Blood Moon (18 page)

They marched him at gunpoint through the compound to the steel gates, while the other prisoners looked on. The red dots of multiple laser sights danced across his chest as the gates were opened and he was ushered through to the other side, across a tarmac courtyard to where a series of Portacabins had been positioned. This make-shift arrangement of temporary buildings was what the soldiers had laughingly called ‘the infirmary’. In reality, it was nothing more than a place where the medical staff took samples from the prisoners. One of the advantages of being a werewolf was that sickness was not something they often had to worry about.

One of the guards motioned for John to enter the building with his SA-80, and he obliged, seating himself on one of the hard, plastic chairs within. The soldier then put shackles on his wrists and ankles, securing them to the walls with heavy steel chains. John didn’t have the heart to tell them that if he changed, his werewolf form would be able to tear the flimsy walls down as if they were made of cardboard. There was no sense in antagonising his captors. Not yet, anyway. Not when he had a point to make.

The inside of the cabin was sparely decorated. The floor was covered in green carpet tiles and a portable gas heater sat beside an old wooden desk that had seen better days. Several more plastic chairs, all different colours and styles, were scattered against one of the walls. Other than that, the building was empty. He’d seen some of the other prisoners taken to the main prison building, which he guessed had more extensive medical facilities, but so far he’d not had the pleasure of that trip, for which he was glad. Of the half-dozen prisoners that had been taken over there, none had returned. He really didn’t like to dwell on what might have happened to them.

The door opened, letting in a blast of frigid air, and Rose Fisher strode inside. She gave John a look of undisguised contempt, shook off her coat and sat down at the desk.

John shifted on the seat, his discomfort having very little to do with the unyielding plastic. “Doctor Fisher… Rose… I just want to say that I’m sorry for… You know…”

Rose looked up at him and arched an eyebrow. “I know? I’m afraid that I don’t. What exactly is it that you’re sorry for? For breaking into my flat? Terrorising me and making me fear for my life? Ruining my Christmas? Or for all of the men you killed on that base?”

He looked up at the angry woman, fixing her gaze with his. “For all of it. Apart from the killing. I didn’t kill anyone on that base. There was no other way for us to get Michael back. I wish that there had been. I wish that none of this shit had happened, but we are where we are. I just wanted you to know that I was sorry for what we did to you.”

Rose removed a butterfly needle and two plastic bottles from the desk drawer and put on a pair of blue disposable gloves. “And that makes it all fine, does it? You’re sorry. Well, your apology is noted.” She nodded to one of the waiting soldiers, who grabbed John’s arm and pulled up the sleeve of his prison issue shirt to expose the vein at the crook of his elbow.

Rose walked across the room and removed the needle from its sterile wrapping, then stabbed it into his arm with more force than was necessary. John winced at the sharp pain. “Doctor Fisher. There’s something else that I need to talk to you about. Something important.”

Rose left the needle in his arm and secured it with a piece of tape, then attached a bottle to the protruding piece of plastic, all without meeting John’s gaze. “Oh? Really?”

“Yes. Listen, it’s going to be full moon in a couple of weeks and some of the others haven’t changed since the last one. If they aren’t allowed to transform before then, we’ll all have a problem.”

That seemed to get her attention. She looked at him as she retrieved a new plastic bottle from the tray. “And why is that, Mr Simpson?”

John felt his stomach lurch. He hated the thought of telling these people anything about werewolves that they hadn’t already found out, but he really didn’t see he had a choice. “Every werewolf needs to transform once a month. If they don’t, then the wolf side of their nature gets restless and fights against the confinement. On the night of a full moon, the wolf is too strong for them to contain and it forces the change. But if they fight against it, they’ll end up caught in a halfway state. What the pack call a Moonstruck. They won’t have any control of themselves. They’ll lash out and kill anything they see. It’ll be a slaughter.”

