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. The exchange evidence that Conrad is also aware of their predicament; no deliveries will be made to the village which meant 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 could hear the howl through the boarded windows, and then others joined it.
As they gathered at the driveway, he’d thrown the first Molotov cocktail at the petrol-soaked driveway beyond the wooden blockade. After the devastation he’d seen in the village that day, learned that they would break down doors and smash windows to get in, he couldn’t risk them getting close. The driveway had burst into flames, the fuel quickly used up, but it gave him time to set the blockade alight. Moira, who was an experienced clay pigeon shooter had covered him whilst he set it ablaze.
“I shot them. I shot five of them, but they just got back up, kept dancing around the house, screeching and snarling. I could see them through th
e flames, demented, howling beasts. They were furious they couldn’t get through.”
“How did you keep them at bay, the furniture must have burned quite quickly.”
“It did. I’d parked the cars there too. Sadly, they had to be sacrificed. Went with quite a bang did my old Nissan.”
“We had a stash of cocktails too, at the side of the door.”
“They didn’t leave until the sun came up.”
Javeen sips at her tea. Conrad’s efforts to keep himself and Moira safe during the night had been immense, but it was only one night. Their efforts hadn’t destroyed a single creature and tonight, if they’d infected their victims and not just eaten them, there would be even more.
She swallows as her mouth becomes dry and takes another sip of tea. “Mr. Shelby-”
“Conrad.”
“Conrad. How will you protect yourself tonight?”
Conrad slips an arm around Moira’s shoulder. His face drained of colour. “We’re going to spend the day making the cottage safer, setting more traps.”
Moira bites her bottom lip and glances to the window. “We’ll fight them to the end.”
Javeen doubts they’ll get through another night, and if these creatures are hunting in packs, then perhaps neither will she and Andy. “There’s another option.”
All eyes turn to her.
“We all go to the castle.”
Conrad sits up straight. Moira looks confused.
“The castle?”
“Yes. It’s the safest place I can think of. It has thick walls, narrow windows, heavy doors.”
“It was never built as a defensive structure, Latimer. It’s really only a castle by name.”
“You’re right, but we can make it a fortress against them. There’s nowhere else that can offer us that kind of protection. It has a wall and gates.”
“Yes.” Moira’s eyes have brightened. “And there are cellars, and a kitchen, and a café, and toilets.”
“Café and toilets?”
“Yes. What I mean is, that there are the amenities to house quite a few of the villagers. Enough rooms, and dining space. Don’t you remember too, that all of the windows have their own shutters.”
“She’s right.”
Conrad nods. “I have to agree. Despite our best efforts, given the strength, ferocity, and cunning of these beasts, I don’t think that we will survive here tonight.”
Moira shudders and Conrad pulls her close.
“That’s settled then. We’re going to move the villagers up to the castle.”
21
Marta clicks the door shut to her office for the last time. The sound of the helicopter’s blades pulses as she lugs the heavy bag over her shoulder. “Marvin. Take this please.” She hands him the bag. He takes it without question and leads the way down the stairs and out to the waiting helicopter. Marta’s hair swirls in the blades’ turbulence. Blake Dalton is already strapped to his chair inside.
She slides into her seat and buckles the belt.
“Where’s Marston?”
“He’s finishing his work in the lab. I gave him instructions to … eliminate the test subjects.”
“He’d better hurry up. I need to get back to the office. I have a meeting with Corbeur scheduled for tomorrow and can’t miss my flight.”
Marta clenches her teeth. The first sign of a problem and Dalton had bailed. So what if the creatures were afraid of water, surely that was something that could be overcome. A wave of grief for the swollen bank account that she would no longer have rolls over her.
“This isn’t necessary, Dalton.”
“I spoke to Corbeur. We agreed. The water issue is a fatal flaw.”
“That we could have overcome!”
“Listen.” He turns to her with gritted teeth. “The situation here is out of control. Those beasts are monsters. They’ve wiped out the entire village-”
“Neither you nor Corbeur cared about that when you thought you could use them.”
“It’s a pest control operation now, Steward.”
A figure appears at the glass door of the orangery.
“Here’s Marston.”
The scientist runs across the grass towards the helicopter, a large satchel slung over his shoulder, a laptop under his arm. The irritated air plays with his greying hair, making it dance around his head. He pulls himself into the helicopter with a grunt.
“Is it done?”
He purses his lips. Getting him to stay on board with the project had been a battle, but everyone had their price, and for Marston it hadn’t just been about the money.
“Both have been … put to sleep, Steward.” He turns and locks his eyes to hers with a steel gaze. “If our involvement in this ever gets out-”
“It won’t!”
“Then we’re finished. They’ll lock us away for life.”
