Blood Moon (37 page)

Squadron Leader Ryan Lockwood checked his watch. It was time. He’d been in the air for almost two hours now, essentially doing laps of the National Park at twenty five thousand feet. It made sense. The area was in relatively close proximity to the target and sparsely populated. They could be on station in less than ten minutes when the order came through from Brize Norton. The order that he honestly hoped would not come.

He was conflicted about his mission. He’d been a career pilot for more than twenty years now, had seen action in both Gulf Wars and had flown missions in so many minor conflicts and skirmishes that he struggled to tally them all up. This one was different, though. He understood the rationale behind it. The absolute necessity of containing the werewolf threat and preventing any further outbreaks. He understood that the infected survivors of High Moor were no longer human and were as much of a threat as the creatures that spawned them. Even so, using a weapon as appalling as the one currently nestled in his cargo hold on UK soil, against not only the werewolves but the soldiers stationed at Lindholme, unsettled him. The American made GBU-43/B was the most devastating non-nuclear weapon in existence. One thing was certain. There would be nothing left alive anywhere near Lindholme once he deployed it.

He turned on his radio. “Delta Papa Three Zero this is Ascot Four Six Three One. We are zero five two kilometres from objective, on a heading of zero zero five degrees. Request authorisation to commence operation.”

The radio crackled into life. “Roger Ascot Four Six Three One. Proceed to target on a heading of zero three five degrees. Mission is a go, I repeat, mission is a go.”

“Acknowledged, control. Proceeding to target area.”

He engaged the aircraft’s countermeasures almost without thinking, then clicked the intercom to the army munitions experts in the cargo bay. “We are approaching the target. T-minus ten minutes. Cargo ramp will deploy in T-minus five.”

He turned to Flight Lieutenant Dave Fowler, his co-pilot, and gave him a grim smile. “Okay, Dave, we’re on. Let’s get this over with.” Then he banked the C-130J Hercules to the North East, towards where the full moon crested the horizon.

11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:25

Phil looked at the clock above the door and sagged in the chair he was tied to. That was it. Even if he somehow managed to get free of the cable ties securing his limbs and overpower Doctor Channing without getting shot, he didn’t even have time to get out of the facility before the bomb hit, let alone reach the distance he’d need to escape being torn apart by the blast. He’d failed Steven, but more importantly, he’d failed Sharon and the kids. After everything he’d gone through over the last few months, it seemed almost ridiculous that his life was about to end in a wave of searing heat that would turn the earth to glass and melt steel like wax. All things considered, he supposed there were worse ways to go. He thought back to his friends. Olivia – slaughtered in the most appalling way imaginable, with her unborn child torn from her stomach by the monster, Connie Hamilton. Rick Grey and Mark Briggs – eviscerated in Steven Wilkinson’s home. All of them dying in blood and terror, screaming in agony as their lives ended. In many ways he was getting off easy. At least he, Sharon and the two children wouldn’t suffer. At least his family would never have to go through the excruciating transformation from human to monster. Their lives would be snuffed out in an instant. Quick. Painless. Clean. All fear washed out of him as he accepted his fate. Hell, once he stopped to think about it, he almost welcomed it. The nightmare would be over in a few short minutes. He relaxed and turned his head to Doctor Channing, who was busying himself with an array of video cameras, hastily erected on tripods, or balanced on chairs. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. They’re going to bomb this place flat any minute. And it won’t be a second too soon, you sick fucker.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Nonsense. My work here is far too valuable. Colonel Richards appreciates what I’ve achieved, even if it’s beyond someone like yourself. Perhaps in a few minutes you’ll understand.”

Doctor Channing walked over to the first of the bays and pulled back the stained curtains. Phil gasped. He recognised the sedated woman on the bed. Sergeant Peyton. The woman who’d been with Paul’s unit on Christmas Eve. The only other person to survive. But he was sure she hadn’t been injured. What the hell was she doing here? Doctor Channing adjusted the video camera to ensure it was pointing at the bed, then proceeded to repeat the action on the other bays, revealing five more unconscious soldiers with IV drips in their arms.

