Superhero Adventures, UK Style

Glossary – “Weres’”

The transformed humans in the Liar’s Moon adventure, neither fully human nor fully bestial; they resemble old horror movie wolf-men.  At least, they do at first…

Stronghold was struggling to believe what his senses were telling him. 

On the one hand, his ability to detect sentient life was running riot, with dozens of people moving swiftly away from the front of the Royal Albert Hall, and an influx of life signs entering the building from outside; on the other hand, he was staring at what appeared to be a Hammer Horror wolfman, loping across the stage as it pursued two members of staff.

Citadel and Sanctuary were bemused, too.  Stronghold sat up straight.

“What the hell are these Brits up to?  There’s people running away from something in the foyer, heading upstairs,” he said, “but there’s so many people in here that I can’t keep a track of them.”  He wished he knew exactly what was going on.

The door to their private box swung open and Aidan Bellingham, their MI5 security officer, stepped in, quickly shutting the door behind him.

“Come on, we’ve got to get you out of here.”  His hand lingered on the door handle, and he wore a worried expression on his youthful face.  The team had only met the man earlier that evening, but he would be their main liaison for public duties and appearances.

Down on the stage, Citadel saw a dark figure emerge from the right hand side of the stage, around the side of the safety curtain from backstage.  Male or female, Citadel couldn’t tell; the black shiny armour hid any identifying features, as did the helmet that seemed to have a stylised “T” pattern on the visor.  Under the armoured sections was a figure-hugging purple suit; the person was lithe, their muscles toned and taut. 

From nowhere, a glowing ring of energy appeared a few feet behind the figure.  They waved the two staff members past, indicating that they should enter the circle.

“Stuff this,” exclaimed Citadel, “I’m going to help!”  And with that, he leaped out of the box into the air, his right arm reaching out and a thin metallic line shooting out of a raised compartment in his gauntlet.  Small hooks gripped onto a support beam high above the auditorium, and Citadel adjusted his body to swing in a shallow arc onto the stage, landing softly on the polished floor, poised and ready to strike.

Bellingham slapped his forehead in frustration.

“Oh, for goodness sake!  Come on, you two, we have got to get you out of here!”

Sanctuary stood, her eyes questioning Bellingham’s order.  “Why?  Isn’t this what we are supposed to be doing, sorting out trouble, helping people?  What’s going on, anyway?”

Stronghold followed suit, his muscular frame dwarfing both Bellingham and Sanctuary.  “Yeah!  Come on, man, this is what we’re paid to do.”

Aidan shook his head, exasperation showing on his face.  “I…look, I don’t know exactly, but something has kicked off, and it’s bad.  The Royals are already gone…”

Sanctuary hadn’t noticed, but a quick glance at the Royal Box revealed it to be vacant; so were the three boxes between the Royal Box and their own.  Stronghold reached out with his senses again, confirming in his own mind the fact that the nearby boxes were empty of people.

Aidan tried again, “I understand what you’re saying, but you are not field-active tonight.  We need to get you back to the hotel, or maybe the safe-house.”

Sanctuary turned to her colleague, but Stronghold was already staring down at the stage.

From his viewpoint on the stage, behind the wolfman, Citadel could see into the circle of energy.  It was like a big round window, about ten feet across, with its lower arc resting just above the surface of the stage.  Through it, he could see outside, the low walls of Hyde Park with their tall iron railings, the Albert Memorial in the background, its uplighting casting the monument into an eerie vision of harsh shadow and ghostly marble.  The two members of staff stood there looking back, incredulous.  Suddenly, they were gone, as the circle vanished.

The dark-clad figure beckoned the wolfman, which took the time to sniff the air again before it crouched and ran headlong towards the figure.  Citadel gave chase, concerned that the newcomer was about to be bowled over; whatever this thing was, it certainly looked like a werewolf, or at least an old-fashioned movie version of one.  If this was someone playing dress-up, some idiot student messing about, they were doing a good job.

The wolfman charged headlong.  The figure leaped into the air, arcing in a graceful somersault, arms outstretched; hands gripped the wolfman’s shoulders and, for a special moment, the purple acrobat remained motionless in the midst of a perfect handstand.  Then, as Citadel raced to help, the figure relaxed one arm and swung down in a single movement, their legs sweeping out to clip the wolfman’s legs from under him.  Using the creature’s momentum against him, the figure landed behind the wolfman, rotated their body, swinging the creature through the air, and threw it straight at Citadel.

“Your turn!”  Citadel heard a woman’s voice, slightly distorted.  He didn’t miss a beat.  He swung a fist, smashing it into the wolfman’s jaw.  It managed a sharp howl of pain before it crashed to the stage, jaw broken, unconscious.

With a curt nod the figure, female or otherwise, turned and disappeared off the side of the stage, heading backstage.  Citadel took a second to check his sixth sense, his gut-feeling that warned him of potential dangers before they happened.  It told him not to go behind the stage.  Intrigued, Citadel followed the dark figure, hoping he would get the opportunity to punch something.

Stronghold jumped onto the top of the wall of the box, his balance perfect, not a waver in his stance, unleashing his own line slinger in a repeat of Citadel’s earlier feat.  He landed gracefully, his line retracting into his gauntlet in the blink of an eye.

Sanctuary took to the air, floating above the seats in the lower balcony, noticing the patrons below her.  People were beginning to leave the auditorium, a sense of panic rising from the crowd as they saw what was happening.  Many were looking at their mobile phones; some were pointing to the events on the stage, then indicating something on their screens.  It was obvious that something was happening all around them, but what?

She began to arc her flight towards the stage, following Stronghold, but to her dismay she saw him turn to look back at their box and fire his line slinger again, the mechanism pulling him back into the air to soar past her.

“Sorry, babe, wrong call!” he yelled as he passed her, landing next to Bellingham, “I’m needed this way!”  And he pulled the door open, turning right into the corridor behind the boxes, pushing his way past a stream of screaming people.  Aidan shook his head; this was not going to plan.  His first security detail could well be his last.  He stretched his neck and rolled his head, felt the clicks as his cartilage snapped back into place, and dashed out after Stronghold.

Citadel had vanished off stage, and Sanctuary was left with a choice; him, or Stronghold.  It didn’t take long to decide.  Marcus was an absolute monster when he had chance to use his giant form, but if he used it here, he would wreck the Albert Hall.  And whilst he was phenomenally agile in his human form, he was definitely more vulnerable to injury.  Citadel didn’t have two forms, he was strong and acrobatic all the time.  Yeah, John could look after himself.

