Blood Moon (41 page)

***

It was all going to hell. Paul honestly had no idea what could have happened to the helicopters, but one thing was for sure: without air support, the chances of them making it out of here alive had dropped to almost zero. The heavy machine guns had torn the monsters to pieces, but now that all five of the helicopters had been taken out it meant the surviving military personnel were very much on their own. There was no chance of an evacuation. The only way any of them stood a chance was to make sure every last werewolf lay dead. And Paul found he didn’t mind one little bit. If he was going to die, he’d take as many of the fucking things with him as he could.

He strode through the compound, rifle shouldered, firing at anything that moved. The air was filled with smoke and the thick coppery stench of blood, mingled with burning aviation fuel. Indistinct shapes flitted in the shadows. A pair of phosphorescent green eyes became visible through the smoke. Paul put a silver bullet right between them, feeling immense satisfaction as they winked out. He called on his training and let it guide his aim. One shot, one kill. He didn’t have enough ammunition to adopt a ‘spray and pray’ approach like the yanks tended to do. By his reckoning, he had around fifty silver bullets left. He was determined to make sure that amounted to fifty dead werewolves. If there were any left after that, he’d face his fate without fear. If nothing else, it would mean seeing his family again.

He stepped over a pile of naked, ruined corpses. The Hellfire missiles had certainly been effective at thinning the werewolf ranks, although he cursed Colonel Richards for his complacency. If he’d had the Apache gunships on station, or deployed more drones, or just lined the fuckers up against the wall before they turned, then none of this would have happened. If he saw the Colonel again, one of those silver bullets would have his name on it. The man was a fool, and his incompetence had cost dozens of lives.

The gunfire behind him was growing more sporadic. That either meant there were fewer targets for the surviving Special Forces to engage, or there were simply fewer of them left alive to shoot. It didn’t matter. He’d take the monsters on by himself if need be.

A shape rose up from the swirling smoke, arms outstretched, and a roar of fury emanated from its bloodstained muzzle. Paul put a round through its mouth and continued on his way without breaking his stride, not caring that the werewolf transformed back into a teenage girl. It wasn’t a girl anymore. It was a thing, deserving nothing less than to be put down like the ravening animal that it was. He reached one of the few buildings still intact – a brick building toward the rear of the compound where the pack wolves had been housed. There was probably nothing inside, but he was not prepared to take the chance. He opened the door and threw a flash-bang inside, then closed the door again. The cries of alarm from within the building after the concussion grenade exploded told him there were, in fact, targets hiding within. He kicked the door open, rifle pulled tight to his shoulder, and stepped inside.

Two shapes were huddled at the far end of the building. Monsters pretending to be children, but monsters all the same. He sighted his rifle at the first, a small boy, then paused as he recognised his target. It was Matthew – Phil Fletcher’s young nephew.

The boy rubbed his eyes and squinted at him. “I know you. You’re the man that saved us. My Uncle Phil’s friend. Have you come to help us? Are you going to save us from the bad men?”

It’s not a boy, it’s a monster. It’s not a boy, it’s a monster.

He took another step into the building. “Yes, Matthew. I’ve come to save you. Why don’t you both come out here where I can see you? This will all be over soon.”

The two children got to their feet and shuffled into the centre of the aisle between the beds. The other one was a girl. The creature he’d apprehended on Christmas Eve no less. He almost laughed. It was as if the universe was giving him a chance to wrap up unfinished business.

The girl stopped short and looked at him, then sniffed the air. “YOU! You’re the one that killed my daddy!”

Her eyes flashed green in the darkness and he heard the unmistakable cracking of a transformation beginning.
There we are. The monsters show themselves.
He switched targets, letting the red laser dot alight on the transforming girl, took a breath and felt his finger tighten on the trigger.

Something slammed into his back with sufficient force to send him crashing into the nearest bunk. His rifle barked but he knew he’d missed his target. He flipped himself over and started crawling to his feet when something heavy, with a rank animal stink, pinned his shoulders to the floor. He looked into the dripping jaws of a fully grown werewolf, inches from his face. This was it. There was no way he could react in time to save his life. He relaxed. He would see his family soon. Then something unexpected happened.

The creature began to change, hair receding into pores and vicious fangs pushing themselves back into the stinking maw until he found Steven Wilkinson looking into his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Paul, they’re children. Think about what you’re doing. If you do this, it will haunt you for the rest of your life.” The old man sagged and a haunted expression crossed his face. “Take it from someone who knows.”

Paul smiled at the old man. “Steven. So glad to see you showing your true colours at last.” Before Steven could react, Paul removed his Browning pistol from its holster and emptied the weapon into him. Steven Wilkinson’s eyes widened in shock, then glazed over as the life left him. Paul pushed the corpse away, picked up his assault rifle and turned back to the children. “Now, where were we?”

***

Sharon twisted her head and felt the soldier’s neck snap between her jaws. She had given herself utterly to the animal side of her nature, but now, with no immediate threat, she felt a little of herself return. The person she had once been recoiled in horror at the carnage she’d wrought on the murderous military personnel. She had torn the man who’d killed Mandy into screaming, bloody ribbons before turning on the others in his squad. The rage had flowed through her, turning her into an unstoppable force of nature that had killed indiscriminately. Her only thoughts had been of vengeance against those who had murdered her niece. She had no idea how she was going to even begin to explain the death of his sister to Matthew, or even look him in the eyes again after the things she’d done.

Oh, God. Matthew!

The realisation hit her like a hammer. She should have gone straight to him. Protected him and made sure he was safe. Instead she’d let the beast take over and go on a murderous rampage. She had to get back to him. Make sure he was all right. There would be time for explanations and recriminations later. Once she made sure that what was left of her family was safe. She dropped the twitching corpse of the Special Forces soldier at her feet and raced across the battlefield to the barrack building where Matthew and young Sophie were hiding.

