High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  ***

  Oskar wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to get the moonstruck in his sights. John Simpson’s transformation was an unfortunate turn of events, even if not wholly unexpected. That was part of the reason that Oskar had stayed back, letting Leonid and Anya assault the cottage while he provided cover. He had no intention of getting into close proximity with that monstrosity. Just seeing it through a telescopic sight had made his heart pound and his palms ooze perspiration.

  He’d set up his sniper’s nest almost twelve hours before and had simply sat back and waited. Leonid and Anya had been under instructions to follow Michael if he attempted to leave the hotel, and the former alpha had played right into their hands. Krystof would be overjoyed when he found out, although he had indicated that Michael be taken alive if possible. It was unfortunate that he’d perished in the burning cottage along with Leonid.

  He huffed in frustration as another round failed to find its target. Anya was among the fastest wolves in the pack, and the moonstruck was having difficulty in landing a blow. The combat was so fast and fluid that the damn thing didn’t stay in one place long enough for him to blow a hole through it. Anya snapped at its legs, darting it to swipe gouges in the beast’s legs or sink fangs into exposed flesh, before leaping back. She was working the beast, tiring it before she moved in for the kill. Still, Oskar remembered what it had done to Troy and Gabriela. Anya would not stand a chance if the raging moonstruck managed to grab her. And once it finished with her, Oskar had no doubt as to where it would turn its attention.

  He fired again, splintering the truck of a pine tree where Simpson’s head had been a second before. The moonstruck turned its head toward him and snarled before renewing its attack on Anya. Oskar tried to aim the rifle again, but his hands trembled, unable to keep the weapon steady. He reached a decision. The Council needed to know about Michael’s treachery. That was more important than Simpson at this point. There was no sense in him dying here.

  “Fuck this.”

  He slung the rifle over his back, drew a Beretta, and climbed out of the tree. His car was down a small lane, almost quarter of a mile to the west. With luck, he would be able to reach it before the moonstruck finished Anya off and then come after him. If he was really lucky, the beast would go after Marie Williams first, drawn by the scent of blood from her stomach injury. He really just needed to be further away from it than she was.

  He reached the ground, only to freeze in his tracks at the sound of a pistol being cocked. He turned his head and almost laughed. Marie Williams stood twenty yards away from him, along the trail leading to his car. She was bloodied, seemed on the verge of collapse, and yet she faced him down with a Beretta in her hands. The absurdity of it was ridiculous.

  A tortured howl ripped through the night air, turning into a scream of absolute agony before cutting off in a strangled wheeze. It seemed that Anya’s luck had run out. Oskar strode towards Marie, not even bothering to raise his weapon. “You are in my way, Marie. I suggest you get out of it. Nothing you can do will hurt me.”

  Her lips curled into a sneer. “I’d like to see you try it, you fucking runt. Even in this state I’m more than a match for a pathetic coward like you. I’ll make you beg before I finish you off.”

  Oskar’s cheeks burned, and an old, familiar rage bubbled up from deep within his chest. “You…dare?” Thoughts of the moonstruck at his rear vanished in a cloud of red rage. This woman, this human dared to stand in his way? He’d tear her apart for her arrogance.

  He quickened his pace, feeling the power of his beast surge through him, driven on by Marie’s mocking smile. His fingertips itched, then burned as sharp black claws burst from under his fingernails. Fangs burst through his gums, spraying blood and spittle across his face. It had been too long since he’d killed a human in his wolf form. Already he could imagine the taste of her hot blood as it gushed from her twitching corpse. He was going to enjoy this.

  Something snagged on his leg, and two light, metallic tinkles whispered to his side, sounding almost like a bell.

  Or the pins falling from grenades.

  He looked up to Marie, who said, “Surprise, motherfucker!” blew him a kiss, then threw herself behind a fallen log.

