The Lure of the Pack (11 page)

“Tell that to the British people right behind me, we have a
right to protest like this, we have a right to freedom of speech and we have a
right, TO BE BRITISH!” The leader of the BNP turned around and asked the BBC’s
cameraman to focus on the crowds behind him, “look at all these people! The
last estimate I heard was approximately ninety thousand joining us, right here,
right now, and apparently there are many more supporters on the way. I cannot
truly express my feelings at present. I feel so very, very proud…to be
British!”

“Are you expecting any trouble along the route Mister White?
There is talk that immigrant gangs will target the marchers at some point,”
continued the reporter.

White looked smug as he gazed into the camera, “well, if
there is any trouble, the British people will give even further support for
this march, won’t they?”

“And what time are you giving your speech in Hyde Park,
Mister White?” The noise from the banner laden marchers was deafening as
shouting, music and loud horns could be heard in the background. A large part
of London itself…was at a standstill.

“I will be addressing the British people at two thirty this
afternoon and I hope news channels from around the world will record my speech,
obviously for posterity’s sake!”

“I agree with you Nick,” said Piper, “he is a nutcase, and
full of his own self importance!”

“So, what’s happening in London?” Jeanette Descard walked
briskly over to her colleagues as she noticed the time on the CEATA
Communications Room’s large European based digital clock. It was 10.30 in the
morning. Sunday morning!

“Hi Jeanette, it seems the March Against Immigrants is well
underway in London,” said Winters, his face grim with concern. “An estimated
crowd of ninety thousand people are taking part in it.”

“Nick, we’ve got an hour or so before the meeting with
Commander Hertschell and the Colonel, switch to the EuroNews Channel will you?
Let’s see what’s happening in Paris, Munich and Rotterdam.”

“No problem, Doctor Descard.”

The raging still coursed through Otto Von Kurst’s veins, but
his control was strong. It had to be, for Helga’s sake. His telephone
conversation with Jochen Kreutz had brought about his worst fears, for there
had been no contact with the New Totenkopf’s Standartenfuhrer for some time.
They could only assume the worst, not that the authorities would have taken him
alive thought Von Kurst. No, that was not Bescann’s way. He would have taken
his own life, for his Fuhrer and for the cause.

He had decided not to tell Wilhelm or Lana until they met on
Thursday. But the news itself had enraged him, the thought of another casualty,
and such an important one, being another thorn in his flesh. How he craved revenge!
And revenge would come, he thought. For him it would be pleasant and sweet, for
it was only a matter of time before the lone one would be in his and Lana
Franke’s clutches. He had foreseen it, in his dreams. His sixth sense had told
him so. Von Kurst was sweating again, his blood curdling, rushing quickly
through his veins at the very thought of his protagonist strapped down on
Lana’s operating table. How he longed for that moment and to view the
recordings that would surely follow. He smiled to himself as he thought of his
little secret, the serum to control the lone one, to prevent the beast inside
him from erupting from his body. Your time is coming lone wolf, thought Von
Kurst. Your time is coming!

But for now, the wolf inside himself must be controlled. 
The Key to the specially built room in his house could not be used, not this
time, for while he would be locked away with the beast raging inside its steel
cell, Helga may well, at some time or other, begin to rage herself. That could
not be allowed to happen. No, there had to be changes, for the new addition to
the Were, the woman he implicitly trusted and loved once again…had to be taken
care of.

As his thoughts returned to Helga, Von Kurst’s concerns grew
even more, for he knew there was something dreadfully wrong. She was not
talking as much, her beautiful, sweet voice was now slightly deeper, more
monotone and her eyes were still so very bloodshot. As anxiety raced through
his tired mind, Otto Von Kurst picked up a large plate of fresh meat and a
glass of water. He quickly left the kitchen and walked upstairs to his ornately
decorated bedroom where Helga sat comfortably in his king sized bed. As he
gently placed the tray beside her, a sympathetic smile sitting placidly on his
face, his mobile phone rang. Removing the phone from his trouser pocket, Von
Kurst looked at the glowing facia; the wording was as he expected…LANA. He
pressed the receive button, “my love, how are you?”

“Otto, you haven’t rang me…I was worried.”

He had to admit to himself, Lana did sound concerned and
perhaps…overly emotional. “It has been a busy time for me Lana, Helga has been
very sick.”

