her jugular and feel its metallic warmth slide over his tongue and down his throat. It would be an ecstasy.
“Max?” the voice is soft and questioning. He takes a step back as she rolls over and her eyes lock on him. “Max?”
Taking a step forward, moonlight falls across his shoulders illuminating his face and torso with its light.
She remains silent, her eyes roaming over his nakedness, taking in his hardened desire, and pulls the bedcovers up to her chin. “Max.” Her voice carries a wave of sadness that settles over him. He takes a step forward.
“It’s me.” His voice chokes, the noise that vibrates over his vocal chords, a grunt. She pulls back the duvet and sits on the edge of the bed facing him. The smell of her sweat, her breath, her dark places, is intense and he inhales it with each breath, holding it in his memory. He swallows the lump in his throat, takes a step forward and then kneels between her legs. Gripped by the urge to gnash at her throat he stiffens, pulls back. “Max,” she repeats and slides a hand across his shoulder. He flinches. She repeats his name over and over with a sad lilt and pulls him to her chest. He closes his eyes, loses himself to the warmth, and with every cell in his body bites back the urge to dig at her flesh and sink fangs into her throat. Being here was an ecstasy; being here was a torture.
10
Sleep was almost impossible for Freddie, but if he’s honest, he hasn’t even tried. He’d worked on his motorcycle, thankful for the integral garage, and sharpened his tools, then sat in the living room, fully dressed, freshly sharpened chisel in one hand, listening to the incessant howls. At one point, he had almost nodded off, until a howl split into his consciousness, a howl that seemed to be coming from outside the house. He’d stood with a start, moved quickly to the window, and peered through the edge of the curtain, making an effort not to move the fabric. He’d listened, heart palpitating, sure that something, not someone, was outside. He’d checked each window, moving from room to room, thankful for the double glazing he’d had installed last year, and the old, but very solid doors, he hadn’t. The kitchen and living room held the rich aroma of engine oil from the array of tools on the table, including an old motorbike chain. He’d spent much of the night working on his Kawasaki Ninja, topping up the petrol, checking the oil, making sure everything was in perfect order.
After the news had reached him that of the large convoy of cars filled with villagers only a fraction had returned, Freddie had determined to make sure that the bike was in perfect working order if he needed to get away from the monsters. The bike’s speed and agility had saved him yesterday, it could do it again. The night had been full of their howls. When howls had very first started, he could discern one ‘voice’, perhaps two at the most, but now the woods seemed to be full of them. How many of the creatures were out there now? He ran the number of people that had gone missing through his head, nearly forty at last count, and those were the ones he knew about. As the light of morning breaks over the village, and the howls thin to silence, he makes a decision; he and Hayley will escape on his bike.
A pattern seemed to be establishing; attacks on the village happened at night and the howls disappeared during the day which seemed to suggest that the monsters, he balks to call them wolfmen, are nocturnal. If he can get to the barricade during daylight, he can then get through the woods on his bike to the other side. There are plenty of well-laid tracks through the woods that he can easily run the bike along.
He makes himself a cup of tea as an alternative to the too-strong coffee drunk throughout the night and listens. He checks his watch; six-thirty. The last howl had been nearly an hour ago. He sips his tea, takes himself upstairs and lies down fully clothed next to Hayley. Within five minutes he’s fast asleep.
Wolfmen haunt his dreams and he wakes with a start to th
e sound of banging from downstairs. Swinging his feet to the floor, he knocks his knee against the bedside table, spilling the barely touched cup of tea, and leaps across the floor. What the hell was that noise?
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Running down the stairs, he races to the living room and the source of the noise. Hayley! Dressed in jeans and t-shirt, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, she’s holding up a large panel of chipboard, nail between her lips, hammer stuffed into her back pocket.
“What’re you doing?” He steps forward to help with the wooden panel.
“Boarding this place up.” Her voice is nasal.
“Have you been crying?”
She stops and turns to him, her eyes puffy and bloodshot.
“What’s happened?”
“I went round to see Tanya this morning-” A sob breaks the flow of her words.
Dread sinks like a stone in Freddie’s belly. “Put the panel down, love. What happened?”
“Tanya and Guy didn’t go with the convoy.”
“I know. She decided to stay—same as us.”
“The wolves-” She sobs again. Freddie’s scalp creeps. “Her back door was broken down … There was blood in the kitchen.”
Freddie runs his fingers through his hair, fear rising as anger. “Don’t you ever do that again!” He grabs her shoulder, digging fingers into her muscle just a little too hard, and holds her gaze. “Don’t ever go out without me again.”
She winces and he releases his grip. “You haven’t heard the rest.”
“Go on.”
“I searched through the house. She wasn’t there. Neither of them were.”
Caged: An Apocalyptic Horror Series (The Wolfmen of Kielder Book 2) Page 5