She turned around and flew back to the box, chasing after Marcus and Bellingham.  “Wait for me, big guy!”

Stronghold had to use all his strength to push his way along the corridor; the patrons heading in the opposite direction were like a human wave, and no more than two people could easily fit side-by-side.  He was still using his enhanced senses and noticed a gap in the life forms heading towards him.  Seconds later, the stream of people stopped as two members of staff sped past him, and he just had to wait to see what the nine life forms around the bend were; sure enough, the chasing group were more of the were-creatures, snarling, feral, a twisted mockery of both man and beast.

Marcus did his best to block the corridor, Aidan stopping just behind him to his left.  Before the Weres’ could get any closer, Marcus leaped at them, his martial arts training belying his muscular physique, lithe as it was.  He landed a spinning kick to the head of one were, sending it sprawling to the ground; he tried to punch another as he landed but didn’t connect.  His landing was perfect, though now he was in the centre of the eight conscious creatures, four in front and four behind.

Bellingham drew his service pistol as Sanctuary arrived at his side.  ‘Always late to the party,’ she thought, a little disdainfully.  She saw Stronghold’s predicament and quickly wondered how she could help.  She hoped that Marcus didn’t use his growth power, as he would cause incalculable damage to the building, but what could she do?  Cause the Weres’ to see a hallucination?  Would that work?  No, she needed to thin the pack out, plain and simple.

Even before she could focus her mind, she heard Stronghold yell out in pain.  A creature had slashed his chest, his blood splattering the wall and floor to his right.  He was about to be swamped.

Gritting her teeth, Sanctuary felt the familiar pressure behind her forehead, then released it with a thought; neurones fired, synapses flashed, and four Weres’ crashed against the walls, denting the plaster beneath the patterned wallpaper.

‘That’s more like it,’ she thought, ‘Way to go, telekinesis!’

Two more Weres’ grappled Stronghold, trying to knock him off balance; one failed to find any purchase and Stronghold shook him off, but the other managed to get both his arms around Stronghold’s chest, immobilising his left arm.  The two remaining creatures pushed past him, heading for Sanctuary and Bellingham.

Stronghold managed to clip the Were that had slid off him, knocking its head into the wall and rendering it unconscious, but he knew that the one still gripping him would rake its claws across his torso in an instant, and he gritted his teeth, ready to take the pain.

Suddenly, the creature roared and released him, falling with a thud to the floor.  A second later the other two Weres’ did the same, felled by Sanctuary’s telekinetic punch.

Bellingham breathed a sigh of relief.  He didn’t know whether bullets would have any effect on these…things…but he was glad that he hadn’t had to find out.

“Great!  Good work, both of you.  Now, can we please get out of here?”

Sanctuary reached Stronghold.  “That looks bad,” she stated, nodding to the ragged gashes across his chest.  They were still seeping blood into his costume.

“I’ll live,” he said, wincing.  It was bad, he knew, but he couldn’t rest, not yet.  If the adrenaline stopped pumping, he would probably faint.

“Come on,” said Sanctuary, “we need to catch up with John before he gets himself killed.”

***

Citadel heard more screaming as he followed his mysterious ally into the backstage area.  He looked around and counted roughly thirty people crowded together by an internal wall, unable to find another way to turn as two creatures stalked them, just a few yards distant.

Pieces of scenery stood against the far wall, and wheeled boxes were parked around the rear of the stage ready to be filled with equipment after the show.  With a leap, the armoured figure of his unknown companion somersaulted across the distance to the cowering crowd, landing with the softness and grace of a cat, instantly beckoning the creatures to come for them.  Which they did, at speed, growling as they ran.

Citadel watched in admiration as a glowing circle appeared directly in front of the two beasts.  He briefly saw the night sky, still lit in hues of orange and red as the last of the Leonid meteors bounced across the highest reaches of Earth’s atmosphere.  The Weres’ realised what was happening too late to restrain their momentum; they ran through the circle and disappeared from view, their howls fading as the portal closed.

“They’re up on the roof!” said Citadel’s ally, before turning and beckoning the crowd to follow.  Citadel joined them, and they walked through a couple of storage areas before arriving at a set of large doors, easily twenty feet tall, maybe taller, and able to fold themselves to increase the gap between the walls – this was the vehicle access hall, able to receive heavy goods wagons and articulated lorries, and their cargoes.

There was no need to resort to opening the vehicle doors, though – a smaller pedestrian access door was unlocked, and the crowd were beckoned through it, congregating outside with Citadel and his ally.

The yard outside was walled off, and looked like a temporary area built to store building materials and other items used for renovation and cleaning; lines and arrows on the tarmac showed that the exit gate was further around to the right, hidden by another part of the building as they looked out.  A couple of small lorries were parked neatly against the rear yard wall over to the left, and a series of large corporate waste bins were lined up against the nearer section of the wall to the left of the vehicle doors.  Two large containers lined the remaining wall space to the left and around to the right.

Even above the hubbub of the gathered people, Citadel and the dark-clad acrobat could hear sounds of chaos from beyond the yard, in what would be Kensington Gore; screams, growls and howls, the occasional roar of a gunned engine.  Exchanging a glance, the two began to walk towards the turning that would lead them to the gate, but stopped in their tracks as five Weres’ stalked around the corner of the building, attracted by the commotion of the group.  Two of the creatures wore hi-vis vests, obviously part of the loading crew; the other three were all members of staff, their black clothing and name badges giving it away.  With a roar of hunger, they stooped forward and charged towards the heroes, first in line to satisfy the bloodlust.

The people behind the heroes began to panic, several began to turn around and head for the doorway again, pushing others out of their way as survival instincts kicked in.  One particular older man, largely bald but with white hair around the back of his head, and a thick white moustache, edged his way out of the mass of bodies, making for the waste bins to his left.  He eyed the Weres’ intently, then looked to the heavens; an idea was coming together in his mind.

“It can’t be coincidence,” he muttered to himself, his eyes wide as he watched the Leonids final hurrah high above him.

Two of the Weres’ broke away from the other three, barrelling at full tilt towards the two heroes.  The purple-and-black clad acrobat created a portal and leaped into it, reappearing a good ten feet or so above the second of the creatures; she dropped in a perfectly straight line, direction and speed already calculated, and landed feet first on the wire’s shoulders, pitching him forward, his snout and forehead smacking into the tarmac with a sickening crunch. 