“You see, Mr Fletcher, I’ve managed to isolate the viral strain that causes the transformation. Culture it. Even improve it. Increase its virulence while exponentially reducing its rate of infection. Your friend, Mr Wilkinson,” he nodded towards the final, as yet unexposed bed, “was convinced that there was some other factor at work. A curse he called it. Superstitious mumbo-jumbo of course. It was simply a matter of extracting the canine DNA strands and replacing them with the subject’s own genetic material.”

Phil was unable to speak for a moment as the Doctor’s words sank in. “You don’t mean… all of those soldiers?”

“All willing volunteers from the Christmas Eve missions. They all wanted to be able to meet the lycanthrope threat on even terms. I can hardly say I blame them, given the casualties of those missions. The infected ones had to be euthanized, of course, but I’m confident that these fine people will become a new breed of soldier in…” he checked his watch, “a little over three minutes.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ve not even restrained them!”

Doctor Channing laughed – a thin, reedy noise that set Phil’s teeth on edge. “Oh, they are heavily sedated, Mr Fletcher. And you forget, these are trained, disciplined soldiers. Volunteers. Even if they do manage to overcome the effects of the tranquilisers, after a period of disorientation I’m confident that they will adjust to their new-found state of being rather quickly.”

Phil’s stomach felt as if someone had just pushed his chair off a rather large cliff. This wasn’t even remotely ethical, legal or sane. He now understood why Doctor Channing hadn’t been evacuated with the other medical staff. Colonel Richards might be a lot of things but stupid was not one of them. He intended to wipe the Doctor and his abominations off the map along with the werewolves. And not a second too soon. Phil found himself wishing the bomb would hurry up and fall. He did not want to spend his last seconds on earth witnessing whatever Doctor Channing had cooked up down here. He’d seen some terrible things lately, but felt with a sick certainty that all of it would pale into insignificance once these
things
turned into whatever-the-fuck they were.

“Now, just Mr Wilkinson to deal with. I have to admit, I am fascinated as to how the transformation will affect his internal organs. I’ve watched the change from the outside, of course, but this will be most illuminating, I’m sure.”

The Doctor pushed back the blood-stained curtains around Steven’s bed, then let out an abrupt, strangled squeal. His body went into spasm and a pool of blood, urine and faecal matter splashed around his feet. Steven stepped forward with his hands gripping an IV stand. He’d forced the front of it through Doctor Channing’s mouth with sufficient force to tear his cheeks open and burst from the back of his neck. Steven’s mouth was curled into a snarl, and he gave one last hefty shove that almost severed the man’s head above his jaw before letting the twitching corpse fall to the floor. He regarded his tormentor for a moment, then spat on the man’s ruined body and turned his gaze to Phil. “Alright, Phil. Did I miss much?”

Phil tried his best to avoid looking at the ruined corpse of Doctor Channing and to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. He shuffled around so the cable ties were facing Steven, and craned his neck. “Not that it’s going to make a blind bit of difference, considering Colonel Richards is about to bomb the place back to the stone age, but if I’m going to die, I’d rather not do it tied to this bloody chair. Any chance you could give me a hand?”

Steven took a step forward then cried out and fell to his knees. Phil watched in mounting horror as the old man’s body began to twist and contort. As one, the eyes of the soldiers on the beds snapped open and they began their own transformations. The moon had risen. There had been no explosion. No cleansing fire to wipe away the monsters. And he was still tied to the chair.

“Bollocks!”

11th January 2009. C-130J Hercules, Doncaster. 03:28

Ryan Lockwood hit the intercom button again. “We are two minutes from the objective. Are you ready to deploy the package?”

The radio crackled static.

“Sergeant? We are almost at the drop zone. Respond. Is the package ready to go?”

Silence.

Dave Fowler removed his headset and undid his harness. “The fucking intercom’s probably on the blink again. I’ll go back there and make sure everything’s okay.” He got up from the co-pilot’s chair then paused and removed his browning service pistol. He grinned at Ryan. “Better safe than sorry, though.”

“Dave. Be careful.”

“Careful’s my middle name. Don’t worry. I’ll give them a kick up the arse if they’re pissing about. Damn squaddies probably just yanking your chain. You know what the pongos are like when it comes to us flyboys.”

