Lycanthropic (Book 2): Wolf Moon (The Rise of the Werewolves)

by Morris, Steve

  Seth stared gloomily at the road ahead. ‘If this is the future, I preferred the past.’

  ‘I know you did. Me too, in many ways. But life was hard then for people like us. All those arbitrary social rules to follow, elaborate rituals, arcane interpersonal subtleties that we could never hope to grasp. This transition will be a cleansing, a burning of all that. In the future, the only rules we’ll need to learn will be the rules of survival.’

  ‘Chris, when did you last eat?’

  ‘It must have been at breakfast time.’

  ‘I think you may be getting low on sugar.’

  It was possible. The thought of food had been far from his mind and he was feeling a little lightheaded. For despite the tedium of sitting in an endless line of traffic, he had found the day exhilarating. It was like the time he got his first smartphone, working out how its tiny, primitive operating system could be hacked, how he could modify it to make it do what he wanted. The adventure of discovery, of exploring unknown frontiers was the stuff that made existence worthwhile. ‘It’s the thrill of the new, Seth. It’s what we need to let us know we’re still alive.’

  ‘If you want to stay alive, I suggest you break out some of those energy bars. I’m starving too.’

  Seth was right. He’d allowed himself to start dreaming. In order to survive, he would need to focus tightly on essentials, and not get distracted. Details would make the difference between life and death from now on.

  He undid the seat belt and reached around to grab the box of snacks they’d stowed on the rear seat. He snatched a couple of cereal bars and some energy drinks for himself and Seth.

  ‘How far have we come?’ he asked.

  Seth studied the on-screen map on the dashboard. ‘We’re not far from Heathrow Airport now, so I guess we’ve travelled just under twenty miles. We could have come here on the train in less than an hour.’

  ‘The trains aren’t safe,’ Chris reminded him. ‘I already explained that.’

  ‘We could probably have walked it.’

  ‘Not with all our gear.’ They had spent the last of Chris’s money buying food and essential survival equipment, filling the back of the car with an assortment of stuff. The money was all gone now, but Chris didn’t think they’d need it in the future.

  ‘How far were you hoping we could travel today?’ Seth asked.

  Chris shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t really planned. I was so desperate to get on the road, I hadn’t properly thought about our route.’ It was unforgivable really. He’d had plenty of time to plan, and while he’d spent ages deciding on their ultimate destination, picturing himself as a wasteland warrior fending off werewolves, he’d given scant thought to some of the details. ‘I’ve let you down, Seth. I’ve got to get the details right in future.’

  The sense of elation that had gripped him earlier had dissipated, to be replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread. He cast his gaze over the sea of red brake lights from the cars stretched out in front of them as far as he could see. When midnight came, the curfew would begin. Would the soldiers really try to arrest everyone trapped here? And would they use force if people resisted? If they did, the sea of red would quickly become a sea of blood.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Electric Avenue, Brixton, South London, New Year’s Day

  The building that the ram raiders had driven into was a pharmacy. Ben could see its neon cross sign glowing an eerie green through the fog. Two masked men ran from the wrecked car and entered the building, slipping through the gap that the car had torn between the metal shutters.

  A security alarm blared out in the silence of the night, but the thick fog dampened its cry. Ben hoped that the security system would automatically alert the police, but he had no way of knowing if it would, or how long they would take to arrive.

  ‘I’ll phone the police,’ said Ben. ‘And let Salma Ali know what’s happening.’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ said Mr Stewart. ‘Someone else will call the police.’

  ‘They are two. We are three,’ said Mr Kowalski. ‘We can take them.’

  ‘Let’s do it,’ agreed Mr Stewart.

  ‘We should wait for help to arrive,’ said Ben, but the two other men had already crossed the road toward the pharmacy. He hesitated, then hurried after them.

  Mr Kowalski entered the shop first, squeezing his way between the ripped steel rollers that had protected the shop windows. A steel blade glinted in his hand. Mr Stewart drew his own knife from his jacket and followed him inside.

