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

by Stephen Bills

  * * *

  Truman sighed. Why were they still stuck at the station? Yesterday, Captain Mitchell had been in favour of killing a woman because she wasn’t one-hundred percent human, but today he wouldn’t let them stop a horde of zombies? Sure, the zombies might be fast or strong or able to smell humans from a mile away, but it was their job to stop them.

  But orders were orders and Truman stood at his post beside the station’s interview room. When Skylar got back, they’d have more information on their enemy. Enough, hopefully, for Mitchell to authorise action; Truman was sick of guarding these islanders.

  The interview room door opened and McGregor exited, placed his black bag on a desk, and yawned.

  “What’s the verdict, doctor?” Mitchell asked.

  “Richard displays none of Miss Tanner’s symptoms: the enlarged heart, improved hearing, hormones… all absent. As far as I can tell, he’s human. I could do a blood test to be positive.”

  “Don’t bother.” Mitchell returned to the sergeant’s desk. He’d had McGregor reroute incoming calls to the southern station because the constant ringing had annoyed him.

  If it were up to Truman, the Team would have manned the phones themselves.

  McGregor slumped into a seat, picked up his pen, and continued translating the Book of Three. Truman stopped by his side. “This prophecy,” he said. “It’s definitely about the end of the world?”

  McGregor didn’t look up. “The world as we know it. ‘Rebirth’ means the three races overrun all of mankind.”

  Truman nodded. “And you’re sure it’s going to happen?”

  “Unless we find this demon and convince him to decry Archi then yes, it will. There’s always two prophecies, each stopping the other; they never both fail.”

  “But the other prophecy talks about death spreading across the world,” Truman said. “If one of them always succeeds, aren’t we just choosing how we die?”

  “No.” McGregor looked up with bleary red eyes. When was the last time the doctor had slept? Or eaten? “The Book regards humans as already possessing death, because they once ate from the Understanding Tree. Stopping the rebirth will leave us in our ‘dead’ state. Hopefully.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “Hopefully the spreading death is metaphorical,” McGregor said. “That said, there is a horde of zombies outside, so it could be literal. If even a single zombie got off Archi…” He didn’t finish.

  “Then we’d better find the demon,” Truman said.

  “Hello!” Mitchell said, waving. When Truman stared at him blankly, Mitchell added, “The detective says I’m your demon, so you can call off the search.”

  Truman looked at the Book in McGregor’s hands. The pages were yellowing and crinkly, the ink browning. “And this Book isn’t a copy or a fake?” he asked loud enough for Mitchell to hear. Did the captain need the vampires to knock on his door before he accepted this prophecy was a real danger?

  “The writing, paper, and binding are all authentic.”

  The station’s front doors burst open. Truman’s first thought was of zombies and he whipped his L85 around and flicked off the safety, but it was only Clarkson. “Well that was shit.”

  “Stop complaining,” Peterson said. “You got your fair share.”

  “I swear I got more than you!”

  “Would you two shut up?” Skylar shouted from outside. “You’ve been bickering like little old ladies all the way back.”

  “Did you see when I shot the fat one?” Thompson asked, sighting along an invisible gun as his real one hung by a strap around his neck. “Straight through the head.”

  “And out the other side,” Normson said. “You nearly hit Sergeant Paddington.”

  “Where’d she get that sword?” Clarkson asked. “That was sweet.”

  “I’ll get you one for your birthday,” Mitchell said, cutting through the jubilance. “Success?”

  Skylar pulled on the long-poled animal snare she was holding and dragged a one-armed zombie through the doors. His eyes were pure white and his lone arm groped toward whoever was closest, but the stick kept him out of biting range. Rope was wrapped around his head, holding the corner of a cardboard ice cream container over his jaw and muffling his many moans. The shirt hanging off his emaciated, decomposing body was covered in black blood, grime, and dirt. He stank of death, decay, and cow.

  “Yes sir,” Skylar said.

  The zombie thrashed and tried to bite the humans around him. He wouldn’t be able to, even if he got free of the snare, but Truman kept his rifle aimed just in case.

  Mitchell nodded McGregor toward the zombie. “Off you go.”

  “You couldn’t find one with two arms?” McGregor asked. Then, seeing Skylar’s look, he added, “Not that it matters. He’ll be fine. Let’s take him to headquarters.”

  Clarkson frowned. “You’re going to translate him?”

  “Not the hideout, the headquarters – where my scientific equipment is. I moved to the hideout so the vampires wouldn’t find the Book of Three—”

  “We don’t actually care, doctor,” Mitchell said. “Skylar, take McGregor wherever he likes and make sure the zombie doesn’t bite him.” He put a hand on McGregor’s shoulder. “You are not to remove that gag for any reason.”

  McGregor nodded, so Mitchell turned to Skylar.

  “And you are to shoot him if he does.”

  “The zombie…” Skylar clarified.

  “Him too,” Mitchell said.