by Jason Bickerstaff
Dear You,
To whoever may find this. It is late in the night, August 23, 2003. Lampton, North Yorkshire. A memorable date, for we will not survive this night. What you read now is the vortex of my mind in word format as the end draws close. Rachel sleeps now, cursed, never to see another dawn. In lieu of that dawn that I will never see, I gaze at the moon. A neat hole punched in the sky, the size of a coin. If it were within reach, I would wrap my hands around that moon and crush it out of existence.
I heard the call mere minutes ago as I was securing the window. That wail, the cry of the thing that terrorises us. I do not know why I bar the door and lock the window, imprisoning myself here in this attic: the thing that terrorises us is already past any defence I uselessly try to throw at it.
But still I bar the window. Still I block the door. As I have every time since that first time. Nothing will get in, nothing can get out. But it doesn’t matter.
Rachel breathes softly. Her face is washed by moonlight; she is a porcelain doll I dare not touch unless she breaks. But sleep is no hiding place, for it will seek to take her anyway, and soon. But it will not take her, or me. I have seen to that. Poison. That is why I dare not lay my head tonight; why I pace and fidgit. Once I lie and close my eyes, both enemies come at once, and both will find us. But that is the ironic thing: in taking me and my darling Rachel, my wife, they will lose. Or rather, we all lose.
I am tired. I still hear that thing wailing, now joined by others. Oh so silly that some of the others don’t always lock themselves secure in their homes, despite the rules. For four years now these things have come and taken us at night. They should have learned by now! Oh so silly.
I have said as much as I dare. Let the truth unfold in time rather than from my pen. I must close my eyes, otherwise I am only trying to keep at bay the inevitable.
The end. Humans, they say, cannot comprehend an end to everything. To the mind. Surely it must live on somewhere. We invented the concept of Heaven just to appease that belief. Surely it must be so. It must be! I’m almost eager to find out. The biggest, most consuming question mankind has ever asked, and I’m going to learn the answer tonight.
I wish I could take my pen with me. I’m finding this pen impossible to put down. It’s like letting go of a safety line.
It is time. Time to let go.
Billy Anderson.
***
North Yorkshire Star, February 7 1999:
Police are trying to trace the owners of a fire-gutted coach found on a beach in Heston. The crumpled vehicle is believed to have plummeted to the beach from the high cliffs above. Investigators found no sign of occupancy, and missing licence plates suggest the bus was intentionally driven or pushed over the cliff. Police in Heston are appealing for information.
***
“Hello, I’m not in at the moment, but if you leave a message that’s not threatening or dirty, I might phone you back. If it’s dirty, I’ll definitely phone you back!”
“Daniel, it’s Betty. Er, look, about Billy Anderson’s claims…well, it’s tomorrow, and although I don’t believe it, I don’t know if I want to take the risk, you know? So what should we do? I wondered. Personally, I think we should hold the man. You know, keep him somewhere safe, lock him up or something. And watch him. See what happens, you know? Don’t trust him. Er…get back to me with your thoughts. Nice message, by the way.”
***
Afternoon, 2 Jan, 1999
Yes, Diary, I’m back. Well, yesterday started bad cos of that power cut on New Year’s Eve. Huh. Way out here in the middle of nowhere, you should see how black it gets when the lights go out. Wow! How did people cope way back before electricity when night came? Maybe that’s how the dinosaurs became extinct, falling down holes and things cos they couldn’t see anything.
Freezer was chokka with ice, so that melted and went all over the kitchen floor. The dogs licked it up, which helped (not that they thought they were helping!). Left them to it and drove on over into town to that little shop for a dress. Sandy here didn’t get any dresses my size this month. She sez bad delivery company. I sez mardy cow cos we had that spat the other day.
Couldn’t hold the town party New year’s Eve, then, so they decided to have it last night. My dress tore. Ian’s friend tried it on with me. And that freak Robson – well, we won’t go there!
That weirdo Billy Anderson and his wife came, but he left early, left her right there, too. We didn’t see him again, but he reckoned he came in when we were all zonked out and -
Actually, I dunno exactly what he said he saw. But he’s a bloody freak. Too much beer and we all fell asleep there in the hall, every single one of us. I was one of the last, stupidly trying to stand on that chair. Me and Ian, dancing away round all these people out for the count, draped here and there. Like some college party!!! And then finally I sat down and musta slept too. But in the morning when we all woke, everyone’s clothing was torn in places, some of it badly. No injuries. It was a bloody freaky sight, and what with that Billy weirdo there, wide awake and shouting at everyone, calling us all cursed and freaks. Dave got in cop-mode and took him away, and he says the police will want to talk to him, and that he wants to talk to them, as well.