  Ben lingered outside. He had no experience of this kind of thing. What if the masked men were armed? They might well be. They might even have guns. He had nothing, and with hindsight that seemed stupid. If they attacked him with weapons, how could he hope to defend himself?

  Shouts emerged from the pharmacy. It sounded like a fight had broken out, but Ben could see nothing through the metal window blinds. He squeezed his hands into fists, readying himself in case one of the raiders emerged, wondering if he should wait outside or join the others.

  More cries came from inside. He recognized Mr Kowalski’s thick Polish accent and Mr Stewart’s voice too. The higher-pitched shouting of younger men cut across the other shouts. Ben couldn’t tell which side was winning the fight.

  Coward. He was no use to anyone out here. He imagined what Mr Stewart would have to say to him if he did nothing to help. He still hadn’t even phoned the police, but there was no time for that now. He had to do something. Reluctantly, he bent low and forced himself through the narrow gap between the metal rollers.

  The shop was not a large one, and was unlit inside apart from the faint glow from a display cabinet stocked with beauty products and a larger-than-life backlit image of a woman with perfect skin. Four dark shapes grappled with each other amidst a sea of spilled bottles, plastic jars and brightly-coloured pills.

  Ben stepped gingerly across the scattered debris to the two nearest men. Mr Stewart had one of the masked youths pinned to the floor, his knife held in one hand. His opponent’s knife had fallen to the floor. The man was fighting back, trying to wrestle the weapon from Mr Stewart.

  ‘Grab the knife!’ yelled Mr Stewart. ‘Stick it in him!’

  Ben stared at the dropped weapon in shock. He wasn’t about to stab an unarmed man, whatever the situation. He stood frozen for a moment, unable to act.

  The young man twisted in Mr Stewart’s grip and threw the older man off him. He struggled to his feet and lunged for the knife.

  It was just what Ben needed to break him out of his paralysis. He kicked the knife across the floor out of harm’s way and threw himself on the masked raider. The man went down under his weight and crashed to the floor with a sharp cry. Ben grabbed hold of his wrists and held him down.

  Mr Stewart appeared a second later, kneeling down on one of the man’s arms and pinning him to the floor. Now the prone man was helpless. Mr Stewart brought the tip of his blade to his neck. ‘Don’t move a muscle, or you’re a dead man,’ he snarled.

  On the other side of the shop, Mr Kowalski seemed to have his own assailant under control. The second youth lay face down, his head twisted to one side, his arms held tightly in the Polish man’s strong grasp. ‘You’ve broken my arm!’ screeched the would-be burglar. ‘You’ve broken my fucking arm!’ In response, Mr Kowalski twisted his knee into the man’s back, making him squeal with pain. He clearly didn’t need Ben’s assistance.

  Neither did Mr Stewart, who now held the other youth immobile, his knife held against his throat.

  Ben stood up and dusted himself down. There didn’t seem to be anything left for him to do.

  A moment later the rising-and-falling sound of a police siren began to warble in the distance and before long blue flashes outside indicated that the police had arrived. Two uniformed officers pushed their way into the shop past the battered steel shutters. They looked from Ben to the men on the floor and back to Ben again. ‘We have a report of a break-in,’ said one of the poli
ce officers.

  ‘We caught these men trying to steal from the shop,’ Ben explained.

  ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Ben Harvey, Neighbourhood Watch.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  Ben pointed to the youth that Mr Kowalski had immobilized. ‘I think that man’s hurt his arm.’

  ‘He fucking broke it,’ wailed the youth through his mask. ‘That’s assault, that is.’

  Mr Kowalski shrugged. ‘Was accident. These men are criminals. Caught red-handed. We make legal citizen’s arrest.’

