High Moor 2: Moonstruck (26 page)

Marie realised that she had only seconds left to act and her next choice would dictate whether she lived or died. None of the doors in the cottage would withstand an assault by a werewolf for long. The car was half buried by the still falling snow outside, and even if she managed to start it, she’d never be able to pick up enough speed to escape on the icy track. Attempting to escape on foot was likewise futile. The werewolf would be on her before she’d even made it ten feet. That only left her one option. If she wanted to live she would have to fight.

The beast got to its feet, shaking off the last tattered remnants of the T−shirt, opened its dripping jaws and howled. Marie’s legs almost buckled under her weight as an ice−fist of pure terror grasped her heart. Any hope she had that John could retain some measure of control of the monster evaporated when it turned its head to face her, wrinkling its snout into a vicious snarl that displayed its bared, blood−soaked fangs, then leaped across the sofa to where she stood.

For the briefest moment, she tried to call on her own wolf, an instinctive reaction to the threat she faced that almost cost her life. Realising her mistake at the last second, she hurled herself into a side roll, feeling the breeze from the werewolf’s slashing talons as she passed beneath them. She came out of her roll and regained her footing in a single movement, while the werewolf readied itself for another attack.

“John, please. I know that you’re in there. You have to fight it.”

Her pleas seemed to have no effect. The beast’s muscles tensed, then it hurled itself at her once more. Her body felt as if she were moving underwater. Every action seemed painfully slow, and her once−sharp reflexes were dull. She grabbed a glass pot of steaming coffee from the percolator and smashed it into the werewolf’s face. The glass shattered, embedding long shards into the creature’s muzzle, while the scalding liquid splashed across its nose and eyes. The werewolf howled in pain and confusion and slashed at itself in an attempt to fight off the burning liquid. She’d bought herself a couple of seconds at most. She pushed through the crippling fear and urged her leaden limbs into action, sprinting for the staircase, taking the old wooden stairs two at a time. A crash from behind her, mingled with the sounds of splintering wood and an enraged snarl told her that John had shaken off his momentary confusion. Not daring to turn around, she bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her and shoving the double bed against it to form a makeshift barricade.

A shadow blocked out the light filtering through the gaps around the doorframe, while the wooden floor of the landing creaked in protest. Sharp claws clacked against the floorboards. Heavy breathing, with the faintest hints of a snarl, came from the other side of the door, followed by a massive, taloned fist bursting through the wood, slashing at the empty air beyond.

She looked around the room, searching for some means of escape, despite knowing that there was none. The window was too small for her to squeeze through, even if it hadn’t been frozen shut. Likewise, the interior walls were made of solid stone − too tough even for a werewolf to break through. Then her eyes rested on the metal case containing the weapons.

The wood of the door began to splinter as the werewolf tore at it in a fury. Marie threw open the lid to the weapons’ crate and began fumbling around inside, unable to take her eyes from the ruined door that stood between her and a brutal death. She looked at the slashing claws and, for a second, considered letting the creature wound her. A small, flesh wound. Just enough to re−infect her. She pushed the temptation away. The thought of those vicious talons tearing through her flesh was not something she was keen to experience, and the chances of her coming away from this with only a flesh−wound were remote as it was. Plus, there was no guarantee that it would even work.

Her hand closed around the familiar bulk of a pistol handgrip, just as the werewolf tore the last remnants of the door from the frame. It stood, silhouetted against the stark glare of the hallway light, with a glint of triumph in its eyes.

“John, I’m so sorry.”

Then she swung the pistol towards the hulking shape and pulled the trigger.

***

14th December 2008
.
Steven’s House, High Moor. 21.00.

Mark slowed the Range Rover and leaned forward in his seat, trying to peer past the rolling blanket of freezing fog that had sprung up around them. The car’s headlights reflected against the swirling white mist, providing only a few feet of visibility before the road vanished into the billowing, opaque cloud. Despite the reduction in speed he felt the tires slip on a patch of black ice, so he slowed the car further and engaged the four−wheel drive.

