Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown

by Stephen Bills

  * * *

  Mitchell leaned out the helicopter’s open door. Archi was very impressive, especially for an island that apparently didn’t exist. Its few hills on the western edge became cliffs that plummeted into the sea. On its east side, a beach extended most of the island’s length. Roads spiralled nonsensically. The town had clearly expanded wherever it could whenever it had to. Most of the industry seemed confined to the south, though, where the land was swampier and the roofs were grey with soot rather than rosy red.

  Mitchell tried to guess where the wolf would make her home. Probably in the woodland and forests to the north or the park in the very centre of the island.

  “Pilot, put us down!” Mitchell said. “The rest of you, prepare to drop!”

  He pulled off the headset, looped the strap of his L85A2 assault rifle around his neck, and kept half an eye on the red light above the door as Archi grew larger beneath them. It had a retro look, like they were dropping into a 1960s painting. The buildings were all stone or wood. The people drove old cars, held wicker baskets, and wore knitted sweaters. There wasn’t a single advertisement bigger than a fold-out sign in front of a shop.

  The helicopter came to rest above a marketplace, hurling newspapers around the square. Townsfolk raised chubby arms to ward off the dust or tried to hold still their terrified livestock.

  The light above the door turned green and Mitchell dropped out of the helicopter, landing smoothly a moment later. Behind him, the seven other members of the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team rappelled down and swept the area with their L85s for signs of trouble. Around the marketplace, fifty dull-looking, windswept inhabitants stared back. One bleated.

  Mitchell signed for them to lower their weapons. There was no threat here. Probably wasn’t a single threat on the whole island. “Which way, doctor?” he asked. Above, the helicopter thundered away.

  “I don’t know,” McGregor said. “Detective Paddington didn’t sign the email with a postal address.”

  Mitchell selected a startled man who’d dropped his shopping. Fear was good. Fear led to cooperation. “Which way to the police station?” he asked.

  The man’s mouth flapped open and shut.

  “Police?” Mitchell prompted. “Polizia? El… police-o? You speak English?”

  The portly man grabbed his paper bags off the ground. “No.”

  “What?”

  The portly man shuffled toward the circle of onlookers. “Go home, Mainlander.”

  Six fingers tightened on triggers, but Mitchell waved them down. This wasn’t hostile action, not in any serious way, but it was worth stamping out. He followed the portly man. “It’s an offence not to answer questions posed by a member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Did you know that?”

  “Piss off!” someone shouted from within the mass of townspeople. This definitely ranked as the most hostile reaction they’d ever received. So far, everyone they’d seen loathed them.

  Not feared. Not disliked. Loathed.

  Like they’d been waiting for him, just so they could hate him.

  Mitchell heard the clop of boots stop beside him. “Not very friendly, are they sir?” Skylar asked.

  “No they aren’t,” Mitchell said. “Try using your womanly wiles. Don’t forget to shake your hips.”

  “Never do, sir.”

  True to her word, Skylar didn’t shake her hips in the slightest, which was a pity. When the crowd didn’t move out of her way, thick locals met her focussed stride, which was another pity because, though the locals were larger than her, they were mostly comprised of fat. Skylar was mostly muscle, with the remainder being fire, determination, and training. The locals were bumped aside.

  After a moment, a hand appeared above the crowd and the Team advanced toward it, weapons darting from face to face; Mitchell wasn’t convinced this crowd wouldn’t turn into a mob. Some of them already had pitchforks, for crying out loud.

  He wanted to be out of here as fast as possible; find James Paddington and his impossible wolf so McGregor could spend thirty seconds determining which of the Holy Trinity it was – hoax, contaminated sample, or honest mistake – and they could get out of here.

  They found Skylar beside a payphone. “Good thinking,” Mitchell said, picking up the receiver and preparing to spin the dial.

  “Hello,” a woman said brightly over the line.

  “Oh, hello,” Mitchell said. They still had telephone operators here? “Can you tell me the address of the local police station?”

  “Ah.” Her warmth vanished. “No.” The line went dead.

  Mitchell stared at the phone. What was wrong with this place?