  The other police officer laughed. ‘It looks like you guys handled the situation well enough. I think we can take over from here.’ He bent down and cuffed the two men lying prone on the floor. The one with the broken arm cried out again as the handcuffs went over his wrists. The police officer and his colleague dragged the men to their feet and ushered them toward the exit.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t you want to take statements from us?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, sir. I think these men got the treatment they deserved. Given the current emergency, we’ve been told to go easy with the paperwork until things calm down again. Thanks once again for your help.’

  Ben watched the police leave. He could hardly believe that they’d gone with barely any questions asked. They didn’t seem to care that one of the burglars had been assaulted. They hadn’t even said anything about Mr Stewart’s knife, even though it had been clearly visible to everyone.

  Mr Stewart slid the knife back inside his jacket and Mr Kowalski picked up the knives the two thieves had left behind. He stowed them inside his grey coat. ‘Was good work,’ said the shopkeeper, grinning. ‘We will not see those two again.’

  Mr Stewart smiled nastily. ‘That one with the broken arm certainly won’t be taking part in any more ram raids for a while.’

  Ben nodded. It was hard to argue with that logic. He still wasn’t sure how much contribution he’d made to the arrests, but at least he hadn’t lingered uselessly outside while the other men did the dangerous work. He’d been there when it mattered, and even Mr Stewart couldn’t say that he hadn’t.

  Mr Kowalski gave Ben a hearty slap on the back. ‘Was good for first time,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Next time we do even better.’ He held out a hand toward Ben. In his palm was the knife he had offered earlier. Ben eyed the weapon nervously.

  The Polish man thrust his hand closer to Ben, urging him to take the knife. ‘Next time you come prepared,’ he insisted.

  Ben stared at the steel blade in its leather sheath a while longer, trying to decide what to do. He had never carried a knife in his life, and didn’t know how to handle one. He probably wouldn’t use it even if he got into another fight. But it would be there if he needed it. He hesitated another second, then took the knife from Mr Kowalski and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat.

  It hardly felt like he’d made any decision at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bath Road, West London, New Year’s Day

  Chris watched as the soldiers went from vehicle to vehicle, questioning each of the drivers in turn, examining documents, searching some of the cars, occasionally forcing their occupants onto the roadside at gunpoint. He braced himself for the sound of shots being fired, but so far there had been none.

  ‘What do you think they’re doing?’ asked Seth. ‘They can’t arrest everyone. Are they looking for rioters?’

  ‘It’s not rioters they should be worried about. It’s werewolves.’

  The troops had dogs with them too, and they were searching the cars, sniffing the occupants. If the dogs barked at them, the people were marched into armoured cars and driven away. An entire family had been taken off, the mother screaming at the soldiers, the children in tears. Could they really have been werewolves? It seemed that the army was taking no chances, and Chris was pleased to see it. There was still a possibility that prompt and decisive action might be enough to nip the threat before a catastrophe unfolded.

  ‘They should put them all in quarantine,’ said Chris. ‘Everyone that the dogs identify. They have to stop the infection while they still can.’

  ‘What?’ said Seth. ‘Imprison whole families and children just because a dog doesn’t like the way they smell? That’s sick.’

  ‘No. If they don’t stop the spread of the disease, every family will end up dead. It’s a mathematical certainty.’

  ‘Let’s hope the dogs don’t think you smell weird, then,’ said Seth.

  Chris gave his armpits a quick sniff. They were a bit rank, to be honest. Thankfully the air conditioning in the car was very efficient.

  A soldier rapped loudly on the glass of the driver’s door and Seth wound the window down. Damp, freezing air entered the car. The soldier shone a flashlight inside. ‘Do you have a driving licence or other form of ID?’ he demanded.

  Seth showed the man his licence, and Chris gave him his passport. The soldier studied them carefully, shining the light into each of their faces in turn. ‘Please state your reason for travel.’

  ‘Evacuation,’ said Chris.

  ‘We’re heading west,’ added Seth. ‘Away from London.’

  ‘And what is your intended destination?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘The wilderness,’ Chris told him.

  ‘Herefordshire,’ clarified Seth.