The other occupants had been silent for most of the journey. Paul sat alongside him, lost in thought, while Phil and Rick gazed out of the side windows at the soft, icy cocoon that enveloped them. At least Paul had persuaded Emma and Sam to visit Emma’s mother in Whitby for a day or two. Phil had likewise sent Sharon to stay with her sister. That their families were out of danger should have eased some of the tension, but if anything, the mood among the men had deteriorated. The silence had begun to gnaw at Mark’s nerves as well. He’d been focusing most of his attention on driving, but at times he felt his attention wandering, dwelling on what they were about to do and what they were going to have to face.

He couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He craned his neck around to face the men in the rear seat. “How much further is it, Phil?”

Phil seemed startled by the sudden question, as if he’d been caught sleeping in class. He regained his composure quickly, however. “It should be a little further along this lane. Look for the big metal gates.”

“The way this fog is, we could drive past them and not know it. As if shit wasn’t creeping me out enough, we have to deal with this. I feel like I’m in a bloody Hammer film or something.”

Rick let out a sardonic snort. “The whole fucking situation is like a bad horror film. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a nice thunderstorm in a minute, just to put the icing on the turd.”

The fog thinned a little, if only for a moment. The skeletal outlines of trees were just visible through the swirling white tendrils of mist, and a dark shape loomed up on the road before them. Mark stamped on the brakes, a little harder than he’d intended, and the car crunched to a stop on the gravel track, sending clouds of dust up to dance in the twin headlight beams. Before them stood a pair of tall, metal gates, topped with spiked railings and adorned with blue−and−white crime scene tape. A heavy steel chain snaked through the railings, holding the gates tight shut.

Mark gave the others a sheepish grin and said, “Looks like this is the place. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The four men got out of the car. Phil, Rick and Paul walked over to the gates, while Mark retrieved a set of bolt−cutters from the boot.

Rick grabbed one of the gates and gave it a tug. “Someone really didn’t want any unannounced visitors. These things are solid.”

Phil nodded his head. “Well, considering the sort of visitors he was expecting, I can’t say I blame him.”

Mark joined the others and severed the chain, unravelling it from the gates before dumping it on the frost−covered grass verge. “And he said that he’d meet us here?”

“Yes. We have to go in and disable the alarm, then wait. Apparently the place is designed to keep werewolves out. He can’t get near the place until we turn off the security systems.”

The gates slid open on well−oiled runners. Part of Mark was a little disappointed. He’d expected a sinister squeal of metal on metal at the very least. The four men climbed back into the car, then drove along the driveway until the dark outline of the farmhouse appeared from the billowing mist.

The farmhouse was mock−Georgian, red brick walls with a slate roof. Ivy sprawled across its façade, its leaves white with frost. Thick metal bars covered all the windows, and the solid oaken doors were plastered with more crime−scene tape. Phil walked to one side of the doors and typed a code into a silver keypad. The electronic lock disengaged with a solid click and a high−pitched whine, just on the edge of Mark’s hearing, sounded from within the house. The noise made his fillings vibrate. Phil stepped through the front doors, into the darkness beyond and, a few seconds later, the noise stopped.

The men filed through into the hallway. The farmhouse had been renovated to the highest standard. Expensive oak furniture stood on polished wooden floorboards, while oil paintings depicting a variety of landscapes and pastoral scenes hung on every wall. Everything was covered in a fine layer of white powder. Cupboard doors hung open with their contents scattered across the floor, or left in disorderly piles on top of the furniture. The forensics teams were thorough, but they didn’t tend to clean up after themselves. If this had been his house, Mark would have been pretty pissed off at the state it had been left in. He picked up an ornate vase, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and he wondered how much something like this must have cost. He turned to Phil. “So, when is our mystery man coming?”

“He’s here,” said a voice from the doorway, “and be careful with that vase. It cost me ten grand.”