God, enough of that. And enough of this. I have to go take that eyesight test later. Another £15 I don’t have.
Later, Diary
***
HELLO!
I’M A STICKY NOTE!
JUST WRITE ON ME AND STICK ME SOMEWHERE!
“Joan, these are the moon dates for the next few years. Do a hundred photocopies for Dave, he’s handing them out. Luv ya! Ian. Xxx.”
***
To: L.S.cooke1965@aol.com. From L.S.cooke@Hotmail.com
Subject: backup.
Draft: 14:29 – 7 Feb 1999.
I’m sending this to myself, because if I die it will be examined and then maybe they’ll know that we weren’t evil people. I’m certainly not evil. It has just come back to haunt us, right now in the newspaper. What happened to those people, those poor tourists, was not something we did for fun, for Christ’s sake. And afterwards, that was just…not a cover-up, no. My story is attached. Read it and pity me if you like. Just don’t hate me. Don’t hate us.
Attached: My Story.doc (142KB).
***
Statement of William Anderson, recorded January 3, nineteen ninety-nine, at Lampton Police Station. Statement witnessed by Sergeant Alan Jackson.
“I got dressed for the party and had a can of cider while I did so. I like to drink a bit before I go out. Gets me merry. I opened my window – you know I live up in that attic flat. I drank my cider while I stared out over the town and the hills and things. Saw everyone heading for the town hall. Saw Jenkins with a whole cart of beer, and I knew the party would be good. Anyway, me and Rachel got ready – well, I was ready, just waiting for her. You know women. We headed out, down to the dance hall. Rachel found Melissa and they started chatting. I talked to you, as you said you remembered. The next two hours were just party stuff. Laughs and chats and stuff. That’s when I started feeling ill. I left the hall and went down Baker Alley. And I threw up near John’s newsagent’s, which I’m sure he’ll never forgive me for. After that, it’s all a bit vague. The chucking up sobered me in a flash, but I still don’t remember much. Like I said before, I remember I could smell things. I felt (pause) I felt like I was in trouble or danger or something. I didn’t want to be seen. Despite that, I went back to the hall. I recall going back to the hall, but I couldn’t get in the door. Don’t know if I tried the handle, or what. Just remember I couldn’t get in. I looked through the window, and, well. I’m sticking by the word I used last time. I saw -
***
Dale, you have a new TEXT MESSAGE from BEEEG PEETEEY. Received 09.13 February 2 2000:
NOWUR NR ERE, TAKE IT UP 2 CLIFFS AT HESTON N BURN IT.
***
Garner’s Guide to Northern England, page 194.
LAMPTON
Originally called Lamp Town, this small village on the east coast of England served as a stopping point for travellers from Beaufield to Andtown, who would hang lamps from trees to illuminate their camp. Strangely, although the village has existed for ninety years, it has somehow avoided sprouting a school or a supermarket or a train or bus station. In a population of 372, only 64 people are actively employed there, while the remainder commute by car, bus or shoe leather to neighbouring towns, the nearest of which is six miles distant. Most people are employed in Doncaster, some seventeen miles west.
***
SHEFFIELD TO LAMPTON HILLS JAUNT!!
JAN 31, 9.00 A.M COACH DEPARTURE £10 ALL IN, INC. BREAKFAST, MAP AND FLASK (TEA OR COFFEE).
NOCTURNAL WALK ROUND LAMPTON HILLS, PUB GRUB IN THE INFAMOUS SECLUDED IRISH DOG PUB.
SEE INSIDE FOR FURTHER DETAILS.
WRAP WARM AGAINST THE COLD!!!
***
Doncaster Library, February 22 1999.
Dear Mr. Anderson, the following books were due for return on February 10. Please return them to avoid further fines and additional reminders.
1: Infamous Monsters, From Aliens to Werewolves.
2: Werewolves Beyond Myth.
3: Supernatural Creatures that Exist!
4: Real-Life Werewolves and Vampires.
***
Statement of William Anderson, recorded January 3, nineteen ninety-nine, at Lampton Police Station. Statement witnessed by Sergeant Alan Jackson.