  The soldier thumbed through the documents again, then shone his light into the back seats of the car. He frowned at the cardboard boxes piled high there. ‘Get out of the car,’ he said, holding on to their documents. ‘Now,’ he growled.

  Reluctantly Chris opened the passenger door and stepped out into the cold night. The soldier herded him and Seth away from the vehicle and over to the roadside. Two more soldiers joined them, rifles slung over their shoulders. Another soldier was bringing the dogs.

  ‘Search this vehicle,’ ordered the first man. He pointed his rifle at Chris. ‘Over there, now!’ He gestured at the grass verge next to the road. ‘Kneel down, hands behind your heads!’

  Chris got to his knees, his trousers squelching in the cold mud. He’d left his jacket inside the car, and his thin T-shirt flapped and snapped in the freezing January wind. Another detail he’d got wrong. He glanced sideways at Seth’s turtleneck jersey with envy.

  The troops pulled boxes out of the car and dumped them in a heap, rifling through the carefully-packed supplies and upending them into the road. The dogs scrabbled inside the vehicle, sniffing everywhere, tails twitching with excitement.

  ‘Please don’t break anything,’ said Chris.

  ‘Just shut up,’ hissed Seth. ‘You’ve already got us into enough trouble.’

  ‘Sir, look at this.’ A soldier was lifting equipment out of one of the boxes. ‘Weapons. Knives, axes, metal poles. What are these?’ He lifted out a pair of short wooden sticks connected by a metal chain.

  ‘Nunchucks,’ replied his colleague, chuckling. ‘As used by Bruce Lee in the movies. They’re almost useless in real combat.’

  ‘They’re not,’ said Chris indignantly. ‘You just have to know how to use them properly.’

  A boot in the back of his head pitched him face forward into the mud. ‘Bring the dogs over here,’ said the soldier behind him. ‘Let’s give these sons of bitches a good sniff.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  West Field Terrace, South London, waning moon

  Rose Hallibury lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, a cold sweat beading her forehead. Light from the streetlamp lent a dull glow to the room. She swept her gaze rapidly around the dark space, picking out the desk, chair and the bulk of the wardrobe in the semi-blackness. Her heart hammered in her chest and she was panting breathlessly. Her dream had come again, worse than before.

  The dream had first visited her soon after she’d witnessed the attack at the dog kennels. In the dream, the men in the leather jackets had done their evil work with their hammers, knives and bats, killing the dogs and leaving her curled up
in a ball. Then the dogs had come for her. The dead creatures, battered and bloody, had risen to their feet, their eyes glowing red and cruel. They were no longer frightened; they were angry. Angry with her. ‘You let them kill us,’ whispered the dogs. ‘We trusted you, and you let us die.’ The dogs had savaged her then, and she’d awoken, breathless in the night.

  The second dream had been even more terrifying. She’d been back at school, the headmaster’s hands around her throat like claws, his teeth snapping at her neck. She’d turned and stabbed him in the eye with her pen, but he hadn’t died. Instead he’d smiled at her, a sick gloating grin. ‘You’ll be sorry you did that, Rose,’ he whispered, as the blood gurgled from his empty eye socket, the pen sticking out like a spear. ‘I’ll make sure you’re sorry.’

  His words still rang in her ears. She’d heard them clearly, as if he were in the room with her right now. She switched on her bedside light, but there was no one there. It had been a dream, nothing more.

  But Rose wasn’t so sure. The dreams had shown her more than just the past. They’d given her glimpses of the future too. A terrible future, filled with pain and suffering and death. A burning city, soldiers shooting at will, wild animals roaming the streets, tearing at victims. And worst of all, her parents and her little brother, Oscar, lying dead in the gutter, their bodies twisted and broken.

  Some of the visions were already coming to pass. Soldiers on the streets; burning buildings; wolves. She had seen it first in her mind’s eye, and now it was happening for real.

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away fiercely. Weakness wouldn’t serve her now. She needed to be strong, stronger than she had ever been before. She wouldn’t let the visions come true. She would not allow it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four