  Twin explosions tore through the night, savage thunderclaps that burst his eardrums and threw him back onto the trail. The pain was unbelievable. He’d been wounded before, on many occasions, but had never felt anything this intense. His entire lower body felt like it was on fire. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but the waves of pure anguish that wracked his body were more than he could bear. Oskar looked down to the tattered ruins of his legs. His right leg had been blown off at the knee, while his left was little more than a mass of splintered bone adorned with smoking scraps of red meat. His body was already trying to heal the damage, but it was catastrophic. He’d never re−grow the severed limb, and it would take hours for the other leg to heal enough to support his weight.

  Marie slowly got to her feet, a grim smile fixed on her face. She let the pistol drop to the ground and her shoulders seemed to sag. Oskar realised then that she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at something on the trail behind him. Oskar turned his head and came face to face with his worst nightmare.

  John Simpson’s body bled from dozens of wounds. To her credit, Anya had managed to inflict a significant amount of damage to the monster before she’d met her end. None of this seemed to matter to Simpson, however. His feral, green eyes regarded Oskar with a hunger and fury that turned the Norwegian’s blood to ice. It curled back its lips into a snarl.

  “Please. Don’t. I’m begging you.”

  The beast either didn’t understand the plea, or simply didn’t care. It plunged its talons into Oskar’s chest until they burst from his back, then lifted him from the ground until they were face to face.

  Oskar felt his consciousness fading. The last thing he felt was the moonstruck’s hot, charnel−house breath against his face. Then John Simpson tore him in half.

  Chapter 20

  15th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 04.53.

  Marie watched the two halves of Oskar’s body slip from John’s grasp, landing with a wet splat on the frozen ground. The great werewolf’s breath billowed into clouds of condensation as it threw back its head and howled in triumph. It looked at the eviscerated corpse at its feet, then turned its head to Marie.

  The fear she felt in this thing’s presence was almost overpowering, but Marie knew that there was nowhere to run to, no possible way to fight, and no will to in any case. She was tired. Drained. She took a deep breath, then stepped forward towards John’s looming form.

  The creature watched her approach, blowing puffs of steam into the frigid air. She reached out a trembling hand, towards the side of the werewolf’s muzzle. “John? Do you know me?”

  The wolf rubbed its head against her hand, and when she looked into the creatures eyes, she saw her friend looking back at her. “Oh thank fuck for that,” she said and threw her arms around John’s huge, hairy body. “You could have fucking said something, you prick. I was shitting myself.”

  John pushed her away as gently as he could, then cocked his head to one side. He snarled, turned away from her and leapt into the undergrowth. Marie couldn’t understand what he was doing at first. Were there more enemies, hiding in the darkness, waiting to attack? Then she understood. Michael. John was going after her brother.

  She stumbled through the undergrowth, ignoring the pain from her wounds, guided by the flickering glow of the fire through the snow−covered trees. When she emerged from the woods, her hand flew to her mouth. There was very little left of the building. The fire had almost completely gutted the place. The roof had long since collapsed, leaving only the exterior walls standing. Smoke billowed from the empty windows, while the U−PVC of the conservatory had burned away leaving only a twisted metal skeleton behind. There was no sign of John. No sound but the crackle of the fire as it consumed the last re
mnants of the cottage.

  One of the outer walls finally succumbed to the inferno, collapsing into a blazing pile of wood and stone. The flames flared brighter as the clouds of dust thrown into the air were incinerated. Marie gazed into the blazing building, hoping to see some sign of life or movement, but the smoke was too thick and obscured her view.

  “John! Michael!”

  Her voice echoed off the last remaining walls, and faded into silence. She thought that she heard a roar of pain and rage from within the building, but it could as easily have been the arctic wind that howled through the shattered windows, coaxing the blaze to further heights. Her heart sank, unwilling to even consider the possibility that John had gone in there for Michael. She couldn’t lose both of them, not to something as ridiculous as a fire. Not after all that they’d faced together.

  The smoke billowed up into a thick black cloud before her, almost seeming to form a shape. A familiar shape. Marie couldn’t believe her eyes and cried out in joy as John burst from the blazing cottage with Michael’s burned body in his muscular arms.

