Darren Shan - Wolf Island

“Timas!” Shark shouts. “We can’t hold much longer. They’re crowding in.”

“My plan wouldn’t work if they didn’t,” Timas says, then gently tosses one of his devices forward. It lands a metre ahead of us, less than two metres from the rabid wave of werewolves. “Close your eyes,” he purrs, lobbing another bomb after the first, then covering his face with an arm.

The first device explodes as I snap my eyes shut. The second explosion follows almost instantly. Screams replace howls. I chance a look. It’s like a bulldozer has ploughed through the werewolves ahead of us. Dozens are on the ground, dead or bleeding, whimpering and confused. Those to the sides are barking with anger and fear, backing away from the carnage. Before they can recover their wits, Timas lobs three more devices, one left, one right, one straight ahead.

“These are a bit more destructive than the first two,” he warns. “You might want to cover your ears also.”

His warning comes just in time. I’ve only barely jammed my hands over my ears when the devices explode. The vibrations shake my brain around inside my skull. When I look again, the devastation is unbelievable, like a field of dead in a war movie. Those not caught by the blasts are scrambling backwards, yowling with pain, ears and noses bleeding. Werewolves have much sharper senses than humans. This must be sheer agony for those not killed.

Timas turns neatly and takes another device from me. Looking back, I see that the creatures on the other side of the wall have come to an uncertain halt. Several are rubbing at their ears and whining. Nowhere near as disorganised as those who bore the brunt of the explosions, but shaken all the same.

When Timas lobs the bomb at them and it explodes, the surviving werewolves bolt like a pack of panic-stricken dogs. Timas tips an imaginary hat to them, twirls like a ballerina, grabs another device from me and throws it at those on the compound side. The werewolves might not be the brightest creatures in the world, but they’ve seen enough to know that when the tall, red-headed guy throws something, it means trouble. Roaring abominably, they break and flee, even the enhanced beasts.

We don’t waste time congratulating Timas, just bolt for the freedom of the island beyond the wall, determined to take full advantage of the lull, certain it won’t last long. Timas is the only one who doesn’t run immediately. He remains behind, setting more devices in the ground between the gap in the wall.

Moments later he catches up with us and retrieves the bombs which I’ve been holding. His rucksack looks pretty flat now, but he doesn’t seem worried. He grins at me as he pockets a couple of the explosives. “That was the first practical experience I’ve had of controlled detonations,” he says.

I gawp at him. “You’d never used a bomb before?”

“No. I’d read about them, but this was the first chance I had to put my knowledge to the test.” He looks back and frowns at the hole in the wall, the cloud of dust in the air, the dismembered bodies of the butchered werewolves. “What do you think? Eight out of ten, or am I being too generous?”

“Shut up, you genius of an idiot,” I laugh. “And run!”

We race to the top of a small incline, Timas leading the way. We pause to catch our breath and gather our wits. I can already see a few werewolves sniffing around the gap in the wall. As they creep through, one steps on a landmine and sets it off. The others scatter at top speed.

I feel like cheering, but I don’t want to tempt fate. Besides, it won’t take them long to try one of the other, unmined gaps. Once they discover a safe way out of the compound, they’ll pursue us again, only this time they’ll be even more determined to hunt us down, to make us pay.

Timas sets another couple of devices at the top of the little hill, covering them with loose earth, like someone planting seeds.

“What else do you have in there?” Shark asks, nodding at the rucksack.

“Not much,” Timas sighs. “I have a few mines in my pockets and some grenades in case we run into resistance. As for the rest… enough to bring down the cave entrance. There won’t be much left over.”

“Did anybody else notice the larger breeds?” Prae pants. “At the rear?”

“Yes,” I answer softly, but I’m the only one.

“Horwitzer’s work,” she growls. “They’re even deadlier than the others. They hung back where it was safe, waiting for the ideal moment to strike. If there are more of those, or if they catch up with us before we make it to the cave…” She shakes her head.

“If Timas is right, there’s a couple of hundred of them in total,” I tell her.

Prae’s face goes ashen.

“None of that,” Shark snarls, clicking his scorched fingers in front of her eyes. “We won’t have pessimism. By any account we should be dead already. But we’re not. Having come through that, we can survive anything. If you disagree, keep it to yourself.”

Prae chuckles weakly, then pushes to her feet and looks over the island. I stand and stare too. We can’t see anything except grassland, which gives way to bushes and trees. But I can hear the howls of werewolves. They’re getting closer.

“Shark,” I say nervously.

“I know.” He stretches, then groans. “My back’s killing me. Never had trouble before. I might have to think about retiring after this one.”

We all laugh. It’s the free and edgy laughter of people who’ve come through hell and lived to tell the tale, but have to face the journey at least one more time.

Shark clicks his tongue and everyone rises. Liam and Stephen are covered in blood, filth and scraps of hairy flesh. Meera hasn’t returned Timas’ gun, but is cradling it like a baby. Prae’s trembling, but holding herself together. Only Timas looks unconcerned, as if we’re on a leisurely stroll. The rest of us are beaten and worn.

But we’re alive. And that gives me hope. We might make it off this island yet, damn the odds. If we do, it’ll rank as one of the greatest escapes ever, up there with Beranabus’s finest death-defying shimmies. I almost want to survive just to prove to the magician that he’s not the only cat with nine lives.

If he’s still alive. Thinking about him reminds me of Juni’s taunt, that Dervish, Bec and Beranabus have been set upon by the Shadow. Are they in an even worse spot than us? Has Beranabus been catapulted into the afterlife ahead of me, along with Bec and my uncle?

Before I can dwell on that grim possibility, Shark barks a command. As we sprint down the opposite side of the incline, all other fears and thoughts are forgotten. Running… werewolves… the cave. There’s no room inside my head for anything else.

The howls intensify as we run, coming from all directions, a cacophony of wolfen roars tightening around us like a net. But we don’t spot another werewolf until, cutting our way through a small copse, one leaps from a tree without warning and drags Shark to the ground. The pair roll away from us, and though the soldiers in our group swiftly train their weapons on the beast, I’m sure they’re too late. I resign myself to the loss of our leader.

But Shark isn’t ready for the grave just yet. Staggering to his feet, he shoulders the howling werewolf away. The others can’t shoot because he’s in their way, and Shark lost his gun in the attack.

“Down!” Stephen yells, desperate to put a bullet through the werewolf’s head.

Shark has other ideas. Jerking a knife from his belt, he leaps on the savage beast and drives the blade into its stomach, chewing on its left ear for extra impact. The werewolf screams and claws at Shark’s back, ripping his shirt and much of his flesh to shreds. But Shark jabs at it a second time and a third, and its hands drop away. Moments later he shrugs it off and hobbles free.