I haven't written anything for a long time. This is something that's been sitting in a notebook for a couple of years now and I've been thinking about it recently. I have a little more than what's here, but it's late and I'm tired of typing it up. I'll eventually add it, and perhaps even continue it.
This is rough to read, particularly the first bit. I've lost the original intro and I think it shows a lot in the first page. I'm rusty, so apologies for that. Still, I hope you enjoy and leave feedback, particularly if you see a plothole I've missed. The only thing I have changed from the movie is that Captain Ryan did indeed shoot Sam. With the dog dead, there's nothing to distract him from killing Cooper in the basement, and thus Ryan is the one to survive.
Finally, I apologize for any mistakes I've made having to do with an American trying to write for Brits, and as a civilian trying to write for soldiers. Any and all mistakes are mine.
He wakes because he's cold and wet. He sits up, cool concrete digging into his skin as he rubs the sleep and red out of his eyes.
Red? What's- oh.
Oh god.
He's in a cellar, the pack's cellar, he remembers, but the ceiling's gone and the rain's coming in. The explosion earlier made an impression; he remembers the vast sound and blacking out. Then coming to again to find-
Cooper's staring at him. His jaw is missing, tongue and throat and ribcage all torn away so he could get at delicate lungs and heart. He remembers the liver particularly, how tasty and tangy-
Captain Richard Ryan gags and coughs. He turns away from the corpse and staggers to his bare feet only to come face to face with more bodies. Black uniforms, innards missing and the sheer smell of the pit hits him full in the face. He stumbles back, already spewing and manages to double over before he falls. He coughs as he finishes and nearly spews again as the stench of fresh vomit invades his nostrils. He snorts to clear his nose and settles on breathing through his mouth while he accesses his situation.
His mission has gone utterly pear-shaped. The infantry are all dead, half of his own team is dead – he refuses to look at the bodies on the hooks again – and the other half…well, they should be on their way here, shouldn't they. Shite. Night's coming in- fuck, his watch is gone and he's not certain where the sun is in the clouded sky. He knows the white coats were wrong, though. It's not just the full moon and he won't risk the last of his men tonight. He has to move.
He gets to his feet again, gaze skirting the corpses, and looks around. There are piles of clothes, rucksacks, and kit in the corners, thrown there haphazardly. He moves to the nearest one of these and starts sorting through the gear, setting aside clothes that'll actually fit. There are several canteens partially full of water and he uses one to rinse the awful taste out of his mouth and rinse the worst of the red off his face and hands. Then he's throwing on some poor bastard's too big purple shirt and khaki trousers. The shoes he manages to find are a size too large, but he makes up for it with thick woolen socks filling the gaps. He takes a rucksack, too, and fills it with what might be useful: flint, tarp, extra clothes. The canteens he's managed to pour together into two not quite full ones. He puts a knife holster on the sturdy belt he scrounged up while he looks over the map of the area.
It's an old one, out of date, and doesn't quite match the one they planned the mission from. It doesn't help that he's still turned around from last night. He'd been badly unfocused when Wells' men found him and he doesn't know which way they fled after. He doesn't remember the road Megan found them on from the map at all. Fuck, how much had the bitch kept from them? He clicks his teeth together and growls, the sound mixing with the pitter patter of rain around him as he reaches for the compass.
He freezes at the sound and his heart rate jumps as the low rumble in his chest dies. He's long used to adrenaline rushes, training and experience both have taught him how to use them to stay alive but that was always against an active threat. He doesn't know what to do with it now when the adrenaline comes with panic. He just growled. He's become one of the things he watched rip his men apart, that ripped him apart, and he remembers all of what happened after he changed.
He realizes he's hyperventilating and he forces his eyes shut and takes a deep breath through his nose. Bad idea, he realizes too late as the smells of the cellar hit him again and it's too much. He bolts, snatching up the map and compass and doesn't stop until he's on fresh-singed grass breathing great bouts of clean rain-soaked air. It helps, being in the open, and he slowly collects himself and reorders his objectives. Still at the top is keeping the last half of his team safe and he can't do that by staying here. He doesn't want to meet them at this dead house anyway.
Despite everything, he feels good. Really good. There's a pressure in him like what he felt last night, only it isn't growing this time. It's holding steady, making him antsy, and he fidgets as he puts the map and compass away. He knows which way is north, but still not where on the map he is or which way he should go. He has a feeling it's later in the day than he'd like, but that just makes him more eager to get started. He's overcome by an urge to move and he starts at a slow jog trying to find a landmark, purposefully heading away from the road they came in on.