(cont.)
- werewolves. Hundreds. I swear on my mother’s life that the townspeople had turned into werewolves. And they were asleep, all bulging out their suits and dresses and things. It was so freaky that they were all dressed up. Like when weird old women put sweaters on their dogs. Lying on tables and under tables and all over the floor and stuff. It was loud, too, because their breathing was raspy and loud. I wasn’t scared, I remember that much. I went to the door and kicked it open. I remember that. Then I found my wife and I lay down next to her. She had this wolf-women face, horrible. Not much fur, though. That bit I remember clearly. That and snuggling up to her. If I’m honest, I think the reason I wasn’t scared was that I was (pause) I was also a werewolf.
***
February 2, 1999. The meeting was opened by Daniel Sufford, councillor. He thanked everyone for their time. Present were:
Councillor Daniel Sufford;
Deputy Councillor Betty Squires;
Deputy Councillor Clarke Worthe;
Police Superintendent Peter Lombard.
The first subject was the Jan 2nd party and its aftermath.
SUFFORD: First, is there anyone here who disagrees that Billy Anderson’s claim is correct? Of course, it is hard to believe that werewolves exist, but we have video that I personally believe. Any takers?
LOMBARD: The video feed from Kent’s store was proof enough for us all, I think. I too was shocked to see what looked like a large wolf walk through Kent’s grocery store. I saw the shredded clothing it wore, and knew it was Kent’s clothing. Kent himself would tell a great story. I remember waking up myself in my own back yard, after the last full moon, with blood on my face and the destroyed carcass of a rabbit nearby. So, I believe, and I think belief is a factor of everybody’s presence here today. We might not like to admit it, but we don’t disavow the werewolf claim, either. We should move on.
WORTHE: I don’t worry about werewolves. I believe, though. I believe. I believe something strange and unreal happened.
SUFFORD: You believe that what Billy Anderson claims he saw that night, he really did see? An entire town, hundreds of people, turned into werewolves right there in that dance hall?
WORTHE: Yes, I do. Do we all recall David Simpson?
SQUIRES: I don’t.
SUFFORD: Simpson was the man found drowned in the reservoir last week. Although he’d been there five weeks, it wasn’t a big news story. I think Clark’s trying to say (pause) what? That this man might have infected us? That he was a werewolf?
WORTHE: Exactly. The man claimed the very same himself, remember. His ex-wife came forward with that piece of news. A history of incarceration in mental homes. So. He’s found dead in the water. The last time he’d been seen alive was a full-moon. And suddenly on the next full-moon, we all attended a party, lost our memories of that night and woke in torn clothing. And the only man who didn’t stay at the party claims he saw a hall full of wolves.
SUFFORD: We’re here to determine, in part, the stability of Anderson’s mind, though.
WORTHE: Wolves out for the count, I might add. We were all drunk. Draped all over each other. Then we have last night’s events. I have a clear, split-second memory of a bus parked in the hills, Daniel. I have that memory. I didn’t invent it. We were out there. I am amazed that you can doubt all these facts, Daniel.
SUFFORD: I do not doubt them, Clark. I just think there’s another explanation. Something other than werewolves.
WORTHE: Call them what you will, Daniel. Even forget the wolf part. But on the last two full moons, nobody in this town has been able to remember what they did at night, or where they were. The first time, we woke in a dance hall. The second, some of us woke out in the hills, around a pile of shredded bodies. Others in gardens, next to half-eaten pets. Something’s happening to us during full-moons, Daniel, and last time it cost lives.
The meeting adjourned. Resumption commenced later in the afternoon.
SUFFORD: The matter of reason is now void. We should now discuss and formulate a containment plan.
SQUIRES: In the interim, Clark mentioned something. I fear it is our only recourse. We locked up Billy Anderson during last night’s full-moon. He, consequently, was the only one who didn’t…find that bus. We need to adopt this idea.
SUFFORD: Yes. We are a small town, remote. Not only do we have to keep ourselves safe, we must keep others out of harm’s way. It is not enough that we should lock ourselves up. What if we had visitors to the town?
WORTHE: A fence. We should fence off the town. Have one gate in or out. There’s only a single road leading out of the town, anyway. We have no train or bus station. This could work. We could seal the town off. I for one don’t want the world learning about us.
SQUIRES: That’s a good point. Imagine if the rest of the world found out. We’d become lab rats.