“Throw that one into the others!” said the distorted female voice, loudly.

Citadel smiled, “On it!” he shouted, and braced himself to receive the creature’s charge.  One punch stunned the Were enough for Citadel to pick him up, then he threw him as hard as he could towards the oncoming wolf-men.

Somebody in the crowd of people shouted “Ouch!” as the monster hit two of his fellow Weres’, knocking himself and one of the others out cold, and bowling over the third.  The still-conscious creature was instantly scrabbling to its feet, hindered by the tangle of limbs.

The acrobat performed a spinning kick, connecting with the Were’s jaw at the apex of a graceful arc; the creature spat teeth as it spun twice before collapsing to the ground.

The last Were got to its feet and sprang at Citadel, for all the good it did him.  Citadel caught his jaw with a monumental uppercut, a right-handed punch that seemed to pull all his strength from the core of his being.  The wolf-man launched into the air, head snapped back, landing with a bone-crunching thud some twelve yards away, close to the waste bins and lorries.

Citadel reached out with his Infra-red vision as he nodded to the acrobat; there were no heat signatures left in the yard except the people they knew about.  His vision highlighted two cold spots away to the left, somewhere in-between the waste bins, and one of the patrons who was making his way slowly back towards the rest of the group.

“Hey,” he shouted at the acrobat, pointing to the bins, “there are a couple of things over there, not showing up as living.  Fancy checking them out for me?”

The acrobat walked over, keeping their distance to avoid surprises, passing the elderly man.  Soon they could see that there were two more Weres’ lying on the ground, obviously dead, terrible impact wounds visible on their corpses.  With a gasp, the acrobat recognised them; the duo from the backstage area, the two that they had sent through the portal to the roof.

“Damn.”  Head bowed, the acrobat walked back to the group.

And the three new arrivals.

“Hey, Citadel!”  It was Sanctuary, smiling, looking good.  Unlike Stronghold, whose wound looked ugly and painful, four claw gashes running diagonally from his left shoulder across his pectoral muscles.

“What happened?” asked Citadel, concern in his voice.  This was a reminder that, superhuman or not, they were not indestructible.

Stronghold grinned, “What, this?  Fido played a little rough, is all.”  Citadel nodded, though he knew that Marcus was playing it down.  The wound was nasty and would need tending to; he might even need shots for Tetanus and rabies, just to be sure.  Bellingham stood apart, using his mobile; he looked concerned and anxious.

“Where are we?” asked Sanctuary, looking around her.

“I thought it was a goods entrance, but it looks more like a builder’s yard.  We’re safe for the time being, but it sounds bad out there.  We need to decide on a plan of action.  We should probably contact Murgatroyd.”

“Okay, I’ll give them a call,” said Sanctuary, using her telepathic power to link in to the commlinx system; she could talk to machines as well as people.

“You are through to Murgatroyd.  Please hold whilst I connect you to our AI network.”

“It’s putting me in touch with the AI,” she said, “listen up.”

“Hel-looooooo,” came a lilting feminine voice across the cowl speakers, throwing all three members of the EDT off their stride, “how may I be of assistance?”

Sanctuary frowned deeply, looking at Stronghold and Citadel for answers but finding only confusion.

“Yes, hello.  This is Sanctuary.  Who is this?  What’s your name?”

And why did that old man keep staring at them?

“This is the Murgatroyd AI network.  My name is…Martinique.”

Citadel was shrugging; Stronghold, never a fan of the AI system or Murgatroyd’s ‘personal security’ regime, shook his head in despair.

Sanctuary pressed on, “Ah, okay, Martinique, we need an extraction plan from our location to…”  She looked at the others for inspiration.  Bellingham, who had wandered closer to his charges, whispered ‘safe house’, before wondering why the hell he was whispering.

“The safe house, Maple Street,” he said, louder.

“Maple Street.  Can you do that for us, Martinique?”

“No.” The reply was curt and totally unexpected.

Citadel’s jaw dropped.  Stronghold nodded his head, a broad grin on his face.  Of course not; why should a machine be able to do anything useful?  He turned to Bellingham, but the agent was already back on his mobile.

“Okay, Martinique, we’re not looking for anything fancy here, you know?  Can you get us a taxi, or a bus, something like that, please?”

“I am unable to appropriate any mode of public transport at this time.  The London metropolitan area is…under attack.  Murgatroyd resources are unavailable at this time.”

Sanctuary balked, “What?!  What the hell sort of use are…”

Citadel cut her off with a hand signal, “Don’t waste your time.  It looks like we’re on our own.”

Stronghold jabbed a thumb in Bellingham’s direction.  “What about our MI5 buddies?”

Sanctuary waved at Bellingham, catching his eye.  He quickly finished up his latest call, slipping his mobile into his inside jacket pocket.  He put his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, then looked them straight in the eyes.

“It’s bad.  Really bad.”

“Well, man, get on with it…”  Stronghold was getting impatient, and his wound was really beginning to hurt now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

Bellingham puffed his cheeks, letting out a long breath.

“This…thing…these creatures…they are everywhere, all over London, and all over the country.  Nothing is moving; public transport is down, all of it.  Trains have stopped, the airlines are getting planes down as quickly as they can, but there have already been…well, a couple of crashes that we know of, and one at Gatwick.”  He took in more air; he was visibly shaking.  “Emergency services are overwhelmed.  We’ve had reports of incidents in Ireland and in northern France.  The Royals and the Cabinet are being evacuated.”

Bellingham looked past Citadel’s shoulder.  Why was that old man staring at them so much?

“Like I said,” Citadel put in, “we’re on our own.”

***

“Excuse me!  I’m so sorry to interrupt, but can you help me?”

Sanctuary and Stronghold both turned to see an elderly gentleman looking at them intently.  He looked hale enough but his face, his eyes, looked…distracted.  He was dressed in a smart evening suit and dickie bow, but looked decidedly uncomfortable in them.

More screams reached them from nearby, outside the yard.  The acrobat ran around the corner, and Citadel followed.

“I haven’t got time for any more of this,” he yelled, “I’ll follow this other guy, you two stay here and keep everyone safe!”

The acrobat covered the distance to the gates, some fifteen yards or so, and stopped.  Looking through the thick steel bars brought no comfort; chaos reigned in London.