  John’s fur was ablaze and Michael’s body was little more than a blackened piece of meat. John lowered Michael to the ground, then, as if becoming conscious of the flames consuming his body, he leaped into a snow drift, rolling around until the fire had gone out.

  Marie crouched beside her brother, hardly daring to touch the scorched remains of his flesh. He was back in human form and was unmoving. Smoke curled from his burned body, and the snow around him began to melt.

  Marie began shovelling handfuls of the white powder onto her brother’s body. Weren’t you supposed to put cold on a burn? Did that even apply when every part of someone’s body was a charred mass of ruined flesh?

  “Come on, Michael. Wake the hell up. Get your arse up you lazy shit.”

  John put his hand on her shoulder. She’d not noticed him transforming back to his human form. His body bled from dozens of wounds. Not only the ones inflicted during tonight’s confrontation, but the ones from his earlier battle with the pack, which had reopened. Rivulets of blood ran across his chest and legs, yet he didn’t seem to care. His eyes held a strength that Marie had never seen in him before.

  “I can’t hear him, John. I can’t fucking tell if he’s alive or not. It’s like being underwater or something. I should be able to hear his heartbeat, or the air being sucked into his lungs, but I fucking can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Marie. I can. He’s still alive.” He pointed to an area of pink skin amidst the black, cracked flesh. “See, he’s already started to heal. He’s going to be fine.”

  Michael’s remaining eye flickered open. He tried to speak, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a wheeze of agony.

  Marie piled more snow around her brother. “You just lie still, okay? You’ll heal this up in no time, then we can all go and find a bar.”

  Michael’s eyes fogged over and he coughed bloody phlegm across his lips in a series of wracking spasms that made Marie wince. By the time the coughing fit ended, almost a quarter of his face had regenerated. Despite the pain, he gave Marie a lop−sided grin. “For future reference, next time let’s not go out through the fire, okay?”

  Marie let out a sharp laugh, born more from nervous energy than genuine humour. “Alright, next time we can charge out of the front door if you want.”

  Michael turned his head to John. “Listen, I know things haven’t been great between us today, but thanks for coming in there for me. I’d have been dead before much longer. What happened to Anya and Oskar? Did you…”

  “I took care of it. Don’t worry. Just hurry up and heal your arse up so we can get the fuck out of here and find some clothes. I’m freezing my bollocks off.” John turned to Marie. “I don’t suppose you’ve…”

  He stopped mid−sentence and cocked his head to one side. Marie put her hand on his arm. “What?”

  John waved her into silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Shit. Michael, can you walk?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m a fucking mess. It’s going to be at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes before I’ll heal enough to move. Why?”

  John tilted his head to the east. “We’ve got company coming. Helicopters. Four of them, plus I can hear trucks on the road maybe half a mile out.”

  Marie grabbed her brother’s arm in an attempt to pull his charred body into a standing position. Michael screamed as her hands sank into the oozing blisters and burned muscle. He pushed her away. “Marie, will you fuck off. I’m not going anywhere.” He turned to John. “Mate, you two have got to get the fuck out of here. I’ll play dead then get away when I’ve healed. You two need to go. Now.”

  Marie kicked snow onto her brother’s face. “Didn’t we go through this shit once already today? There’s no way that we’re leaving you here to get caught by whoever−the−fuck that is. Now stop being a baby, grit your teeth, and get on your bloody feet.”

  She reached for him again, but Michael swatted her hand away. “Marie, I fucking can’t. And if you stay here, they’ll get you as well. Oskar’s car should be close. You need to get out of here. I’ll join you as soon as I’m able.” He turned to John. “Get her out of here. Carry her if she won’t go on her own.”

  “Michael, go fuck yourself. If you think…”

  John stepped over to Marie’s side. “He’s right, Marie. Those choppers will be here in less than a minute. We’d not get a hundred yards carrying Michael. We need to go.”

  Marie looked from Michael to John, praying that one of them would relent, but their expressions were set in stone. She could hear the whump of the helicopters now, even with her own limited hearing. Four of them. Dual blades. Chinooks. Which meant they were military.