WORTHE: It’s one or two days a month, the full moon. We need to find out when they are, get everyone knowledgeable. So we can plan and prepare in advance. We can arrange to make sure we don’t get visitors during those days..
SUFFORD: No visitors, no deliveries, no phone calls, nothing. This entire town needs to reschedule events around these full moons. That I think we can accomplish. Create for ourselves a single night, about twice a month, when we’re dead to the world. Lampton’s commerce will not be badly affected by a single day of, shall we say, solitary confinement. Not if we work this out right.
WORTHE: And on those nights, we have to keep ourselves safe. Obviously we can’t lock everyone in the police station, like we did with Billy Anderson, but people can secure themselves in their own homes. Maybe with handcuffs. But we definitely need that fence and that gate, just to be double-secure. One gate, one key, kept locked away. The next full moon is March second. That gives us four weeks to get all this up and running.
SUFFORD: Then our priority is to get people informed. We will have another meeting. A town meeting.
WORTHE: There’s something else, though. You all recall the research Anderson did on werewolves? I refer to the part about food. He said this…disease… thrives on food ingested by the host. Do we discount this? I saw the book. Now, whether that claim’s true or not…
SUFFORD: We all saw the book. He was very insistent about that. I don’t know the answer to the validity of the author’s claims, but why chance it? It shouldn’t be hard to move all food out of our reach on these dates. Secure it. It’s only for one night, after all. Starve the disease, and hope that in time, it will die.
WORTHE: And the world need never know.
SUFFORD: Right. Okay, anything else?
SQUIRES: Yes. Something I don’t like. People locking themselves in their homes? I doubt we can trust everybody to be so vigilant. Every rule has its breakers, people who think they’re better or different, or people who simply forget or don’t care. I propose something akin to a forced repeat of January second.
SUFFORD: The hall? You mean we should lock ourselves away in the hall again? Each full moon?
SQUIRES: It’s safer. More secure.
WORTHE: Not practical. We don’t know at what time of the night the (pause) transformation occurs. Imagine hundreds of people all sitting around, away from home, scared, waiting.
SUFFORD: Worse, imagine transformations occurring at different times. I for one wouldn’t like to be in a locked hall with half my neighbours turning into monsters right in front of me. No, the original idea is our only option, and I believe it will work. People can be vigilant when their own lives are at stake. (Pause.) Okay, anything else.
SQUIRES: I think we need to erase a crime scene, don’t you?
SUFFORD: Of course. I was going to mention that myself. Who can we trust to oversee this task?
LOMBARD: Dale Harper’s a good man. By that I mean he’s a convicted burglar, so he’s in the know about how to cover tracks. We’ll use him.
SUFFORD: We should adjourn with these current tasks to set in place. We’ll assign duties after the meeting closes. So, any other business?
The meeting was closed.
***
Maybe it was some instinctive sense that woke him, or maybe he just woke. Billy Anderson sat up in bed; his spine made a cracking noise and lost its stiffness. And in the dark, he saw the long, thin shaft of light at the ajar bathroom door.
It creaked open at his push, but hit an obstacle after only ten inches; the bathroom in this small attic flat was tiny, and someone sitiing before the toilet, head over the bowl, would block the door.
Rachel turned her head to look at him through a curtain of bedraggled hair. Vomit hung from her chin, stained her nightdress.
“I’m fine,” she said before he could ask.
“No, you’re not,” he wanted to say. That and: “No, babe, it was poison I injected us with so we’d die tonight and beat this cursed disease!” Uh, yeah, that would go down well. He decided to help her back to -
- bed with a grunt, and smiled up at him. “You still fancy me like this?” Her eyes were heavy; her throat was twitching as if from a trapped nerve. But it was no nerve. This was the “disease” taking over. Billy Anderson recognised it. He turned his head to the side slightly, and his eyes were fixed, as if they saw not the wall but beyond and into the toilet bowl, where in a gloopy mixture of egg, beans and coffee lay the poison he had fed Rachel earlier. Knowing she’d probably puked up the powdered death made his skin tingle, and it just might have been the poison he’d also swallowed clocking on for work.
The vial was empty – he’d used all the poison. He tossed it aside. Turned to her. Now Rachel was curling into a tight ball and breathing loudly. A definite symptom: all recalled the first video-taped event…Mr Hinkbottom, a volunteer, locked in a room like a rabbit tested with chemicals that would give women blonde hair one day. After the curling came the stretching, as if after a good night’s sleep, and then the shape-shifting. Then the hair-growth, just like in the films.
