Darren Shan - Wolf Island

I’m so glad Gret and Bill-E aren’t down there. In a weird way I’m glad they’re dead, rather than captive on this island. Better to be out of life entirely than struggle through it as a tormented, hopeless, inhuman victim.

The others are studying the werewolves with a mixture of curiosity and loathing. They have no ties to these unfortunate mutants. They view them simply as enemies. If our plan works, we should have no dealings with the werewolves. But if complications set in, the soldiers might find themselves up against the killer beasts, and in that case they’ll have to be ruthless.

Antoine is the only one not awed by the spectacle. He stole a quick glance at the werewolves when we hit the island’s edge, then closed his eyes, dug rosary beads out of a pocket and began to pray. I hadn’t pegged him as a religious type, but when I think about it, it makes sense. After all, the Lambs named themselves after a biblical quote.

My stomach clenches and I almost throw up. It’s the werewolf, fighting to free itself. I stop staring at Antoine and focus on driving the wolf back inside. It retreats reluctantly and I feel sorry for it. If I could let it loose for a while, somewhere it couldn’t cause damage, I would, just to give it a taste of freedom.

The compound walls come into sight. I was expecting a fence, but there isn’t one, only a long wall of high, thick, metal panels. Lots of werewolves are gathered by the wall, hurling themselves at it, clawing its smooth grey surface, howling at those inside, the stench of human flesh thick in their nostrils. (The stench is also thick in mine. My lips tremble and I am careful not to drool.)

As we approach the wall I catch my first glimpse of the compound. It’s built on the extended tip of the island, surrounded on three sides by cliffs and water. The werewolves have only one route of attack. Even if they could swim (Antoine told us they can’t), they’d struggle to climb the sheer cliffs, despite their claws.

The compound’s nothing special. A series of grey, drab buildings with flat, aluminium roofs. There are lots of grooves in the ground, which Timas points out, speaking through the microphone on his headset.

“They use the grooves to slot the walls into place,” he explains. “An ingenious system. Just lay the grooves, then slide the panels around and click them together. Makes it easy to shuffle the rooms and alter the layout.”

“Those walls can’t be sturdy,” Shark grunts.

“They are,” Timas insists. “Designed to withstand anything nature can throw at them. The architects couldn’t take chances, not with hundreds of werewolves lying in wait on the other side.”

There’s a landing pad inside the main wall, to the left. A single helicopter stands idle. There are several motorboats stored under tarpaulins at either side of the crag, rope ladders stacked beside them. In the event of an evacuation, that’s how the staff would leave, lowering the boats and climbing down into them.

Guards spill out of the nearest building as we touch down, cocking rifles and pistols. One roars through a megaphone, commanding us to come out unarmed.

“This is it!” Shark yells, brandishing his handguns. “Don’t kill if you can help it, but don’t show too much mercy either. These guys knew what they were signing up for. They’ve already murdered seventeen people. They’ll rip us to shreds if we give them the chance.”

He rolls out and across the ground, leaps to his feet and opens fire, supported instantly by his team, even Timas, wielding a high-tech weapon that provides him with all sorts of fascinating feedback.

Meera and I share a worried glance, then slide out after the others on to the bullet-riddled tarmac, leaving James and Marian to guard the helicopter. Antoine stumbles out after us, still praying, crouched low, sweat staining the collar of his otherwise spotless shirt.

The air is ablaze with gunfire. A number of guards are already lying wounded or dead. Others are firing wildly. It’s a simple matter for the well-trained members of Shark’s squad to pick them off.

The last few, realising the futility of their position, discard their weapons and thrust their hands into the air. The gunfire ceases. Leo darts forward and makes them lie down, then handcuffs their wrists and ankles. While he’s doing that, the other soldiers advance to the open door and surround it. When Leo joins them, Shark holds up three fingers and counts down. Liam and Terry burst through, laying down a spray of advance fire. In pairs, the rest of the team follow them in. Meera and I bring up the rear, Antoine and Pip ahead of us. The bloodshed sickens me. I don’t mind slaughtering demons, but these are people. It’s not right. I know we have no choice, that these guys are murderers, but still…

Cool inside. Air-conditioned. Brightly lit. Liam and Terry are already at the end of the room and halfway through the door to the next room or corridor. No sign of anybody else. These are living quarters. Bunks, cabinets, racks for clothes, photos of models and relatives pinned to the walls. Those we hit outside must have been relaxing. They wouldn’t have been expecting an attack. I wish they hadn’t reacted so swiftly. If we’d caught them in here, we wouldn’t have had to kill so many.

“You OK?” Meera asks as we wait for the call to advance.

“Not really,” I groan.

“I know it’s hard,” she says quietly. “Try not to think of them as humans but as demonic assistants.”

“But they probably know nothing about the Demonata,” I protest.

“They knew about the seventeen Lambs they killed,” Meera snaps. “These aren’t innocents.”

“But they’re still people. I don’t feel comfortable killing like this.”

Meera smiles wanly. “That’s a good thing. Try and hold on to that attitude. The world’s packed with too many trigger-happy goons.”

“Like Shark?” I grin shakily.

Meera’s face puckers into something between a scowl and a smirk. Before she can answer, one of the soldiers—I think it’s Spenser—shouts affirmatively and we’re moving forward again, further into the heart of the compound.

We don’t encounter much resistance. The occasional guard or two. We’re able to overpower most of them and leave them handcuffed, alive. We only face one real obstacle, when several guards block a long corridor and fill it with furniture. They have a great vantage point. If we try to rush them, we’ll be cut down before we get halfway. But Shark isn’t fazed. He calls Pip forward. She studies the piled-up furniture, makes a few calculations, then takes off her rucksack and roots through it. Produces a small round object. It looks like a thick CD.

“Who’s good with Frisbees?” Pip asks.

“Here,” Liam says. He takes the disc, aims, then glances at Pip. “Do I need to press anything?”

“No. But if you don’t throw it quickly, you’ll lose an arm.

Liam yelps, then sends the disc skimming down the corridor. It hits the mound of furniture near the base and explodes on contact. The desks, chairs and cabinets fly backwards, obliterating the guards behind them. We’re on the scene seconds later, Shark’s troops handcuffing any survivors. Stephen bends over a seriously wounded man. Starts to cuff him, then pauses, studies his injuries, sets him down and presses the barrel of his gun to the man’s head. I look away but I can’t drown out the retort of the muffled shot.

We push on, the air thick with the stench of scorched wood, blood and whatever was in Pip’s bomb. Antoine’s still praying. I almost feel like joining in.

The corridors and rooms all look the same to me, but the soldiers know exactly where they’re going. A couple of minutes later, we’re at the door of Prae Athim’s office. There are no markings to confirm that, but Timas is certain. He steps ahead of us and raps softly. “Knock, knock,” he calls. “Anybody home?”