The men spun around in unison to face the newcomer. Steven Wilkinson was not how Mark had imagined him to be. He was not a tall man, or particularly heavy−set. However he seemed to possess a wiry strength, and when he moved he did so with a grace that belied his obvious age. The old man seemed to almost glide as he crossed the hallway and gently removed the vase from Mark’s hands, before putting it back on the sideboard. He turned to Phil. “Did you get the ammo?”

“Yes, but there were only two boxes of the nine mils. We left the rest. There didn’t seem any point, given that we’ve not got anything to use the higher calibre stuff with.”

Steven shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. “What about the magazines for the Mac−10? Did you at least get those?”

Rick stepped forward. “No, they weren’t being stored with the rest of the ammo. Two hundred rounds should be more than enough, though.”

Steven brought both hands to his face and massaged his temples. “You don’t get it. Silver bullets work on most werewolves, but the ones that we’ve got hunting us seem to be partially immune. The rounds in those clips were special. Silver particles suspended in mercury. Designed to take those pack fuckers down. Without them, I’m not sure we have much of a chance.”

Rick threw his hands up in exasperation. “Well, you could have told us that before I broke into the bloody evidence room. If these silver bullets are no good, what the hell are we supposed to use? Harsh language?”

Steven shook his head. “There’s more than one way to skin a wolf. Decapitation works, as long as you can get the head clear of the body before the wound heals. Fire will kill them eventually, but it takes a while because they keep regenerating the burned flesh. Same goes for acid. It’s not pretty to watch, but eventually the bastards go down. The trick is to stop them from taking you down with them.”

“And I suppose that you have a flamethrower or two lying around the forensics teams missed?”

Steven crossed the room until he stood face to face with Rick. “Son, you need to sort your attitude out if you and your friends want to make it through this alive. We are where we are, and you’d better learn to make the best of it. Yes, we’re going to have to improvise. No, the situation isn’t ideal. But your fucking moaning isn’t helping anyone. If you don’t have anything constructive to say, do us all a favour and keep your mouth shut.”

Rick bristled, and for a moment Mark thought that he was going to swing at the older man. Mark pushed his way between the two men and turned to Steven. “Look, mate, pardon us for struggling with this a bit. We’ve had a difficult few days, but you getting in our faces won’t help either. Besides, it’s not all bad news. Tell him, Phil.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed, and he moved away from Mark and Rick. “Tell me what?”

“They rented cars at the airport when they arrived in the country last month. And those cars have GPS trackers in them. I know where they are. Or at least, I know where they were a few hours ago.”

A smile spread across Steven’s face. “Show me.”

Steven strode into the living room and removed a rolled−up map from a bookcase before walking over to a large table at the far side of the room. An Ordinance Survey Land−Ranger map of the local area covered the table top. Different coloured pins protruded from it, along with a number of photographs and Post−it notes. Steven removed a handful of pins, then swept the local map off the table and unrolled the other, which showed the entire United Kingdom. He handed the coloured pins to Phil. “On the map. Show me where they are.”

Phil’s brow furrowed in concentration. “These locations are a few hours old, but I should be able to get an update from the rental company. There was one vehicle up here, in the arse end of Scotland. There was another parked in Thurso, which is about forty minutes’ drive away from the first pin. The other two were moving. One was near Edinburgh, heading north, and the last one was about halfway between Edinburgh and Newcastle, on the A1.”

Steven put his hands on his hips and studied the map. “Is there any way to get a real−time update on these?”

“Not without having one of us sit in the head office of the car rental place and phone the details through. Still, this should give us a good idea of where they are. What they’re doing all the way up there is beyond me though.”

Steven pointed at the first pin. “That’ll be where Simpson’s gone to ground. It’s about as far away from here as you can get in mainland Britain, and it’s isolated. It looks like the rest of them are using Thurso as a staging area for their assault. It’s the nearest big town. If they were staying in any of the smaller towns they’d draw unwanted attention to themselves. Thurso is large enough that they’d be able to blend in.”

Mark walked forward and peered over Phil’s shoulder. “What about the other two?”