Her legs powered out, kicking the quilt right off the bed. Billy Anderson backed away, and he was acutely aware that he didn’t feel anything happening to himself. Not from the disease, not from the poison. For four years he’d been riding this disease and he had come to know it well. During a full moon, the body cold-sweated as if it were in alcoholic withdrawal – this uncomfortable feeling (and the fear, of course) was the reason everybody took sleeping tablets to get themselves off at night. Nobody wanted to be awake when the “transformation” took place. But now Billy Anderson was awake because he’d refused the sleeping tablets in case they reacted with the poison he’d swallowed, and he wasn’t feeling that cold sweat, and he was sure he knew why.
He’d finally beaten the disease.
She didn’t respond. “Rachel,” he said again. He moved close. She was stiff and shivering like a woman being fed an electric current, and her eyes were on him, wide/terrified, and when he saw those eyes a terrible pain washed over his stomach.
Then she slumped, as if said electric current had been turned off. She was still, and her eyes were closed. They’d seen this on the video, too. A moment of nothingness, as if the body were empty of life as the former occupant stepped aside to permit the new, temporary owner. There was no return for her now.
But still closer he stepped, until he was close enough to take her hand. He knelt.
“Rachel, it’s going to be okay. This will be the last time, I promise you.” Now he was thankful she’d vomited up the poison. Maybe it was fate helping out. That day so many moons ago, when the townsfolk had torn apart a bus full of tourists… he hadn’t fed that night, but he’d been the only one. Nobody had fed during a full moon since. He’d been one step ahead of everybody since. So, if this wasn’t just luck and the no-food theory was correct, then this night of abstinence would be the town’s last. Just ride this night out, and finally they could -
She clutched his hand tightly. Let out a moan. Irises opened until they filled the eyes, as if ink were being poured into a cup of milk. Billy Anderson yanked his fingers free and crawled away. It was beginning.
As he rushed for the door, he could hear the creaking of her bones as they shifted, bent. The scariest part was the silence of her voice: such things happening to a body should cause terrible pain, yet didn’t. As he undid the heavy bolt, he told himself over and over that he must not turn and look, must not, must not. Seeing Mr Hinkbottom transform into a burly, vicious wolfman was one thing. He didn’t want that lasting image of his own pretty Rachel, however.
He closed the door and bolted it. They’d put bolts on either side in case one person had to leave the room: it wasn’t written in stone that everybody turned at the exact same time. Quickly Billy Anderson went across the hall to the spare room. It was as he was reaching for the bolt on this door that he heard the sounds from inside. Deep breathing, a heavy sniffing, and the patter of something running around.
He remembered that he’d been in this room earlier to move the TV aerial about a bit, to try to get a better reception. There’d been three footballs on the pitch, and sixty-six players. He’d gone out onto the roof of the shop next door to twist the aerial about, and must have forgotten to close the window afterwards. David Barker had an attic flat like Billy Anderson’s, and it was possible to walk between the two via rooftops. It must be David in there, Billy Anderson realised. David in wolf-form. And Billy Anderson still owed David that ten pounds!
The creature inside was at the door suddenly. Billy Anderson could hear its snout scraping across the carpet right at the bottom of the door, and he knew it could smell him.
He backed away, scared. Although the spare room was used as a back-up for containment, they hadn’t fortified it with a heavier door as they had the main bedroom. Billy Anderson wasn’t certain this door could survive a werewolf that tried to smash through it.
His only recourse now was to leave the flat. And that meant going outside, into the street. He thought quickly… Yes, outside, turn right down Evans Lane and head to the centre of the village. There was a little green with a small pond, a bench and a tree. It was the last remaining tree from the wood that had become Lamp Town, then Lampton. He could climb the tree, which was fenced off to protect it, and be safe. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any wolves outside, but you never knew. People should know better, but if David Barker could get out, so could others.
Down the hall again, left, down the stairs. These stairs were a death-trap, Billy Anderson thought. His flat was on the third storey and accessible only by a long flight of narrow stairs, with only two half-landings that wouldn’t provide a landing at all if you happened to fall right from the top. There was a light dangling over each half-landing, but they weren’t powerful enough to illuminate the bottom of the flight, which was shrouded in darkness except if the door was open during daytime, or unless you flicked the switch down at the bottom, where there was a little wall-light that lit a small alcove for hanging coats. Consequently, at night that set of stairs almost appeared as if it ran straight down into Hell.