Is he going deeper into the woods? Or towards a population center? He isn't certain and a part of him doesn't care. It feels good to move and he can focus on that and keeping his feet under him instead of anything else. He knows he hasn't failed his main mission objective: the team has indeed obtained a live werewolf. But they were never supposed to be at risk, not his team. There was only supposed to be one, god dammit. At least now there actually is only one. He supposes he can thank Wells' men for that much, at least. But he still wants to be as far away from other human beings as he can.
If he can even consider himself human anymore.
Shite, that's a road, isn't it? Road means people means this is not the way he wants to go. He skids to a stop, only then realizing he was running. Shite, shi- no, it's okay, he can use this. He drops to his knees, slinging his pack around and pulling out the map. Where the hell is the bloody road? That's the one they came in on, and he thinks that's the glen with the house, so is this the one over there? Did he really travel all that distance? Good god, how long had he been running?
"Sir?"
Ryan jumps, finding himself on his feet with teeth bared as a twinge goes through him. He's halfway through a snarl as he realizes: uniform.
Shite.
"Sir, I've found the captain," the man, Rundell, says into his radio.
"What's his condition?"
"Sir?" Rundell's looking at him expectantly and Ryan shifts his weight, wanting to move. Something in him twinges again.
"I want the tranquilizers," he snaps, taking a step towards the private. "Now."
Rundell blinks at him warily. "We need the tranquilizers, Lieutenant. He's out of uniform."
Ryan nearly growls at that and the man sidesteps away. The radio is silent for a long moment before it crackles, "What's your 20?" Rundell answers that they're next to the road. "Head back to camp. We'll meet you there."
"Acknowledged."
"Which way?" Ryan snaps, dropping his bag on the ground. Rundell gives him another strange look as he points out the direction. The captain nods and considers running the other way, but Rundell would only chase him and bring the others behind. If they're that close, he can't outdistance them before…before tonight.
He opens his mouth to tell Rundell to follow, then thinks of a better order. "I was infected. Warn them I'm coming." He starts running before the soldier can respond.
He feels better running, even as the feelings it brings up scare the shit out of him. Please let him beat the moon. This is the only chance they'll have.
He crashes into the camp, startling Keeton, Whitman, and Lt. Burriss into training their MP-5s on him.
"Sir," the lieutenant says, the first to put his weapon up even while he still looks surprised to see him. His gaze flicks behind Ryan. "Good time. Rundell said you were…infected?"
"Yes," Ryan answers grimly, stalking to the center of the camp and ignoring another twinge. He can't have much time left. "The tranquilizers?" Keeton hefts the rifle with the darts and Ryan nearly blesses the man for being prepared. "Good. Shoot me."
"…sir?"
"Shoot me, Keeton." He welcomes the growl in his voice this time. "Put me down and keep me there till morning." Keeton looks to Burriss for help.
"Sir, do you mean you're-"
"The objective? Yes! The scientists were wrong. Now, shoot me."
"Maybe you should sit down, Captain."
"God dammit, Burriss," Ryan snarls, turning on the man, grabbing his collar, and yanking him off his feet. "The moon is rising." Now, judging by the way the man's eyes widen and Ryan's vision just switched to grayscale. "I can't stop myself and bullets won't work. I heal too fast, now shoot me!" His teeth are itching and he lets Burriss go before his claws get caught in the man's coat. It's just as well since the moon gives up on making him twinge and instead focuses on making him change. He staggers with a grunt, nearly falling.
"Captain!" Whitman starts to step in, but Burriss stops him and they both stand there staring.
"Shoot me," Ryan rasps, voice coming out all wrong, too deep for his throat. And then he does buckle, cramping badly as bone and muscle stretch in unnatural ways, ripping apart like the clothes he's wearing, cracking, tearing, and it hurts it hurts it hurts-
He huffs and growls at the rags entangling him, tossing them aside as he gets to his feet- ow! Something just nipped him and. And. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.
"Again!"
He whirls to find the thing that spoke, registering prey, raises a clawed hand and- ow! What is. What's biting him? He turns again, too slow he knows, what's wrong with him? Sees another man behind him with a gun that phhts again, slamming a dart into his chest.
The werewolf- no, the Captain blinks, rumbling drunkenly. Burriss could swear it- he glares accusingly at Keeton before he finally drops, still far too slow for the dose they've given him.
Fuck.
The lieutenant lets out a shaky breath. "Keeton, watch him. If he twitches, give him another dose."
"Sir."
"Whitman, start packing it in. I'm calling this." The three look up as Rundell appears, gasping at the dark shape between them.
"What the bloody hell is that?"
"That," Burriss says as he starts digging out the radio, "is the captain."