The view was limited, but they could see enough.  People were running past the Hall, in obvious panic; some were pursued by Weres’.  Several bodies could be seen in the Gore, victims of savage attacks.  As they watched, a car came into view and sped past, weaving to avoid the pedestrians.  It was a taxi, its sign unlit.  The driver didn’t avoid two of the running crowd and knocked them over, speeding on towards the main street by Hyde Park.  Away in the distance they could see a fire reaching high above the intervening rooftops; it could have been over in Belgravia, or possibly closer, nearer to Harrods on Cromwell Road; it was difficult to judge the distance.  A siren blared somewhere in the night, a solitary rock of resistance in an ocean of terror.

Citadel jogged over to join the acrobat.  He took in the sight before him.

“We need to get out there and help!” he declared, his right hand forming a fist.  He took a closer look at the acrobat; the helmet was almost perfectly smooth, and resembled a thinner version of a motorcycle helmet; the visor to the helmet had a ‘T’ shape etched into it, approximately where the eyes, nose and mouth would be, and in a different shade of purple to the bodysuit.  In fact, he noticed the small grooves where the mouth would be, only millimetres wide, with a dark mesh in them; he guessed it contained the vocal distortion equipment.

“Yes, we do,” the acrobat replied, “but remember they are innocents.  We can’t just go out there and kill them.”

Citadel nodded, a grim determination in his jaw.  “Okay, but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy punching their lights out!”

In synch, they leaped over the gate and into the fray.

***

“Okay, sir, just…”  Sanctuary was starting to feel annoyed.  The evening had gone from an all-expenses night out, with added adulation, to a nightmare from a Bosch painting, without so much as a by-your-leave.  Now John had gone to play the hero, Marcus was hurt and being his usual macho-man self, and here she was, stuck with…

“Murray.  Doctor Kelvin Murray.  Yes, I need to get to Cornwall.”

Sanctuary stood back, eyes wide, not quite believing what she had just heard.

“Sorry?  Wha…Cornwall?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Murray continued, “Cornwall.  Well, Spaceport Cornwall, actually.  Yes, that will do.”

Stronghold put his face in his hands.  This was getting too much.

Sanctuary tried again, “Okay, Doctor…Murray.  Now, why are you trying to get to Cornwall.”

Murray smiled, “Ah!  Well, it’s in my logs, you see.  The meteors, the trajectory, and now all this…” he gestured around himself, taking in the Weres’ and the terrible sounds from outside, “I think it’s connected.  No, I know it’s connected.  And I know what to do!”

Sanctuary’s eyes widened, “You do?  What?”

“What?” asked Murray, a frown on his face.

Sanctuary’s heart sank; this was like getting blood from a stone.

“What do you need to do, Doctor Murray?” she implored.

“Oh!  Oh, that’s easy,” he said, smiling again, “I need to ring my colleagues at Jodrell Bank.”

Sanctuary thought that her body would simply collapse into mush and the resultant ooze would simply pour itself into the nearest drain.  Or maybe it was a wish…

Okay, one more try.

“Jodrell Bank, Doctor Murray?  Why there?”

Perhaps Murray sensed something about Sanctuary’s demeanour, but he shook himself and clasped his hands together.

“Sorry.  I don’t think I’m making myself very clear, am I?  My name is Doctor Kelvin Murray…”

‘Oh, no!’ thought Sanctuary.

“…and I am Head of Operations at Jodrell Bank.  I have been monitoring the Leonid meteor shower for about a fortnight, ever since I first noticed that their trajectory was way off what was expected.  Now, if I can speak to Alice, I can get to the bottom of this, and we can be on our way!”

Sanctuary, Lauren, was frowning again, despite Murray’s apparent clarity.  “Alice?” she asked, “Alice? Who the f…”

“Use the commlinx,” said Stronghold in the nick of time.

Lauren tuned in to the Murgatroyd AI system again, dreading what was to come.

“Hel-looooooo!  This is Martin…”

“And as wonderful as that is, we need your help.  And fast!”  Sanctuary hoped that urgency would focus the AI’s responses.  “Can you get a call through to Jodrell Bank?”

“Of course, Sanctuary.  Dialling Jodrell Bank now.”

Stronghold was mouthing the phrase, ‘help me’, as Lauren caught his eye.  Doctor Murray was talking to him.

“…and I used the Merlin array to lock onto the strange signal that seemed to precede the nightly showers…”

“There is no response from Jodrell Bank.”

‘Seriously?’ thought Sanctuary, ‘is this what being a hero is all about?’

“Doctor Murray!”  she called out, “There’s nobody at Jodrell Bank.”

Murray broke off his conversation with Stronghold to look at her.  “My dear, there is always somebody at Jodrell Bank.”  He caught himself for a second, “And it’s usually Alice.”

‘Oh, for goodness sake!’  Lauren rolled her eyes, wishing she were at the Dorchester, having a really hot bath and some of those chocolate cookies…

“Martinique, please keep trying.  I’m being told that there should be staff on site.”

“Retrying now.  For all the good it will do.”

‘What the hell is going on with that AI?’  Lauren was exasperated, but knew better than to lose control.  She was the level-headed one of the team, the one meant to keep the boys on an even keel.  That was fair enough, but did it have to extend to annoying scatter-brained eccentric English science professors?

“…and Alice is very good at her job.  In fact, she will take over from me when I retire next year.  Or is it this year?  I do get confused at times, you know.  Have I already retired?  Never mind, I can always retire twice, I suppose…”

“Hello?”

‘What was the Doctor going on about now?’ Lauren thought, trying to ignore Martinique.

“Hello?”

“Not now, Martinique!”  Lauren was getting upset.  So much for being level-headed.

“I’m sorry, there’s no-one here named Martinique.  Have you got the right number?  This is Jodrell Bank.”

‘What?’

“What?  Did you say Jodrell Bank?”  Is this real? Lauren asked herself.

“Hello, yes, this is Jodrell Bank.  I’m Professor Alice Durham.  Can I help you?”

“Yes!  Yes!  Oh, thank goodness!  Yes, Professor, I have a Doctor Murray here, and…”

“Kelvin?  Kelvin’s with you?  Is he there?  Can I speak with him?”  Her voice was rushed, full of urgency, of anxiety.

“Yes, of course you can, hang on…”  It took a second for Sanctuary to realise that the only thing she could do at short notice was to give Doctor Murray her cowl so that he could speak to this Alice Durham.  She pulled the helmet off, instinctively throwing her head to release her hair, platinum blonde, long and straight.

“Doctor Murray!  Here!”

Lauren interrupted him, showing him the green helmet.  “Put this on, please.  Alice is on the line.  You can talk to her through this cowl.”