“Oh…how is she?” Lana’s voice had become excruciatingly
sentimental.

“She is comfortable, and how may I ask, are you?”

“I am missing you, my love.”

“Lana, I miss you too, but we will have our time together,
on Thursday evening.” There was giggling over the phone, as always it reminded
Von Kurst of an immature schoolgirl on her first romantic date.

“I am so looking forward to Thursday evening Otto; do I
still come prepared, as you told me?”

“Oh yes, I will have plenty of the serum ready, that I can
assure you.” Von Kurst tried to hide his feelings of lust, the slight smile on
his face rapidly becoming a sneer as he thought of what Lana would do to the
lone one, once she had him as her patient.

There was further giggling, Lana’s tone of voice making
plain her own arousal, “oh Otto, just thinking about it makes me feel…so
moist.” There was silence for a few seconds, then Lana spoke again, her tone
hushed, “you do miss me Otto, don’t you?”

“Lana, you know I miss you, but Helga needs help and
attention, you know that!”

“Yes…yes of course,” her voice was just a whisper, “are you
watching the television…the marches?”

“Yes, we are.”

“It is exciting, isn’t it; to think none of them know what’s
coming?”

“Indeed so Lana, indeed so,” Von Kurst paused, he had no
time for this small talk. “Lana, I will ring you again later this evening. What
are you doing tomorrow, shopping perhaps?”

“Yes, I thought about going into Paris and treating myself
to a special dress, ready for Thursday.”

“That sounds a wonderful idea and no expense spared my love,
buy whatever you wish.”

“I will Otto! Thank you…I miss you.”

“And I miss you, take care.” Abruptly, Von Kurst ended the
call, his thoughts now distracted by the woman with whom he was still so
sexually fascinated. He turned to Helga; she was eating the raw, blood soaked
meat from the plate and drinking copious amounts of water. Smiling again, he
sat on the bed beside her.

With her eyes still bloodshot, Helga wiped her bloodied hand
across her mouth, drank again, then put the glass down. “So…how is the bitch?”
she asked.

Von Kurst didn’t reply as he took her hand and kissed it,
the smell of the raw, bloody meat flaring his nostrils. With a deep resonating
growl he placed a piece into his mouth and began to chew, his thoughts racing
again. It was time to utilise his next stage of planning, to make contact once
again with his two friends. “The bitch as you call her, is fine Helga.”

“I will kill her one day Otto, I mean it!”

The smile on Otto Von Kurst’s face receded as he picked up
another piece of meat. Oh Helga, he thought, how you are changing, and quite
possibly for the worse, I fear.

“Over one hundred and seventy thousand people in Paris,
nearly one hundred thousand in Rotterdam, which is totally at a standstill, and
get this…” Nick Lucas once again enjoyed playing the bearer of important news
as he gazed thoughtfully at the people around him, all of whom were seemingly
hypnotised by the images on the large screen in front of them, “over half a
million in Munich. Shit, I didn’t expect that many people would attend an event
like this.”

“Von Kurst will be pleased,” muttered Jeanette.

“Indeed he will,” said Piper, “the German people are showing
their pride in this march, just like the others, and as we all know it’s only
going to lead to further civil unrest.” He turned to CEATA’s French IT genius.
“Jean-Paul, pull up the route the protestors are taking in Paris will you?”

“Of course,” Jean-Paul tapped dexterously at his keyboard,
bringing into view a large map of the beautiful city. “As you can see, the
march begins at the Sacre Coeur Basilica and leads down to the Jardin Des
Tuileries Gardens, across to the Place de la Concorde and finishes down the
Avenue Des Champs Elysees.”

“A pleasant walk,” muttered Tim Winters.

“What about the threat of detonations?” asked Jeanette.

“They’ll find places,” said Piper, “it all depends on how
the grenadiers want to strike, and how much panic and destruction they
require.”

“The police forces in all areas have been on high alert for
some time Sergeant Piper,” Jean-Paul’s look was intense, “they are well aware
of the dangers.”

“You know as well as I do my friend, if terrorists are hell
bent on sowing death and destruction they will find a way to do it, and my gut
feelings are telling me that no-one is safe from the New Totenkopf.”