Dalton leans forward, places spread fingers over Marston’s knee, and squeezes. Marston grimaces. “They will never let that happen, Marston.”
“They?”
Marta looks out of the window ignoring Marston’s pained frown.
“Yes, they.”
The helicopter lifts from the ground and Marta’s breath catches in her throat, her heart tripping a hard beat. At the tree line is the distorted figure of what was Max Anderson. Around him, smaller creatures hop and jig as though impatient, larger males and females stand just behind his tall figure. He lifts his head to howl.
A gunshot rings out and a small creature drops to the floor.
“Jesus Christ!”
As Max’s howl breaks through the constant chop, chop of the helicopter’s blades the pack bounds across the lawn towards the Institute.
“Get us off the ground!”
The helicopter lifts, swings away from the scene, and Marta watches Marv Chapman fire another shot then retreat at a sprint to the orangery. She screws her eyes tight shut as Max swipes a clawed hand down onto Marv’s shoulder.
The door clicks to a shut behind Javeen. Everything she needs, her clothes, toiletries, and bedding have been packed into bags and stacked into the car’s boot along with every morsel of food from her kitchen cupboards. She checks the sky, and her heart skips a beat; the sun is beginning its decline. She scans the trees that border the cottage garden. All is still, but that they’re infested now with the infected ‘wolfmen’ she’s quite certain. After leaving Conrad and Moira this morning, Javeen, desperate to shower and change her clothes, had made a quick stop at home, and then visited each house without a cross on her list.
As she pulls out of the drive, the list sits on the passenger seat. Red crosses are struck through most of the houses. Of the one hundred and twenty residents of the village that she and Andy had listed, only twenty-eight remain, the rest presumed dead or infected and now lost to the pack. That’s how she thinks of them now, the infected monsters, as a pack. As she’d made her way around the village, to find the survivors and encourage them to join her at the castle, the same pattern has emerged; broken doors and windows, and inside, signs of struggle. In a few, the monsters had left the remains of their feasts. Other houses are simply empty, their occupants either dragged off like Jim Kendrick and hung from a tree to be consumed at a later date, or bitten and infected. In three, there are villagers that have had close encounters; poor Mrs Simpson is still gibbering about the monsters that had broken into her house. The poor woman had woken up in the middle of the night to find them poring over her, sniffing at her neck and armpits. They’d left her a quivering wreck but unhurt. As she’d relayed this story, another of Javeen’s theories was confirmed. They didn’t attack the sick. Mrs Simposon had breast cancer, recently diagnosed but virulent and terminal. It made sense. If they were hunting to feed, they wouldn’t want to eat poisoned meat. In total, to Javeen’s knowledge, there are three villagers with immunity from the beasts; the Reverend, Ben Carter, and Emma Simpson. Sadly, all three are terminally ill and very weak.
As Javeen drives through the village the church c
omes into view and she’s reminded of Emily Charmichael, the first witness to what had become a living nightmare. She takes a left onto Church Street and pulls up in front of Emily’s house. As she knocks on the front door, having glimpsed Emily lying on her sick bed in the living room, the Reverend Baxter walks slowly, leaning heavily on his stick, towards the church. He grimaces as he raises his hand to wave. Javeen knocks again on the door and leans back to wave at Emily through the window. The elderly woman pulls the oxygen mask from her face and mouths ‘come in’ as she gestures to Javeen with a gnarled hand.
The door is locked.
Javeen makes her way to the back of the house. That door is also locked. She checks under the door mat, then under various pots of dormant bulbs and browning lavender shrubs clustered around the doorway until she finds the backdoor key.
“Got you!”
Opening the door, she makes her way through to the downstairs bedroom where Emily lies on the hospital-style bed with its clinically white and tubular frame complete with side guards and foot pedal to adjust the height. The woman lies deep in her pillow, her face wan. The room is stuffy and has a stagnant air despite a window that is kept slightly open. The skin on Emily’s face looks even more tissue-like than on Javeen’s last visit.
Javeen holds back the urge to wrinkle her nose. “Mrs Carmichael.”
“Emily,” she rasps. Her voice is dry.
“Emily. Would you like some water?”
She nods.
Javeen refreshes the water in the jug at her bedside and pours some into a clean glass then helps Emily to take a sip. She drinks then lies back on the pillow exhausted.
“Kathy? Where is Kathy?”
Javeen’s stomach knots. “She can’t come in today, Emily.”
“Did they get her?”
“I …” Javeen doesn’t want to scare the woman, but patronising her by lying is perhaps worse. She’s elderly, not a fool. “I’m not sure, Emily, but I think that perhaps they did.”
Caged: An Apocalyptic Horror Series (The Wolfmen of Kielder Book 2) Page 12