High Moor 2: Moonstruck (16 page)

He pulled up to an imposing set of metal gates, flanked by ten−foot−high granite pillars and high stone walls. The gates were wrapped with yellow crime scene tape and were firmly locked with a heavy steel chain. Steven swore under his breath and drove past the entrance to his home. He’d been stupid to come here. There was no way that he could get through the gates without a bolt cutter to remove the chain, and there was no other way for him to get in. He’d fortified his home to make it as difficult and dangerous as possible for a werewolf to even get onto the grounds. The walls were sheer sided and topped with vicious silver spikes, each one coated with a mixture of grease and wolfsbane. Even if he made it over the wall, the house security systems would register his naturally higher body temperature as soon as he got within fifty feet of the property. Then it would arm the property’s defences. He’d be lucky to get past the ultrasonic sirens, remembering the effect they’d had on John. There probably wasn’t another place on the planet that would be more difficult for him to get into. His home was lost to him, and judging from the crime scene tape, he’d have been under arrest from the moment the police searched the property. There were far too many illegal weapons inside for it to be any other way.

He slammed his fist down onto the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

This was useless. He needed time to think, to understand what was going on. He kept an isolated cottage, out in the hills of Weardale. There were clothes, food and some weapons there, and the police would probably not know about it. It was registered under the name of Carl Schneider, and there was no documentation linking him to the property. He should be safe there, at least for now. Give him a bit of space to work out what his next move was going to be.

He turned the car around and drove back the way he’d come. It would take him less than an hour to reach the cottage and, despite the latest setback, Steven felt a little better knowing that his hot shower was still on the cards. He reached down and turned on the radio. It was tuned to a local station, playing seventies and eighties hits. With the heater cranked all the way up, he started to relax a little.

He’d driven for around twenty minutes when the music was interrupted by the station’s evening news bulletin. The first headline snapped him straight back into reality.

“Six people confirmed dead after John Simpson escapes from police custody.”

He turned the radio off, unable to listen to the full report. He’d have to deal with the information, but not now. He couldn’t. Six people, probably all with families, were dead, and it was his fault. Everything that had happened in the last month was down to him. All because he’d been a sentimental fool and had let nostalgia get the better of him. All because he’d not put a bullet between John Simpson’s eyes the moment he’d shown his face in High Moor. He had to put it right, or at least try and stop things from getting any worse, and the way to do that suddenly seemed so simple. He had to kill John Simpson.

***

13th December 2008. Mill Woods, High Moor. 08.04.

John’s eyes snapped open as the first weak rays of the sun filtered through the wood’s bare canopy. The cold of the December morning penetrated his entire body, a heavy, numbness that seeped into his bones, robbing him of his strength. He pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the bomb−bursts of pain that flashed across his wounds. His body was covered in dozens of deep scratches and bites. Four parallel tears crossed his chest, and a piece of flesh was missing from his thigh. Fortunately, while the injuries were deep, none of them were bleeding anymore. At least, not yet. John tried to stand and his battered body roared in outrage. He ignored the pain. As bad as it was, it was nothing compared to the agony of transformation, so werewolf or not, he needed to warm himself up, and quickly.

The only problem was he had absolutely no idea where he was. The dark skeletons of the deciduous woodland stretched out before him in all directions, with no sign of a footpath. The brown, frost−covered fronds of dead bracken rose almost up to his knees and filled the gaps between the trees for as far as he could see. The only thing approximating a path was the trail his wolf had torn through the undergrowth, but instinct told him that the last place he wanted to go was where his monster had been the previous night. Instead, he pushed through the bracken, heading in the direction that his monstrous other self had been going.

What the hell happened last night?

The last thing he remembered was being in the back of the prisoner transport. There had been a crash, after which he’d changed. Then, there was the usual hole in his memories. One thing was certain, though. The police would be searching for him, and if he didn’t get the hell out of the area, then it would only be a matter of time before they found him. And that didn’t bear thinking about.

Then there were the wounds. They weren’t healing, which meant…

“Oh shit.”

The realisation hit him like a hammer blow. He should have known that the pack would have come after him, but he’d not even considered it until now. From what he knew of them, there was no way that they would allow a werewolf to remain in police custody. It would only take until the next full moon before the world had proof that werewolves were real. They’d do whatever it took to stop it. And that meant that unless he’d killed them last night, then they were most likely on his trail. He really had to get out of here.

He tried to pick up the pace, pushing his way through the undergrowth, ignoring the slashing of hidden brambles against his bare legs. John tripped and stumbled through the foliage, a wave of fear beginning to envelop him. He continuously cast nervous glances over his shoulder, expecting to see a pack of werewolves hot on his tail, but the woods were empty, and the only sounds were morning calls of birds and the whistle of icy wind through naked trees.

After what seemed like forever, he escaped from the bracken’s clutches onto an area that, while not exactly a footpath, was fairly clear of obstacles. The floor was covered with a carpet of brown, slimy leaves that squelched under his bare feet, and the ground started to fall away on a slight gradient. John stopped and strained his hearing. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that he could hear running water, somewhere off in the distance.

Then he heard the howl. Long, mournful and somewhere very close. He thought that it might have been to his left, but he couldn’t be sure. Frantic eyes scanned the trees for any sign of movement, and he searched around for anything he could use as a weapon.

A second howl answered the first. This time, from his right. The sound of this one was different: deeper, as if made by a larger beast. He spun around and thought he caught a flash of movement between the trees, but by the time he focused on the area, the woods were silent and still once more.