“Hold on…” Nick sounded excited, “there are reports coming
in of violence in Paris, yes, here we go…”

The screen showed a French reporter from the EuroNews
channel shouting frenziedly down her microphone, her Anglo French accent
seemingly panic stricken. “THIS IS WHAT THE AUTHORITIES HAD EXPECTED, AND,
OH…!” she ducked her head as an empty beer bottle flew past the camera, “IT
SEEMS THE MARCHERS ARE BEING TARGETED BY GANGS OF, WHAT SEEM TO BE IMMIGRANTS,
MOSTLY YOUTHS…AND…” There was loud shouting behind the reporter as she cowered
again, telling her cameraman to be careful. “THE GENDARMES HAVE BEEN CALLED IN,
BUT ALREADY WE ARE RECEIVING REPORTS OF ESCALATING VIOLENCE AROUND THE PLACE DE
LA REPUBLIQUE. OH, WE HAVE TO MOVE…!” It was another bottle, this time hitting
the young woman heavily on her right temple that made her drop to the floor.
“This is Simone Sesin,” she said weakly, “reporting for EuroNews, at the March
Against ….” The screen became fuzzy, suddenly returning to the studio as
another presenter apologised for the lost transmission.

“Shit!” muttered Nick.

“This is just the beginning, trouble’s coming…” Piper stood
still and closed his eyes as the hairs on the back of his neck began to
stiffen, “…I can feel it!”

How good to feel fully satiated thought Jurgen Falck. With a
soft, gentle whine he rolled onto his back, his overly large paws pointing
upwards to the foliage of the forest’s treeline. He let out a distinct growl,
not from anger or threat, but simply pleasure. His and Kempler’s bellies were
full, the red deer stag having served them well. Now, after drinking copious
amounts of water from a nearby stream, they had both become meat drunk. Time
for rest thought Falck, curling up and tucking his tail neatly around his
incredible Were form. Idly, Kempler did the same.

The hunt had been successful, but now it was time for
sleep…and dreams.

Helga Zeist sat in silence as Otto Von Kurst continued
telling her of his plans. He did not mind, for he trusted her…implicitly. “They
are slowly eating away at our once great Fatherland and it cannot continue
Helga.” Helga nodded her head, her eyes still openly bloodshot as Von Kurst sat
sweating, his emotions getting the better of him. “Look at them, all those
people marching in Munich. They march for a greater Germany, for our Aryan past
and the British, look, in London, standing proud with their banners and Union Jacks…and
Paris… Rotterdam, the people of Europe at last are speaking out, and how many
more want to?” He shook his head, a look of vile retribution radiating from his
heavily bloodshot eyes, “but at present, so many don’t have the courage to tell
the stinking Untermenschen to leave our countries alone!” Their gaze fell
transfixed on the television screen in Von Kurst’s bedroom. “The Untermenschen
are disgusting filth Helga and Europe, not just Germany…” Von Kurst leapt up,
his arms outstretched, the look on his face now one of pure hatred, “…MUST BE
CLEANSED OF THIS VILE PLAGUE!”  The Fuhrer’s voice continued to rise with
emotion. Be careful he thought, for the beast still waits to rage. He must
remain calm. Helga sat and listened, drinking more water. She growled, a low
growl, barely audible, but it was enough! A sign to show Von Kurst her feelings
were the same. “The New Totenkopf,” Von Kurst continued, “and our grenadiers
were mine and Wilhelm’s idea my love. Ever since our early days of friendship
at Dresden University of Technology, we both knew we had a dream. Shit! If it
was one aspect of modern life my dear father couldn’t stomach, it was the
Untermenschen, creeping slowly across our borders. Vile, filth ridden vermin,
taking our jobs, our houses…AND OUR PRIDE!”

There was silence as Helga left the bed, walked over to Von
Kurst and placed her arms around him. She kissed him, passionately, her tongue
dividing his lips, snaking into his mouth. For a few moments Von Kurst forgot
his hatred, then, as his eyes focused once more on the television he spoke
again, “today Helga, Phase Four of Project Amen begins. Further devices will
detonate at allocated times, but not just around the marchers, oh no…for there
must be death, destruction and suffering all across Europe, and if we have to
kill innocent people, even our own countrymen to fan the flames of war and
hate…then so be it!” Von Kurst’s fists clenched as his thoughts ran wild, “and
of course, the ones who will take the blame…will be the European Muslim Freedom
Fighters!”