She removed the full blood bottle and replaced it with the new one. “And why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”

“Because the other wolves won’t tell you anything. For Christ’s sake, there are kids in there. Families. And because of the bloody Reaper drones, they won’t even be able to change to defend themselves. It’s completely unnecessary. You want to study a transformation? Give everyone a safe place to do it, under controlled conditions, and you’ll get all the data you need. If you don’t, every single person in that compound will die in two weeks time.”

Rose looked at him, scrutinising him as if he were something under a microscope, then appeared to come to a decision. She let out a sigh and nodded. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to the Colonel about it. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

John nodded and gave her a weak half-smile. “Thank you, Rose. You have no idea how much of a relief it is to hear that you’ll try.”

She sealed the second bottle in a bag, then glared at him. “I’m warning you now. If this is some trick, then I’ll vivisect you like a bloody lab rat.”

John nodded. “I promise you, Rose. No tricks. You have my word.”

“It remains to be seen exactly what that’s worth.” She looked up to one of the soldiers. “Take Mr Simpson back to the compound, and tell Colonel Richards that I’d like to have a word with him.”

30th December 2008. Underhill Military Base, Sub-Level Two. 21:37

Phil leaned back on the hard, metal-framed bed and tried to calm his nerves. The complex was almost deserted now. Most of the essential personnel and equipment had been removed over the past week, ever since the decision had been made to relocate the operation to Lindholme. The frantic activity around the place had gradually eased, then come to an apparent halt. Now, instead of booted feet echoing around the corridors, the only sound was the constant thrum of the antique heating system. Every once in a while he would hear distant voices, or the slamming of a door, but for the most part he was alone. Seemingly forgotten. And that suited him just fine.

He’d not spoken to Paul since Christmas day. When he’d encountered his former colleague in the mess hall, they had avoided each other, with not so much as a nod of recognition passing between them. Paul had been moved above ground, into one of the barrack blocks attached to the training camp. Colonel Richards hadn’t been in touch, and after a few attempts to contact him, Phil had stopped trying. He suspected the military simply didn’t know what to do with him. He had no tactical value anymore. The survivors of the Christmas Eve raids had much more current and relevant information relating to the werewolves than he did. He didn’t know enough to be considered useful, but knew too much to be allowed to leave. He was an inconvenience. A liability. And he’d had just about enough of their crap. He didn’t care what Colonel Richards said. All he wanted to do now was go home and try to pick up the pieces of his life. Get back to some sort of normality. Back to Sharon.

A door slammed somewhere further along the corridor. He lay still, trying to slow his heart, and listened as the footfalls faded. There was no point in delaying this any longer. It was time to make his move.

He slid his legs off the bed and began to dress; not in his civilian clothes, though. He’d spent the last few days gathering together pieces of army uniform. A pair of shoes left in a locker. A discarded shirt from one of the empty offices. A pair of trousers taken from one of the sleeping quarters. A jumper from the laundrette. None of the items fit especially well, and the makeshift uniform wouldn’t hold up to any kind of scrutiny. He just hoped it would be enough to get him past the guards and out of the building. Beyond that, he didn’t have much in the way of a plan, but he didn’t really need one. He’d damn well walk back to Durham if he had to. The important thing was getting off this base and out from under the thumb of his military captors. He’d work the rest out later.

He tightened the webbing belt around the trousers, only too aware of the fact that he couldn’t quite fasten the top button, and pulled the olive-green jumper down to hide the visible band of his underwear. Taking a deep breath, he picked up a stolen kitbag containing his civilian clothes and stepped out into the corridor, closing the door of his room behind him.

He felt exposed in the empty hallways, as if his every movement was under scrutiny. The thought was ridiculous, of course. No one seemed to have paid a blind bit of notice to him for days, and he doubted they’d notice he was missing until he was long gone. Still, he knew only too well that the biggest risk of failure lay in how he acted in the next ten minutes. He needed to behave as if he belonged here. March through the place with a sense of purpose without obviously rushing. Any furtive or nervous movements would be enough to attract attention, and the moment someone took a second look at him and noticed that the arms of his jumper were too short, or that the legs of the trousers were a little too long, the game would be up. Forcing himself to take steady, measured steps, he made his way through the labyrinthine passageways, past the elevator to the stairwell.