Dave eased himself past Ryan, unlocked the reinforced cockpit door and swung it open. Ryan was very aware that his colleague didn’t venture any further into the cargo bay.

“Dave? What is it? What’s going on?”

“Oh, God. It’s… it’s like a fucking abattoir in there. They’re…”

“Shut the damn door then, you bloody idiot. The ramp’s down. I’ll pull the nose up and drop the damn bomb that way. We’re close enough now. The GPS should take it in. Now get back in your fucking seat.”

Dave didn’t move. Ryan could see his friend standing motionless in the doorway.

“Dave. Get the damn lead out and shift your arse.”

He turned around, but Dave wasn’t there anymore. Instead, a large man covered from head to toe in blood and entrails stood framed in the doorway. “Good morning, Squadron Leader,” he said in a thick, German accent. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”

Ryan reacted with reflexes born from years of combat missions. He grabbed the control yoke and pulled it toward him. The aircraft responded and began to climb at a rate the airframe was, quite frankly, not designed for. The metal groaned and creaked under the strain and Ryan wished he’d been flying something more agile. The Hercules was a great aircraft, but it was as manoeuvrable as a truck sometimes. Then he felt a fist slam into the side of his head with more force than any man should have been capable of. Even through his Kevlar helmet, he barely held onto consciousness. The German grabbed the flight controls and pushed them forward, sending the nose of the aircraft straight down towards the city below them.

The German’s face was fixed in a maniacal grin. “My name is Daniel Braun and I’ll be your pilot for the rest of the flight. We’ll be on the ground in around twelve seconds.”

Then the man punched him again with sufficient force that Ryan felt his neck snap. The last thing he saw as his vision faded were the streetlights of Doncaster growing closer and brighter by the second.

11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 03:28

John didn’t have to see the rising moon to feel its effect. In a few short minutes, the survivors of High Moor would begin their first transformations within the flimsy prefabricated huts. And as soon as that started, the circling Reaper drones would unleash their arsenal of Hellfire missiles on the buildings, obliterating everyone within them. That is, unless they were given other targets to keep them busy. He nodded to the pack werewolves, then sprinted towards the perimeter fence closest to the guard towers. Seven of the pack wolves followed suit towards their designated spots by the fence, covering the distance before the snipers in the towers could react. He saw the dancing lights of laser sights on the ground behind him, but he was on the brink of his transformation and his movement, and the movement of the other werewolves, was too fast to follow.

He reached the perimeter fence and let his wolf out. Even now he felt fear as the familiar agony of the transformation tore through him. He’d only managed to change twice before and remain in control. Those two successes were weighed against decades of failure, where he’d become a mindless, savage monster. At least, if that happened this time and he lost himself in the change, the missiles from the circling drones would put an end to any threat he posed. Even if he held onto himself through the pain, there was a very real chance that would happen anyway. If he was too slow in turning, he would be blown to pieces by the high explosive warhead before he could react.

The change took hold and John fell to his knees. The colour leached out of the landscape and he cried out as his spine contorted and his jaw dislocated to allow the rows of bone daggers to burst from his gums in a spray of blood and foam. His hands stretched and twisted, fingernails splitting in half as vicious talons slid from his fingertips. His bones shattered then reformed in seconds, each crack and splinter a white-hot blaze of unendurable agony. Every second appearing to stretch out into hours of abject misery. He felt his face warp, and a strangled cry escaped his throat – more howl than scream. Then, as quickly it had begun, the change from man to monster was complete.

His senses were alive, picking out the frantic heartbeats of the soldiers in the towers, the panicked cries of the snipers as they tried to locate their targets, the thick stench of fear emanating not only from the soldiers, but from the survivors huddled in the huts, who would endure the same agony themselves in a few short seconds.

John didn’t waste any time. He began running around the perimeter of the compound. He couldn’t afford to wait. He knew the Hellfire missiles were already inbound and, as they travelled faster than the speed of sound, even with his enhanced senses, he would never hear them coming. But they were. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the remote pilots of those drones would see the spike in heat signatures by the perimeter fence and react accordingly.