Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Fourteen

'Officer Morris 1962,'

The alarms blared, and it wouldn't be long before guards rushed to the main hospital entrance on high alert. What the staff had described for them to watch out for was anyone's guess. A chainsaw-wielding maniac soaked in blood? Or a samurai warrior fresh from beheading someone? It turned out all it took was a set of razor-sharp claws attached to a six-foot-two beast in a skin suit.

Facedown with my shoulders hunched, I stared at my toes protruding from brown sandals, the wheels on either side rolling forward as we moved from the lift. Heading towards the sign for the 'Emergency exit,' I still had remnants of the doctor's blood smeared across the toe tips, a dark reminder of the chaos we were trying to escape.

My hackles were waving at visitors shuffling past, claiming our space in the lift. The sensation of being followed was back. Glancing out the corner of my eye, I couldn't spot anything—a looming shadow, causing a dull tension headache to pound at the back of my skull.

With a quick spin, I backed into the safety bar, pulling the kid and the chair through, scanning for anything behind us. The mayhem had started; two guards were hastening towards the main doors while smaller, single doors on each side remained unattended. They wouldn't want to cause too much of a scene in a bustling hospital full of patients and visitors.

Neither guard seemed up for it. On the hefty side, one was short, with three chins vying for the same spot on his chest. Probably had the stamina of a sixty-a-day smoker. The other was leaner, someone who might have aspired to be a police officer once but failed over a lack of discipline. He was busy charming a young lady reading a newspaper.

I spun forward, feeling the night breeze whip through my scrubs, envious that the kid could stay asleep. It was hard enough to keep this thing inside quiet. What version of the child would wake up, anyway? His state in the basement last night was pain and fear. Waking up in a wheelchair would shock anyone; I remembered going on a stag do that ended that way. The chair was also chained somewhere on the M25; Lymington Spar rang a bell. Imagine the kid.

I could feel it, though—the thing inside me. It was fighting to be heard and free—a parasite wanting to feed on human flesh. Right now, it was feeding on my soul. If it was even a fraction of what that boy could be, then it scared the hell out of me. I didn't want to become a rampaging murderer. Old red eyes had no problem with it; what's a ripped throat between friends?

I couldn't let that happen, but in the last few minutes, there was a shift within—a stirring. Gripping the wheelchair handle, I saw my hand pulsing and shaking. Now wasn't a good time. Night had set in, streetlights flicking on one by one, with the biggest of them all, the full moon shining brightly.

I watched the driver exit the van, a young bloke with a clipboard dressed in a grey uniform—the shirt and trousers of a delivery driver. We were waiting to see what he let loose from the back of the van, weighing my options. I could talk our way into getting a lift, explain I'm a cop with no ID and wearing a dead man's blood. Or wait and see where he goes; perhaps the van gets unattended, and we can hide in the back. I would have to lose the wheelchair and bundle the boy in, but it could work.

The driver dumped his fourth bag amongst the dust, approaching a fifth. Without knowing how many bags were being delivered, there was no telling how long I had to decide. As I set the wheelchair rolling, hearing the rubber squeaking, I had reached three-quarters of the way when I heard a loud bang from one of the van doors.

Both were open; I assumed the driver did it for easier access to the front. As I reached the slope's brow, my ears twitched, cutting through the spinning fans' noise. Three separate heartbeats were thumping away, all at varying speeds and distances. If there was an upside to this chaos, it was knowing what it would take to quell the beast.

Carried away with myself, too focused that I didn't hear the footsteps. Out of the blue, like a fox breaking into the henhouse. Still hidden, I couldn't see anything; the footsteps were heavy. They were in tandem for a few seconds with the lighter, more scuffed movement—another steady heartbeat. Then nothing. No beating and no steps. You could hear a pin drop, worryingly so. I held still, being cautious if this mess had taught me anything. Expect the unexpected. Easier said than done with the darkness creeping in.

Shoving the wheelchair forward, I stepped slowly, attempting stealth. The chair suddenly gave a short, piercing squeak, making me jump before darting my head left and right, panicking. I expected the footsteps to come, but nothing.

Gathering speed, we moved closer to the van, stifling my breathing, fearing it was too loud. Then I heard, with a sense of trepidation, a low drip. 'Tap, tap, tap,' followed by the distinctive smell. The bulking arm lasted longer before fading again. The nearer I got, the worse my reaction. Loud cracking of bone; my body was being pulled in two. Absolute agony—I've been shot and stabbed; this was a cricket bat to the spine. I battened down my teeth so hard to stop my screams that I could feel the pressure mounting in my jaw. Several grew longer. At first, I thought saliva was seeping through the cracks of my lips; when the wetness splashed on my toe, I saw it was blood.

My body was changing—taller and painfully widening. Both hands had become huge and menacing, with all claws pointing, sharp and ready. My brain checked out, and I was at a loss for what was happening other than torture. All because I could smell blood.

In danger of losing control, moving to the van's rear, but no one. The bags were still in the loading area. Even in the bloodlust haze, I controlled myself enough to look around. Allowing the scent that wasn't my own to guide me, I noticed a large rainbow spray over the closed door. Red streaks dripped down the white panelling, another trail of droplets starting two to three feet away from the van and heading towards those large metal bins.

I knew the poor old van driver was dead. My ears twitched for footsteps, feeling the raging bloodlust while it scared the other part of me senseless. Maybe Old Red Eyes was still around. Was there no end to his depravity? Praying I wasn't next after all. On the back foot, with limited options, I was trying to summon the composure for what to do next.

I quickly wheeled to the driver's door, looking through the window, keys still in the ignition. The night's temperature was dropping, and the boy was barely dressed. Sensing an opportunity, I lifted the lifeless child from the chair, laying him across the passenger seats, letting a musky dust spring up. We couldn't hang around, and stealing a van wouldn't be my usual way of doing things, but needs must.

Focusing on the chance to escape, I could push the beast back into the box again. The claws subsided, and arms returned to normal. Meanwhile, the pain and breaking of bones trailed off. There was no time to check the bins and see if he was still alive, with no heartbeat; it didn't seem likely. Why kill a random stranger? Nothing made sense.

I could hear laughter coming from the stairwell. Two people. With a final frantic search around, the van doors slammed shut, and I was in the driver's seat with the engine ticking over. Ticking would be an exaggeration, more a spluttering and struggles of a diesel-sapping tractor. I would only hope it wasn't as slow.

The boy remained asleep; Iwatched his little chest rise and fall, and his heartbeat remained steady. Sopeaceful, hoping that would be his life ahead. We chugged forward, letting thesqueal of a failing fan belt ring through the air. About to turn left ontoStepney Way when I gave a cursory look in the cracked offside mirror to see ifthe laughing twosome had come outside yet. Fearing they'd see the blood and medriving away. Only to see the mysterious, looming presence of the menace withred eyes. Long black coats, jeans, and matching shirts only buttonedthree-quarters of the way. I should've been surprised, and maybe a tiny partwas. He was true to his word, watching and deciding to take another life tohelp us escape. Why?