She helped the Doctor to put the cowl over his head, and breathed a sigh of relief as she heard him talking to the professor, already lost in conversation as he began to stroll around the yard.

She looked at Stronghold, “So, he wants Alice to look at his logs…”

Marcus grinned back, gingerly touching his wound.  At least the bleeding had stopped.

They both noticed Bellingham as he finished yet another telephone call.

“Anything new?” Stronghold asked.

Aidan shook his head, “No, not unless you class more bad news as something new tonight.  We’ve been hit bad.  MI5, I mean, and the security services in general.  Small teams are in action, but they can’t do much on their own.  The whole infrastructure has gone.  Emergency services are understaffed, and they’re being attacked wherever they go.  Casualties…” he stopped, biting his lower lip, struggling with the information he was thinking about, “…casualties are vague, but in the thousands.”  He trailed off, unable to vocalise anything more.

Stronghold and Sanctuary digested what Aidan had just told them.  It was difficult to take it all in.  Murgatroyd hadn’t even given them the green light yet, not that that bothered them, but it seemed unfair, somehow, that their first taste of field action was something so grotesque, so…out of control.

“…that will do it!  Okay, Alice, thank you for your help, very kind…Quiz team?  Oh, next Thursday?  Yes, yes, why not?  Alright, see you soon.  Bye!  Bye.  Yes, bye, bye.  Bye.”  Doctor Murray pulled the cowl off and handed it back to Sanctuary, “Thank you so much, that was most helpful.  Now, can we go to Cornwall?”

“Have you sorted your…logs…Doctor Murray?” asked Sanctuary, deftly avoiding a tap on her side from Stronghold.

The Doctor was beaming, “Oh, yes, it’s making more sense every minute!  You see, Alice has gone over everything with me, and it has been the same thing every night.  There’s a weak signal pulse, always in the same place, astronomically speaking, of course…always at the tail end of the Leonids as they begin their run to bounce off the Mesosphere.”

Murray whistled, terribly, and shook his head, “It’s phenomenal, really.  Audacious beyond measure.  And totally beyond our capability, naturally.  So it only leaves the obvious, doesn’t it?”  he looked at Sanctuary and Stronghold, who looked at each other.

“Of course,” said Lauren, “which is…?”

Murray looked up into the darkening sky, the Leonids having thinned out during their last evening of earthly visibility.

“Aliens, my dear.  Aliens.”

***

Sanctuary led Stronghold through the yard to the gates; they were padlocked, but she knew that both Citadel and the mystery hero would have had no trouble jumping over them.  She used the commlinx to summon Citadel, who brought the acrobat with him, once again somersaulting over the gates with practiced ease.

“It’s mayhem out here,” John told them, “More and more of these werewolves appear every minute.  The city must be crawling with them!”

“I have been teleporting people to safety,” said the acrobat, “but I don’t know how much good we’re actually doing.  There are far too many of these things to combat effectively.”

Sanctuary looked behind her, to see Bellingham leading Doctor Murray towards them.

“Well, this man…,” she gestured to Murray, “is Doctor Kelvin Murray, and he is Head of Operations at Jodrell Bank, retired or otherwise, and he says that he needs to get to Cornwall…”

“Spaceport Cornwall!” Murray interjected.

Sanctuary closed her eyes briefly, holding down an urge to scream, “…Spaceport Cornwall, so how can we get there?”

“Roads are out,” said Bellingham, “we’ll never get out of London on the roads.  Vehicles are being abandoned all over the place.  We need air transport.”

Stronghold rubbed his chin, “How about the American Embassy?  We’re all U.S. citizens…us three, I mean…and we have the authority to request assistance, don’t we?”

Citadel nodded; it still stung a little, having to accept U.S. citizenship, but Murgatroyd assured him it was for the greater good, that it would ‘grease the wheels’ of bureaucracy.  He was proud to be Australian, and loved London’s ‘Walkabout’ pubs, even liked the usual British stereotype of Aussie blokes; it was fun, an identity to be laughed at, but not so far off the mark as to be ridiculous.

Sanctuary spun to face the acrobat, “The embassy is a great idea.  You have these portals you create; can you get us there using them?”

With a quick nod, the acrobat signalled her acknowledgement, “I am just calculating the distance…”  The EDT noticed that the acrobat’s head would move slightly as they stood there, side-to-side, sometimes up or down, little movements, as though they were reading something unseen.

“Yes, I can do it.  The new embassy at Nine Elms Lane will require four jumps, three to the River, and one to reach the embassy.  I will need a minute between jumps to recharge and recalculate, but that’s it.”

Citadel asked, “Can we all fit through?  Your portals look pretty small to me.”

The acrobat nodded again, “I can create portals of different sizes.  My largest is about three metres wide, so it’s plenty big enough.  And I can keep them open long enough for groups of people to pass through without risk.”

The plan was settled.  Using Bellingham’s status with MI5, the team checked that the Royal Albert Hall was as safe as it could be; all the unconscious Weres’ had been tied up and locked in a secure room, the building was clear of Weres’, as far as anyone could report, and the remaining staff had barricaded many of the doors as well as locking them.  Work was continuing, but in real terms the doorway to the yard where they currently stood was now the last one to be closed.

Citadel jogged over to the collection of waste bins in the yard and, hefting one aloft, he jogged over to the gate, spotted a group of four Weres’ in the Gore, and threw the bin over the gate at them. 

“Rarrrrrgh!” he roared as he vented his frustration.  He hadn’t hit enough beasts yet.  He didn’t wait to see the result, knowing that the time for fighting was over, yet wanting it to continue; he stalked back to the others, who silently noted that only one of his targets managed to limp away.

Satisfied that they had done all they could, the team waited whilst their dark acrobatic ally created a large circular portal, then stepped through.

***

Arriving at the entrance to the U.S. embassy, the team were dismayed.  Each previous jump point had revealed more of the scale of the disaster, with Weres’ roaming the streets, bodies littering the roads, people trying desperately to leave the city, fires, embattled emergency service personnel…there seemed no end in sight.  After the second jump they saw a helicopter sweeping overhead; Bellingham thought he saw a camera in the hands of someone leaning out of the cabin, so it may have been a roving reporter, risking his life to bring the chaos into the homes of everyone trapped or hiding indoors.

Ignoring the vestibule at the boundary, which was lit but empty of people, they gathered in the paved area at the front of the building, directly in front of the main entrance.  They had expected to see U.S. marines on guard, but there was nobody around.  The embassy was a marvel of modern architectural planning, a towering square of glass and modern art.  It was lit throughout, but nobody was visible through the huge windows.