Then, from directly behind him, he heard a savage, guttural growl.

***

13th December 2008. Olivia’s House, Bear Park. 09.17.

Matt Garner wiped the sleep from his eyes and shambled down the stairs in search of coffee. With Olivia pulling an all−nighter, he’d stayed up until the early hours of the morning, watching Asian horror films and eating the burnt remains of the dinner he’d prepared earlier that night. He risked a glance into the living room and groaned at the empty bottles of beer and the half drained bottle of scotch. He’d need to get that cleared up before Olivia got home, or she’d make his hung−over existence even more miserable than it already was. It was bad enough that he’d promised to paint the nursery today. The thought of the paint fumes made his head swim and his stomach churn.

He stepped around the piles of empties and opened the living room blinds, squinting at the weak grey light filtering through the slats. The street was quiet for a Saturday morning; just a few people wandered past on their way to the shops. Spider webs of frost spread across car windscreens parked outside. He was glad that he didn’t need to go out − it looked bloody freezing.

Matt walked away from the window, turning the heating up as he stumbled towards the kitchen. There were only two things that could make him feel better at this point − black coffee and a large bacon sandwich, dripping in tomato sauce. His stomach growled at the thought, and before long bacon sizzled in the frying pan and a large cafetière of coffee brewed on the worktop. He poured himself a large mug of the black beverage and immediately felt better as the rich hot liquid flowed down his throat. What he really wanted was a cigarette, but Olivia would string him up by his balls if she caught so much as a whiff of one on him.

He flipped the bacon over again, waiting until all the fat had crisped up, then slid it between two thick slices of bread. He regarded his culinary triumph with something approaching reverence, then, satisfied, took a large bite, washing it down with another mouthful of coffee.

Heaven.

At that point the doorbell rang and spoiled his perfect moment. Matt looked at the sandwich and thought about leaving it on the work surface until he dealt with the unwanted caller. Then he noticed Mr Whiskers, their large ginger tomcat slinking between the stools, and knew that if he took his eye off the sandwich for a second, then the bastard cat would make off with it. He took another bite as the doorbell rang again, and trudged to the front door, his culinary triumph still in hand.

A beautiful red−haired woman stood on the doorstep. A thick woollen coat covered her almost down to her knees, and her eye makeup was streaked with the tracks of recent tears. Matt’s irritation at the unwanted visitor evaporated. “Can I help you?”

The woman sniffled. “Is Olivia home yet? She said ah should meet her here when she got back from work.”

Matt was suddenly very conscious of his attire. T−shirt and boxer shorts was not the sort of first impression that Olivia would want him to make with her friends. He opened the door. “Please, come in. She probably won’t be too long. There’s some fresh coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself, and I’ll run upstairs and sort myself out.” He opened the door and the woman stepped past him, into the hallway.

“Can I take your coat, Miss…?”

“No, ah’ll keep hold of it for the moment if that’s okay. And it’s Connie. Ma name’s Connie.”

Matt waited until Connie had gone past him into the kitchen, before he raced upstairs. There was a pair of tracksuit bottoms in the laundry that weren’t too dirty. He reckoned he could get away with those, along with a clean t−shirt and a few swigs of mouthwash. He hurried into the bedroom and began dragging clothes from the washing basket when he became aware of a presence behind him. He turned to see the woman standing in the doorway to the bedroom. “Erm, the bathroom’s just down there on the left if you want to freshen up.”

Connie’s face contorted into a predatory smile. “Ah think I’m ready for ye to take ma coat now,” she said, as the heavy garment fell to the floor, exposing her naked body.

Matt staggered backwards, aghast. “Is this a fucking wind−up? Olivia will be back any second.”

Connie took a step forward. “Oh, dinnae ye worry. We’ve got plenty of time for what ah’ve got in mind.”

Chapter 10

13th December 2008
.
Mill Woods, High Moor. 08.25.

John froze in place, only slowly turning around to face his death. A huge, black werewolf emerged from the bracken, its teeth bared. A moment later it was joined by another creature, this one even bigger, covered in thick grey fur and a look of feral hatred in its eyes. He backed away from the creatures, knowing that it was a futile gesture. They could be on him in seconds if they wanted to, but they seemed to be toying with their prey, savouring every last second of his terror. He looked around frantically, searching for some means of escape or a weapon, but even the lowest branches of the nearby trees were out of his reach, and there was nothing that he could use to defend himself. All of the fallen wood around him was well on the way to being rotted. He was out of options.

In desperation, John called out to his wolf. He threw open his mind and tried to induce the transformation through sheer force of will. Nothing happened. The presence in his mind was silent, no doubt satiated from the long night of carnage. He was on his own.

The werewolves were closer now, approaching cautiously. The grey creature moved away to his left, trying to flank him, while the black monster stalked forward, its muscles tensed, ready to pounce. John closed his eyes and waited to die.

The explosion almost knocked John off his feet. A loud crack rang out and for a fraction of a second he could see the veins of his eyelids as his world turned red. He felt a warm, wet trickle of blood run from each ear, and the air was heavy with a sulphurous stench. John opened his eyes, just in time to see the two werewolves cut down by automatic weapons fire. Bullets slammed into their bodies and the creatures flew backwards as miniature explosions of blood and fur erupted across their flanks. John looked up to the source of the gunfire, expecting to see armed police officers bearing down on him.