He flicked the switch and the lights came on. Thirty metres away was a blob of darkness hiding a door. It was locked, but as Billy Anderson’s bare feet padded down the steps, he wasn’t yet aware that he didn’t have the key in his pyjamas pocket.
After the first half-landing, the carpet ended. The previous owner must have thought it a waste to decorate the entire flight. The cold wood steps made Billy Anderson’s feet sting.
Above and behind, a sudden crash: wood splintering. David Barker, coming for his ten pounds. Billy Anderson quickened his pace. Even over the thump of his heels striking wood, he could hear the beast pattering along the hall.
He reached the door and tried to yank it open. Realised. Key. On his left, the alcove with hooks for coats. No coats there, though, only a bin that Rachel used for junk mail.
A horrible, deep wail from above. Billy Anderson stared up at a beast at the top of the stairs. A wolf with a thick chest and a bald spot on the top of its head because not even the disease could grow hair where the follicles were dead. It was wrapped in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts – David Barker’s preferred sleeping outfit – stretched very tightly around its hips.
He knew it could smell him, but hoped it couldn’t see him. He didn’t move, except for his hand. He slid it slowly across the wall, feeling for the light switches. He would put the beast in the dark, and maybe it would return to the spare room, to the moonlight coming in the window.
He flicked the first switch, and felt his heart lurch as the wall light in the alcove clicked on, exposing him. Thirty metres away, the werewolf snarled at him, took a tentative first step down the stairs, seemed to decide it could manage them easily, and broke into a fast downward run, quick as a cat.
Drowning in fear, Billy Anderson slapped at the light switches, casting the world into blackness, and pushed himself hard into the alcove. He didn’t even feel his head bang on a coat hook. He waited for the tearing, the bleeding, the feeding.
The werewolf’s paws beat a steady rhythm at first, then that tune faltered and a loud series of crashes and bumps played out as the beast, unable to see in the dark, tumbled down the stairs, yelping like a beaten dog. A foul smell hit Billy Anderson’s nostrils a mere half-second before the beast crashed loudly into the door, which snapped in half as the werewolf’s momentum carried it onward and out into the street.
Silence. Billy Anderson didn’t dare move. At first.
He poked his head out the empty doorframe. The werewolf lay in the middle of the road, either dead or out cold. Its legs lay at a funny angle, doubtless broken. He felt suddenly sorry for David Barker and for a second he considered trying to drag the beast off the road in case a vehicle came – but what vehicle? Werewolves can’t drive cars, and right now, Billy-boy, you’re in a town full of werewolves.
He hated to leave Rachel, but he knew she’d be safe. So, after a quick look to make sure the street wasn’t teeming with lycanthropes, he rushed out, dashed past two shops, and turned right into Evans Lane, nearly bashing into a wheelie bin lurking in the dark. Only then did he allow himself to take a breath.
Evans Lane cut through the block of buildings like a river through a country. Sheer, bare brick walls stood fifteen feet apart, and he almost imagined he stood between the jaws of a giant vice. There were a few vents and small windows high up, but nothing else. Nothing he could hope to climb up or escape through if he got trapped here by werewolves. Still, it was the quickest route to the centre of the village and the tree where he would sleep safely tonight.
He rushed along the lane, slowing only at the end. He poked his head out, scanning left and right.
This was Main Street. On this side of the road were terraced buildings containing shops, but across the road was a housing estate, the main concentration of homes in Lampton, and, right in the middle of them, the play park and the green with the beacon of safety that was the tree. But suddenly this was a bad idea.
The estate, of course, was where everyone lived, or at least 80 percent of Lampton’s folks. In other words, three hundred bloodthirsty werewolves lurked in the buildings across the road.
He considered going to the car wash. There was that old stone hut nearby; he could hide in that.
A noise from behind; he turned in time to see the wheelie bin at the far end topple and spill black bags. And to see the cause of its toppling, charging him with teeth bared.
He moaned and jumped into the street as if spat by the lane. He ran without knowing where, but found himself across the road and aimed at the nearest house. He had to hold up his pyjama bottoms because they threatened to fall with each step.