Once he made it through the door he stopped and listened for a moment. There were voices on the level above him. Two people, as far as he could make out. He waited for almost a minute, and when it became apparent that they weren’t moving any time soon, he decided to take a chance. He began to ascend the concrete stairs toward where the two men stood, deep in conversation about football. He recognised one of the men, a private who worked in the mess hall. Keeping his head down, he continued forward, but just as he reached them, he felt the trousers begin to slip from around his waist. Panic washed over him, his heart lurching in his chest, and he grabbed at the webbing belt with his left hand. Having his pants fall to the floor was probably the last thing he needed to happen right now. Neither of the soldiers seemed to notice, however, and as soon as he started up the next flight of stairs, he pulled the belt so tight he thought he was going to cut off the circulation to his legs.

Phil paused at the door leading to the ground level. From memory, there was a guard stationed on a desk near the entrance to the underground complex, but with any luck the soldier would be more concerned with checking the ID’s of those entering the building than those leaving it. Once he made it through the double doors, it was only a few hundred yards to the main road. From there he was only about a mile east of Crickhowell, or around three miles west of Abergavenny and its train station. He just had one last obstacle to negotiate and he was free. He paused once more, making certain that his rebellious trousers were firmly in place and that his ill-fitting uniform looked at least half presentable, then pushed open the doors and stepped out into the corridor.

Phil almost cried with relief. The desk was deserted. He didn’t know whether the guard had taken a break or if they had simply decided not to bother manning it anymore. It didn’t matter. He was almost there. Almost free.

The urge to break into a flat run was almost overwhelming. Adrenaline coursed through his body and his limbs tingled in anticipation. He forced himself to maintain the act, however, and marched steadily along the corridor, his heart leaping with every click of his shoes on the concrete, and pushed open the double doors.

The cold, fresh air bit into his skin and hurt his lungs as he sucked it in. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything sweeter. The orange sodium lights of the A40 twinkled through the trees, no more than two hundred yards away along a dark, deserted road. The real world. So close that he could almost reach out and touch it.

“Phil? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Phil’s heart sank and a wave of nausea bubbled up from his stomach. He felt his shoulders sag and he turned around to face Paul Patterson. His former colleague had an assault rifle cradled in his arms, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

“Paul… mate, listen, they don’t need me anymore. They’re just going to let me sit and rot down there. Please. I just want to go home.”

Paul took a long drag from his cigarette, then flicked it away, the glowing end tracing an arc through the darkness until it landed with a faint hiss on the wet tarmac. “Can’t let you do that, Phil. The Colonel wants you to stay put. It’s for your own good. Now, why don’t we go back inside and forget this happened, yeah?”

Phil shook his head. “No. Fuck that. I’m not going back down there. I’ve had enough of this shit. I don’t want anything to do with it. I just want to see Sharon and you’re not going to stop me. Now get out of my fucking way.”

Paul took a step forward, shaking his head. “Phil, you’re not the boss anymore. And if the Colonel wants you to stay here, then you’re going to fucking well stay here. You really don’t want to push me, mate. I’m going easy on you, but I’m starting to lose my happy thoughts.”

Phil’s lip curled up into a snarl. “What’re you gonna do about it, Paul? Shoot me in cold blood?”

Paul brought the butt of his SA-80 up into Phil’s stomach, driving the air out of his lungs. Phil collapsed to ground, unable to breathe, while Paul crouched down on his haunches. “No, mate. I’m not going to shoot you. But you have to realise that this is for your own good, and Sharon’s. You’ll just put her and everyone else at risk if you set foot off this base. She’s still at her sister’s place in High Moor, yeah? Well, believe me, mate, that’s the safest place she can be right now.”

Chapter 12