She’d made it less than halfway there when she heard the shots. Thirteen sharp cracks in rapid succession coming from the barrack block. Her heart froze and she let out a roar of absolute fury, somehow finding the strength to urge her leaden limbs onwards. She saw Phil’s friend, Paul Patterson, push the corpse of an old man away from him. Pick up a rifle. Bring it to his shoulder and aim it at her nephew. What little rational thought Sharon had regained vanished in an instant. Once again, the wolf was ascendant and she flew through the open doorway in a flurry of teeth and claws.

Paul didn’t know what hit him. Sharon smashed into his back and the rifle barked once. Then a red mist descended over her and she was lost in a pure, primal rage, tearing, biting and rending the man she’d known for five years into bloody fragments. When the fury abated, there was nothing recognisable left of Paul Patterson. Pieces of the man were spread across the walls, floor and ceiling. Part of his face still hung from her jaws. Despite herself, her wolf wasn’t finished yet and swallowed the juicy morsel in a single gulp. The human half of Sharon wanted to throw up.

Then she felt a bright flare of pain in her side and the world began to spin. Her body began to spasm and contort. She cried out in pain as talons slid back into her fingers, feeling like slivers of bamboo being forced under every finger and toe nail simultaneously. Her fangs pushed themselves into her gums, every nerve on fire as if a mad dentist were drilling at her teeth without anaesthetic. She fell to the floor, suddenly unable to breathe. A small, neat hole beneath her ribs oozed blood. She looked up and saw a man in combat uniform holding a pistol. He was covered from head to toe in blood and his eyes bore a crazed look. She realised that she was looking at Colonel Richards. However there was little of the disciplined military man she’d met left. The Colonel’s expression was one of sheer rage and bloodlust, in many ways no different from the monster she’d been only moments before. He pointed the pistol at her head.

“Goodbye, Mrs Fletcher. Give my regards to your husband when you see him in hell.”

A blur of brown fur caught her eye, and something slammed into the Colonel, knocking him from his feet. The pistol skittered across the floor of the barracks, out of reach. The Colonel screamed as a small werewolf, no bigger than a large dog, bit and clawed and tore at him. Blood sprayed from dozens of wounds. Sharon knew then who the Colonel’s attacker was. “No, Sophie. Don’t. Don’t kill him. Please,” she coughed.

Sophie did as she was told and retreated from the injured man, transforming back into a young girl with almost no apparent effort. She got to her feet and glared at the unconscious, bleeding form of Colonel Richards. “He’s a bad man. He’s a very very bad man.”

“Yes, he is. But it’s over now. You saved us.”

Sharon struggled to her feet, then turned to Matthew and let out a cry. The boy lay in a spreading pool of blood with a bullet hole in his stomach. He looked up at her. “Auntie Sharon. It hurts.”

Despite the pain, Sharon rushed to the child’s side. His face was pale and his skin clammy, covered in sweat. “Oh, God, Matthew. Don’t move, sweetheart. Everything is going to be alright. I’ll get help.”

Matthew’s hand curled around hers. “No. Don’t leave me. I’m scared.”

Sharon felt a wave of desperation unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. There was no help. No one she could turn to. She couldn’t take him to a hospital, or call an ambulance. Soon more soldiers would arrive and finish the job. The last member of her family was bleeding to death in front of her and there was nothing she could do.”

“I can save him,” said a small voice beside her.

Sharon looked into Sophie’s eyes, at the serious expression the little girl wore that belied her age. “How? How can you save him?”

Sophie took Matthew’s hand gently, then brought it up to her mouth and bit down hard. Matthew squealed in pain and Sharon snatched his hand away from her. “What did you do? Oh my God, Sophie – what did you do?”

The girl smiled at her. “I made him like us so he’ll get better. You’ll see. Everything is going to be alright.”

Sharon’s strength was gone. The frigid air was soothing, but she knew she was going into shock. She gathered Matthew and Sophie into her arms and closed her eyes as the world faded away into blackness.

Chapter 25

11th January 2009. Lindholme Detention Centre, Doncaster. 04:07

An unnatural silence had descended over the remains of Lindholme. Marie felt sick to her stomach and let her empty assault rifle fall to the ground. She wanted to cry. There were so many dead it was almost beyond her capacity to comprehend. Ruined bodies of men, women and children lay beside the ravaged corpses of the soldiers. The members of her field team were going through the bodies, putting any werewolves too injured to escape, and any wounded military personnel out of their misery. In many respects, that order had been the hardest to give, but she would not leave anyone here to be vivisected and experimented on. It was the kindest option, even for those who had done their best to wipe their race out.

She saw Melissa lying among the dead, the young woman’s pretty blue eyes wide open, as if gazing at the stars in wonder, multiple bullet holes punched through her torso and limbs.

The moonstruck that had not been killed by the military had been cornered and dispatched with ruthless efficiency by the members of the field team. Given what she was intending to do, and the damage a single moonstruck could inflict to her plan, there really wasn’t any choice. If she’d had the luxury of time then perhaps they could have been helped, in the same way she’d helped John. But time was one thing that none of them had. Not anymore. They had to gather the survivors and get away from here before more troops arrived. The window of opportunity for escape was small and they had no time for sentiment. She would mourn the dead later.

The surviving werewolves were emerging from the shadows, many of them wounded. All of them with lost, haunted expressions on their faces. These people were not monsters, or trained killers like her. They were families that had tried to live with their condition as well as they could, and instead had been thrown into a fight for survival. The only consolation she had was that their shock, suffering and grief would be brief. By the time the moon rose again in a months’ time, it would all be over. For all of them including herself.