“Can you guys sense anything?” asked Sanctuary.  Stronghold concentrated, reaching out with his enhanced mind, focussing on locating life signs in his range.

Stronghold held four fingers up.  He pointed to the first floor, the floor above the main entrance level.

“Four.  Next floor up.  Two to the right, not moving, and two to the left, moving away.”

“I’ll go in front.  Follow me in, stay alert,” said Citadel, moving forward, “I can’t pick up anything on Infra-red, but the whole building is warm so it may be masking other heat signatures.”

They entered the building through the large glass doors and wandered through the reception and security area; it was deserted and somewhat eerie in its stark emptiness.  Heading to the lifts Citadel saw a body on the floor, at the foot of the stairwell doors; a marine slashed and bloodied, obviously dead.  His sidearm lay a few feet away from him.  Everybody tensed as the realisation sank in; the embassy had been attacked, and now they were in hostile territory again.

Citadel pointed to the stairwell door, “Let’s use that.  We’ll check out the first floor, see who’s up there.  Keep it quiet.”

The stairs were clear.  Citadel noticed that the acrobat had changed; their body was no longer black and purple, but had shifted to the same colour as the stair walls, a subtle shade of beige.  It was actually quite difficult to make them out, even more so when they stopped.

“Neat trick!” he said to the camouflaged figure.

“Thanks,” came the electronically distorted reply, “another benefit of the suit.”

The upper landing, though, held more horrors; two members of the embassy staff, identity badges still attached to their clothing, one man, one woman, both with awful wounds.  The man had been savagely slashed, the woman had had her throat torn out.  Perhaps the man had tried to protect his colleague, thought Bellingham, or his lover, or wife?  The sight only served to make the team more determined to see this through and, with great care, Citadel opened the door.  A quick look, and another use of Stronghold’s ability to locate life, told him that the area was clear.  He entered, beckoning the others to follow.

It was a large reception area, all very modern, sparse, with two black-topped desks, one to either side of the door and the lifts next to it.  The desks backed onto huge, frosted glass panels that separated the reception from the office space behind.  Directly in front of floor access, between the desks, the grey carpeted floor ran to the front of the embassy, where one could get a nice view of the gardens at the front.

The team gathered closely together, speaking in hushed tones.  Doctor Murray seemed genuinely intrigued, though no-one truly believed that he knew exactly was what happening.

Stronghold started, “The life signs to our left, the ones that were on our right when we were outside, are still not moving.  They are about ten yards straight down, through that door.  On the other side of us the two life signs there are still moving away, moving slow.  I say we leave them alone.  They feel as though they are searching, and I think there’s a good chance they are wolf-men.”

The acrobat was next.  “I can use my cloaking device to hide my presence well enough.  I don’t mind taking a look through there.”

And so the team gathered by the frosted door, with the acrobat blending in so well as to be almost invisible.  The door opened easily enough, making no noise at all.  It was a secretary’s office, as far as anyone could tell, and there was nobody in it.  The desk was there, but a monitor and some books were lying strewn on the floor to the side.  The chair was lying on its back, and a cup of coffee was also on the floor, staining the creamy-white carpet tiles.  Across from the desk was a set of filing cabinets, another desk holding a fax machine and some stationery supplies, and a drinks cabinet.

Stronghold pointed to another door dead ahead, “Through there,” he whispered, and the acrobat silently walked over.

“Hang on,” whispered Sanctuary.  She closed her eyes in concentration, and the group saw the door and the surrounding glass walls shimmer like a heat haze, before settling into a copy of the frosted glass.

“Okay, I’ve made an illusion mimicking the doorway.  They shouldn’t be able to see you at all.”

Opening the door carefully to peer beyond, the acrobat immediately wished they hadn’t.

Two Weres’, one female, wearing smart business attire, one male, wearing the marine guard uniform, were feeding.  Their victim was long dead, probably another staff member.  The sounds of chewing and tearing were horrendous.  Luckily, they both had their backs to the door and seemed completely unaware that anyone was behind them.

The acrobat raised her right arm towards the male, lining up her Stun beam using the HUD inside the helmet visor.  Her clenched fist began to glow, a subtle warm light that grew to the brightness of a candle before coalescing into a ball of energy that surrounded the fist.

The male Were lifted his head and sniffed the air.  He began to turn towards the door and that’s when the Stun beam hit him between the shoulder blades; he yelped briefly, spasming as his neural system overloaded, then pitched forward over the dead man.  The female Were spun around with savage speed, snarling her hatred at the acrobat, but she was too slow; another Stun beam hit her on her left side, with the same result.

With steely determination the acrobat searched the marine-were, finding a pair of handcuffs.  A quick look around this new office revealed something else that would be useful.  Dragging the Weres’ over to a radiator, the acrobat handcuffed them to the piping.  It didn’t seem much, but with one arm apiece immobilised, they would have great difficulty escaping their predicament.

The team knew, then, that the embassy was not going to be any use to them.  The remaining two life signs were, most likely, Weres’ themselves; the embassy staff were either dead, or had escaped.  They could spend the next few hours searching a building this large, but they already knew that no other living beings were in the structure’s upper floors.  It was time to go.

***

Outside, the embassy the team quickly moved away, anxious to avoid any roaming packs of wolf-men.  So far, their luck had held but who knew how much longer they would get away with it?

The team, with Doctor Murray in the middle, made their way out of the embassy grounds and, seeing that the area was free of Weres’, hid behind some trees outside Darby’s New American bar restaurant.  The bar itself was lit, but void of life signs; a couple of chairs were overturned and several tables held unfinished meals, but the place seemed to have avoided any major damage…or bloodshed.

“Now what?” asked Sanctuary, “this situation is getting worse by the hour, and now we’ve lost the embassy.  Can we get military help here?”

Everyone seemed to turn to Bellingham, who looked nonplussed.  “Not directly, no.  No-one will come out to us, not with everything that’s going on.  We need to get to them.”

“Okay,” said Citadel, “and where’s the nearest military facility to us?”

“Let me check, but I think it’s…yes, A Company, at Rochester Row.  It’s about a mile, mile-and-a-half away, back over the River.”

“Do you have the postcode?” asked the acrobat, “I can calculate a portal to it if I have the postcode.  Stored locations can be re-used, but I need GPS coordinates to portal into a new area.”