  She slammed her hands against her thighs. “Fuck. Fucking bastard bunch of fucking cunts.” The landing lights of the helicopters were visible now through the heavy, snow−laden clouds. Getting closer by the second. She looked down at her brother again.

  “Will you go, for fuck’s sake? There’s no point in us all getting caught. Besides, who’ll come and bust me out if you’re locked up as well. Go. Now.”

  Marie bit back the tears as John took her arm. She glanced back at her brother, lying in the snow as his flesh reformed. Then she shook off John’s hand and they both disappeared into the woods as the helicopters drew closer.

  ***

  17th December 2008. Underhill Military Base, Sublevel Four. 14.27.

  Steven’s eyes flickered open and he winced at the harsh fluorescent light above him. His body ached in ways that he’d not thought possible. The wounds on his shoulder and chest burned with a searing pain that licked at the edges of his awareness, while the acid burns across his back itched. He tried to sit up, only to find his wrists and ankles restrained. He craned his neck, trying to focus through the thick fog clouding his mind.

  He was strapped to a plain hospital bed with steel manacles. IV drips pumped a clear liquid into the veins of his right arm, while an array of expensive looking machines sat beside the bed, monitoring his vital signs. A catheter ran down the inside of his thigh to a half−full bag of dark−brown piss suspended from the bed. Other than that the room was bare. Walls made of concrete block−work, painted a glaring flat white, surrounded him. There were no windows in this room, only a large, green reinforced door, which took up half a wall. Above the door, a state−of−the−art video camera whined as its lens refocused. A single green LED pulsed from behind the camera’s dark eye.

  Steven tried to reach out with his senses, but the drugs made it difficult for him to form a coherent thought. The scent of cheap floral disinfectant mingled with bleach overpowered his sense of smell, and no sounds reached him from the other side of the door. The room had been soundproofed to a very high standard.

  “Hey, any chance of some breakfast? Or a pot to piss in?”

  There was no response, but then, Steven hadn’t been expecting one. Letting your prisoner be alone with their thoughts until their ne
rves started to get the better of them was standard interrogation procedure. Now that he was awake, they’d be along in their own time, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  He angled his head down and saw the criss−cross pattern of sutures on his chest. Connie Hamilton had really done a job on him. He marvelled that they’d managed to find enough to sew together. He’d heal himself, of course, eventually. Assuming that his captors didn’t cut him apart and put him under a microscope before then.

  There it was. The first sliver of doubt creeping unbidden into his mind. He chided himself for allowing the circumstances to dictate his emotions. If they wanted him dead, then they wouldn’t have bothered sewing him up. Which meant they wanted something else.

  He settled back down on the bed and closed his eyes. The effect of the drugs was not unpleasant, and if he was going to have to wait a while, he might as well enjoy the trip.

  He could have been lying there for five minutes or five hours when the door to the cell opened. Time had lost all meaning within the comfortable warm haze of the opiates. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. Two men had entered the room. One of them smelled of harsh soap and gun oil. He didn’t need an enhanced sense of smell to pick out the other man. The stink of his expensive aftershave burned Steven’s nostrils, almost obscuring the distinctive smell of his Italian leather shoes.

  “Mr Wilkinson? Are you awake?”

  Steven didn’t open his eyes. “Yes. Did you bring my breakfast? I like my coffee black and my bacon well done.”

  “Erm…I’m afraid I…could we get Mr Wilkinson some breakfast? Well, you heard the man. Black coffee and bacon.”

  “Well−done bacon. I don’t like the fat unless it’s crispy.”

  “Yes, erm…well−done. Now, how are you feeling, Steven? I can call you Steven?”

  Steven opened his eyes and stared at the man. He wore an expensive, tailor−made suit with a blue tie. His face seemed too smooth, like a wax figurine that had just begun to melt. Nervous, greedy eyes flickered across Steven’s face, never once meeting his gaze. A few droplets of sweat broke out on the man’s forehead. Steven gave the man his best, insincere smile. “I’m about as well as can be expected for a man tied to a hospital bed, being pumped full of drugs. How about you? Having a nice day?”