A glance behind exposed the wolf, still after him, exiting the lane like a greyhound from a trap.
Billy Anderson recognised the house as belonging to Alan Jenkins. Jenkins’ BMW was in the drive rather than in the car port behind. Fast as the beast pursuing him, Billy Anderson hopped onto the car’s bonnet, stepped onto the roof, and launched himself in three neat steps. He hit the roof of the car port with his abdomen and tried to sink his nails into the corrugated aluminium sheet. The sheet of aluminium rumbled like thunder under the impact. Quickly he hauled up his legs, tearing his pyjama bottoms on the sharp edge.
The wolf had ceased running. It walked slowly towards the car, looking up, right at him. For the first time, Billy Anderson noticed how these beasts walked. A mix of bi- and quadruped, they moved rather like apes; this lack of grace was probably because these were humans, men and women, who were suddenly forced to walk on all fours. It made Billy Anderson wonder if, like apes, they might be able to climb. He prayed not.
It watched him. He watched back, too scared to move. He half expected it to jump on the roof. But it stopped by the car and sat, like a cat. The way a cat will watch a perched bird it knows is out of reach…at the moment.
In this quiet moment he felt the pain. His pyjama top had a line of red where he’d slammed into the edge of the roof; a rub of the hand over his skin smeared blood from a long but shallow gash across his waistline. A sudden explosion of fear that other wolves would smell this blood and converge.
The wolf let out a little squeal, almost like a mating call. Mating call! Suddenly, Billy Anderson envisioned a fate worse than death. The creature moved forward, lifted both front legs and placed them on the bonnet of the BMW. The suspension creaked; the beast was heavy. It looked as if it was considering trying to get onto the roof the same way he had!
And now he saw others coming. Six, eight, fifteen, moving this way from both directions along the street. Fifteen idiots who still couldn’t do as they were told and lock themselves away during full moons.
He moved to the back of the roof, hoping to see an escape route across Jenkins’ back yard. But could he outrun -
He stumbled with a grunt as he passed a small window in the side of the house at his chest height – and saw another wolf’s leering snout pressed against the pane, nose bent, like some kid gurning against a shop window. Jenkins. He – it – sat there as if enjoying the view, breath misting the lower half of the pane.
That was when the roof fell.
It bent in half with a rumble like thunder, throwing him onto his back. He slipped off like a swimmer from a water slide, landed neatly on his feet. The roof, now minus his weight, twanged back into place. He didn’t move at first, unsure if he was injured by the sharp edge of the roof. He turned his head, remembering the wolf. And there it was, paws-upon-bonnet, staring at him across the roof of Jenkins’ flash car.
Of course, he ran.
He ran for the swimming pool, hoping to leap it and hear the beast splash behind him. But as he closed on the dark bowl of water, he realised the pool was too big to leap, and he slowed, just a fraction, to divert his route. And during that fraction of a second, something hot and hairy and very smelly hit his back like – well, like a big, murderous animal moving at great speed.
A wall of water lifted out of the pool as man and man-beast hit the surface. Billy Anderson went under, felt the chlorine sting his eyes, and cold water go into his stomach, but luckily no more than enough to quench a thirst.
His first urge was to swim down, try to escape that way. But before his first kick, the weight of the wolf was gone and he floated up, broke the surface.
The wolf was whimpering and swimming away. It hauled its soaking hide out of the pool and lay down, now knowing what else to do. The human in it didn’t think to shake itself dry as a wolf would.
He was surrounded by wolves. They sat all around, filling the garden, just watching him. But Billy Anderson wasn’t scared, not any more. The water was no longer cold and he found he floated freely without effort. He could wait them out. If they didn’t get bored and leave, well, dawn would take them away in five or six hours, anyway. Away for the last time. He knew it. He knew it and it calmed him.
The poison in his body had a calming effect, too. But he didn’t know that. He thought the poison had lost custody of him, just like the disease. He had defeated killer chemicals and a supernatural disease and his own mind’s paranoia, and nothing would hurt him ever again. And tomorrow he would tell the town their ordeal was over and be its hero. That was what Billy Anderson thought.
Billy Anderson put his head back into the soft stroke of the rippling pool and stared up at the moon. Strange, what the simple lack of the Earth’s shadow on a rock in space could do to people.
Billy Anderson closed his eyes, and smiled, because he knew he would never fear a full moon again. And he would be right.
©2008 Jason Bickerstaff