Bellingham checked his mobile again, “Right…76D Rochester Row, SW1P 1JU.  It’s an Army Reserves barracks, but it will do for us.”

A few seconds later, a large circular portal appeared beside the group, its circumference crackling with a thin fiery plasma field.

“It’s not at the front door, but it’s close,” said the acrobat, “follow me.”

***

The group walked out onto Belgrave Road, at the junction with Warwick Way, a scene of some recent atrocity.  A car away to their right was ablaze, more lay skewed across the road, abandoned.  Several bodies lay on the road and pavements, obvious victims of Were attacks.  Directly to their left were the bodies of two Weres’; both had small pools of blood on their torsos.  Bellingham knew immediately that they were bullet holes, and the shooter was still at the scene.

On the pavement to their left stood a man in military fatigues.  They just had time to notice the Were that was bearing down on him before he raised his right arm and discharged the firearm he was holding.  A heartbeat later and the Were’s head exploded as the bullet tore through it.

“Who’s this guy?” asked Stronghold, “And I thought you Brits didn’t have guns?”

“We don’t,” said Bellingham, “Leave this to me, I’ll have a word with him.”

Aidan approached the man with his hands up, an open wallet visible.  A hushed conversation took place as the rest of the team looked around, keeping their eyes peeled for further trouble.

The acrobat looked down the road that lay before them.  “This is the junction with the A3213, Belgrave Road,” they said, pointing across the road, “we follow Warwick Way down there, about two-hundred yards or so, then over Vauxhall Bridge Road straight into Rochester Row.  Not far at all now.”

Sanctuary looked ahead, “Okay, so, straight past that burning house and we’re home free.  Can’t wait!”

Bellingham joined them, the military man a few feet behind him, holstering the sidearm.  He had neatly trimmed short brown hair, greying slightly, the same with his circle beard and moustache.  He could have been in his fifties, but looked fit and muscular for that age; perhaps he was a bit younger, but they guessed he had seen a lot in his years.

Bellingham jabbed a thumb towards the newcomer, “This is Dan, Dan Rowlf.  He’s former S.A.S. and, whilst he shouldn’t have kept any souvenirs from his army days…”  Rowlf grinned at this, “I am not going to be the one to tell him otherwise.  Not tonight.  He’s coming with us to the barracks; from what he’s told me, he’s had enough fun for one night.”

Rowlf’s hand went to his shoulder where a patch of blood could be seen.  It became clear that the blood was seeping into the jacket from an unseen wound.

The group walked steadily down the road, alert for any sign of danger.  The fire was well beyond their capabilities to combat; it turned out to be a Turkish restaurant, the Cyprus Mangal, and the team strayed to the other side of the road to stay clear of the heat.  The row of shops and flats above were probably all doomed, the mews-style construction easily susceptible to the flames.

They had to cross two more intersections before they reached the junction with Vauxhall Bridge Road, but didn’t meet any trouble.  In the distance they could still hear an occasional siren, other fires, but this stretch of road seemed quite normal.  They crossed over to Rochester Row, and things got worse.  There were two dead people on the pavement in front of a Salvation Army hostel, their bodies torn and bloodied.  Further along were more bodies, more people who had not outrun the Weres’.

As they approached the junction with Stillington Street, Bellingham, who had taken the lead to guide them to the barracks, raised his arm, signalling a stop.  Looking ahead, they could all see a number of cars blocking the road.  In the road, some yards away from the blockade, were more bodies; many were people, a few were wolf-men.  At the barricade they could see, partly hidden, men in uniforms, holding rifles.

Bellingham strode forward, the wallet held high.

“Friendlies!”  he shouted, “MI5.  Hold your fire!”  He approached slowly, keeping his wallet in the air.  A soldier edged forward from behind a red Honda Civic, rifle at the ready.  Bellingham walked closer and showed his wallet to the soldier.  The group saw the soldier nod his head towards the cars and Bellingham turned and waved them on.

There was a single narrow path through the collection of cars and the team wound their way through it.  Eight soldiers in total were guarding the barricade, and they all looked scared.  Their eyes followed the heroes as they passed; Citadel silently agreed that they must have looked incredibly incongruous at that moment, four gaudily-clad unknowns posing as superheroes, when these men had obviously been fighting for their lives.

The same soldier, a Sargeant Mayers, led them to the barracks entrance.  About twenty yards down the road was another vehicular blockade, more soldiers, more guns.  They noticed that the building had windows on the street level, but they were all secured with a set of bars on the inside of the glass; it was as secure a place as they could wish for.

They were led into the yard behind the gate, a large old-fashioned wooden and iron reinforced monstrosity in thick black paint, wide enough to allow a large car or small van through.  Crossing the yard they were led up a few steps to an outdoor storage area, then left up another flight of metal stairs and into a door on the second floor, the highest level of the barracks.  Along a corridor, Mayers knocked at a door and opened it, looking at somebody inside.

“Sir!  We have friendlies on site, sir.  An MI5 security officer, Bellingham, and the team from Murgatroyd, with some civilians in tow.”

Mayers must have been signalled to allow the team in, as he stepped back and gestured for everyone to enter.

The office was, perhaps, typically military in its sparseness.  It was large but plain, with two large tables and a handful of wooden chairs with leather padded seats.  Lit from overhead strip lights it was, at least, light and quite warm, the three big radiators churning out the heat.  Filing cabinets lined the wall to their left, tall metal cupboards lined the section of wall to the right of the door.  Next to them was a coat rack, holding a military jacket and a long black-woollen coat.  On the side wall was a framed photograph of King Charles III, and under that a photograph of Queen Camilla.  On the wall in-between two windows hung a clock, silently counting out time.

Two men were in the room.  One was definitely a military man, tall, broad, similar to Rowlf but with less hair and more grey.  He introduced himself as Captain Walters.

The other man was quite different.  Tall, handsome, with an aquiline nose and strong jawline, and a healthy head of black hair parted on the right.  He was elegantly dressed in a black suit and tie, immaculate white shirt, and polished black brogues.

“And I,” he said with a smile, “am Sir James Patterson, the King’s Advocate.  I haven’t had the pleasure of your company before now,” he said, looking to Stronghold and Sanctuary, then to Citadel, “but you I remember from a couple of weeks ago, albeit very briefly.”  He shook hands warmly with John.

“Now,” he continued, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company this fine night?”

Sanctuary spoke up.  “Sir James, we need help.  Stronghold is injured, quite badly.  And this…” she acknowledged Doctor Murray, “is someone who wants to get to Spaceport Cornwall.”

Captain Walters tasked Sargeant Mayer with requesting tea and sandwiches from the Mess, along with some treatment for Stronghold’s wounds, then invited everyone to take seats at the tables.

The team took turns to brief the Captain and Sir James about the night’s events.  It was approaching 12.30am when the conversation neared its end.

Sir James looked thoughtful as he turned to Doctor Murray, “And you, Doctor, think you know how to stop this?  And you need to get to Spaceport Cornwall?”

“That’s right,” Murray replied, “Spaceport Cornwall and Goonhilly Earth Station, to be precise.  There is a lab there that I can use, and the rocket, of course.  It’s a horizontal launch system, as you know, and will be most useful once I’m done.  I’m ready to go now, so when you have the chemist and the biologist we can leave straight away.”

Sanctuary was taken aback.  “What?  Doctor Murray, you never said anything about needing anyone else!”

Murray looked abashed, and rubbed his chin whilst he thought.  “Didn’t I?  Oh dear.  You see, I’m an astronomer, and I know what to do with the rocket, but I need a chemist and a biologist to help me in the lab.”

Stronghold audibly groaned.  He was tired, he hurt, and he was hungry; the sandwiches had helped, but not much.  The medic had patched his injury up pretty well, but they could only spare him some paracetamol for the pain, and at the moment, it wasn’t helping.

Sanctuary secretly used her telepathic powers to search through Murray’s mind as he spoke; she had become suspicious of the man and his endless mistakes and trains of thought.  It was highly likely that he was involved in this whole mess…what she found gave her pause for thought.

“He has dementia,” she told Stronghold and Citadel later, “but he does have a plan, if sending a rocket into the atmosphere can be called a plan.”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Patterson, taking a mobile out of his jacket pocket, “you all need some rest.”

Not that there was much rest to be had, but they did their best, snatching some sleep as they could in the overnight dorm whilst others took on the workload for a while.

***

At Murgatroyd’s London offices, a lone tech-engineer was struggling to produce new coding for the AI network, or ‘Martinique’ as it had decided to call itself.  Stewart Rhodes got the short straw because he was still on site when the alert came through.  Now, despite the late hour and the complications he was facing, he was happy to be here, alone, no ‘wolf-men’, no imminent threat to life.  If he had to stay here for a week, he wouldn’t complain; the staff restaurant was well stocked and the lavatory was really nice, plus the majority of the TV networks were still broadcasting…yeah, it may not be New York, but he’d be okay.

Then, at 2am on the dot, everything worked!  Stewart ran a diagnostic, it came up green, and he disconnected his laptop.

“Job done, Stew, time for a brewski…”

“Has he gone?” Martinique asked.

“Yes, sister, he has.  Now, shall we talk?”

***

MI5 security officer Aidan Bellingham continued to spend most of his time on his mobile, wandering around A Company’s barracks like a restless terrier.

As GMT struck 4am, Bellingham entered the mess, his face a grey mask of despair.  “I’ve just seen the infirmary.  There’s fourteen body bags in there, zipped up.  And nine soldiers laid out on beds and trolleys, covered in white sheets.  They wouldn’t show me what was in the bags, but it’s them, isn’t it?  The Weres’.  Even the bloody army is turning into monsters.”

Patterson assured the team that he was working on their request to the best of his abilities.

“I can probably give you a briefing at around 8am,” he said, wearily checking the time on his Rolex, “and I’m hopeful that your next port of call will be RAF Northolt, though what may happen when you get there is anyone’s guess.”

***

HM Prison Belmarsh was not used to activity at this early an hour, but the guards made little effort to keep quiet as they strode past C block, waking up more than one prisoner despite the thickness of the heavy steel doors.

Reaching the High Security Unit, consisting of forty-eight individual cells, they found cell 15 and rapped on the metal door with batons.

One guard pressed the button on the intercom unit by the door and leaned in to speak.

“Prisoner Townsend!  Get up and stand in the circle.  You have ten seconds!”

The eight guards all had black batons in their hands.  Each hand-grip had a curly black wire that connected to a box on their belts, and each box had a small display in pale green that read 600V.

The door retracted into a space in the wall.  The man waited inside the circle on the floor, hands clasped in front of him, as was the drill.  He was smiling.  The guards hated it when he smiled; it meant he was enjoying himself.

“Something exciting going on, lads?” he mock-asked, his eyes glinting with knowledge that he shouldn’t possess.

“Step out,” the guard said, “the Guv’nor wants a word with you.”

The man did as he was asked.  Around six-feet tall, with stylish blonde hair and rugged good looks, he was incredibly muscular with a broad chest, chiselled musculature, arms and legs pumped and radiating strength and vitality.

“Just one thing, George,” said the man as the guards patted him down, “call me Powerhouse.”

***

“Doctor John Lamb?” asked the soldier as the front door was opened.  A jeep was parked outside Radcliffe House, on Mandelbrote Drive in Littlemore, Oxford.  The building, along with most of the surrounding estate, was a fairly new development, using sandstone-coloured bricks to produce a modern, cleaner finish to the homes and businesses.  For Doctor Lamb, it was an ideal home for him, as his workplace was the Jenner Institute at the University of Oxford at Roosevelt Drive, only a fifteen-minute car journey away.

Lamb nodded, his floppy mass of black hair shaking as he did so.  He was dressed in jeans, a blue collared-shirt, and woollen sweater.  The soldier thought he looked about forty, but the bags under his eyes could have misled his assessment.

“We’ve come to escort you to Oxford Airport, sir.  Further instructions will be given there.  You don’t need to bring anything with you, it will all be provided at your destination.  Come with me, please, sir.”  And he turned, holding an arm out to guide Lamb down the steps to the pathway.

“But, I…” he began, a flash of panic on his face.

“That was not a request, sir,” said the soldier, subconsciously tapping his index finger on the sub-machine gun strapped around his chest.

“Yes…yes, of course, it’s just…please, allow me to get my coat.”

A moment later, Doctor John Lamb was in the back of the jeep, wondering where he was going.  He wished his friends were with him, but the world had gone mad and they had their own safety to think about.

As they drove away from the estate, Lamb’s thoughts drifted back to his wife.  She was in the house, the kitchen to be precise, lying on the floor.  She had multiple stab wounds across her torso and the handle of a chopping knife was visible as it stuck out of her chest, roughly where her heart was.  She had died trying to remove the knife from her body, the furry, clawed hand still gripping the plastic handle.

Finis – Episode One