* * *
By dusk, Richard Brown still hadn’t revealed anything about the Three-God or his role in its plans and Mitchell was fed up with how readily Truman and McGregor accepted it. Apparently they only had twenty-four hours before the world came to an end, which was ridiculous.
At Truman’s insistence, the Team had spent part of the afternoon sweeping the fringes of zombie-occupied territory, but their containment was feeble at best: the island was wide, its fortifications poor, and the zombies had the home-ground advantage. When the light started to fail, Mitchell deemed the risk too great and ordered everyone back to the northern police station. There had still been no word about the southern station helping contain the zombies, but if they were anything like Paddington that wasn’t really a loss.
Speak of the devil, here was the detective now, newly returned from ‘doing work’. The dark rings around his eyes were lighter than they’d been that morning. He’d been catching zees, not zombies, and he’d caught a few.
“How’d the investigating go?” Mitchell asked.
“Not well,” Paddington said, dropping his bloodstained overcoat onto his chair. “Everywhere south of the Church of Enanti is lost. Quentin’s constantly giving ground and every man they lose becomes another enemy.”
And it wasn’t like Paddington was helping any. “Bought a gun yet?” Mitchell asked.
“It’s on my dresser.”
“You might want to get it.”
“I might not,” Paddington said.
Before Mitchell could tell Paddington he was a naïve idiot, the lights went out. In seconds, six flashlights lanced through the darkness and concentrated on the doors and windows; every point of entry. There was no movement at any, yet.
But how quickly could a vampire move?
“No backup generators or emergency power?” Mitchell asked.
“No,” Paddington said.
“Truman, Normson, check the power. The rest of you, lock windows and doors.”
The Team members moved. Paddington stood uselessly in the middle of the room, but at least he was out of the way.
Mitchell approached the side door and strained to hear any noise other than his own breathing. Something moved in the foliage, but it was gone before he could point his light at it.
“Anything?” Paddington asked.
“Any ways in other than the front and side doors?” Mitchell asked.
Paddington shook his head.
“No service hatches? Ridiculous air conditioning ducts? Secret tunnels for tradition’s sake?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
At least they wouldn’t have to worry about sneak attacks, then. They had enough people to hold the station until sunrise against anything but an army.
Truman and Normson returned from outside. “Fuses are missing,” Truman said.
“See anything?” Mitchell went to lock the front door, realised it didn’t even have a lock, and wedged a chair under its handle instead.
“No,” Truman said, “but I heard movement.”
“I thought I saw a tail at one stage,” Normson said.
Not vampires, then. A different beastie. “Any natural wolves on this island, detective?” Mitchell asked.
Paddington blinked as six torches shone on him. “There’s rumours of wild dogs.”
Mitchell nodded. “It’s werewolves. Detective, get us torches or candles or anything that produces light. Anything that can be used as a weapon, too. Normson, give the detective a gun.”
“I really don’t want one,” Paddington said.
“I really don’t care,” Mitchell said, as Normson pressed his sidearm into Paddington’s hand. “The rest of you, watch the doors.”
If they were dealing with mongrels, what could they expect? No advanced tactics, at least. Mitchell keyed his radio. “McGregor, how do we fight a pack of werewolves?”
“I don’t know,” the doctor said. “Depends whether they’re minds are more human or more wolf. I’d have to see them to be sure.”
“Stay where you are,” he said. “And Skylar, you are not to come rescue us, is that understood?”
There was a short pause, then a curt female voice said, “Yes sir.”
“If they kill us all, you two find a way off Archee, get to London, and have them torch this whole island. Confirm.”
“Orders confirmed.”
Mitchell sat on the sergeant’s desk and laid his rifle beside him. “Since we have time,” he said into his radio, “what have you learned about your guest?”
“Who? Oh, the zombie! He’s great fun. Always nipping.” McGregor sounded a bit too enthusiastic for Mitchell’s liking. Had he been sleeping? No, that wasn’t McGregor’s style, especially when he had a fascinating new specimen. Sleep deprivation, maybe. Or he was being fuelled by the excitement of dissecting a zombie.
“How do we kill them? Or, re-kill them?” Mitchell asked.
“However you like. They’re not dead yet.”
That was ridiculous: they were clearly not only dead, but decaying. If McGregor couldn’t see the obvious, they couldn’t trust anything he said.
“He’s a zombie,” Mitchell said. “That means he’s dead.”
“Then he’s not a zombie,” McGregor said.
Across the station, Normson keyed his radio. “He’s dead. I checked for a heartbeat.”
“His heartbeat is very weak and shallow, about fifteen beats per minute, but it’s there. I only found it once I was sure it would be there.”
“His skin is falling off,” Normson continued, as Mitchell tried to interrupt.
Again McGregor had an answer almost before Normson had finished speaking. “He has multiple lesions, but they’re from his leprosy.”
“Leprosy?” Mitchell asked. It was bad enough they were trapped in a dark station and surrounded by werewolves; now the zombies were diseased? How infectious were they? Was his Team compromised already?
“That’s where the skin discolouration and the red lumps come from,” McGregor said. “Also, his ‘decomposition’ is really tissue deterioration, probably a result of the loss of tactile sensation.”
“Okay.” Normson shifted his weight on the constable’s desk and stretched. “What about the spasms and the swaying?”
“Multiple sclerosis,” McGregor said.
“The groaning?”
“Multiple sclerosis.”
Normson clicked his fingers. “What about the hunger for brains?”
“Either cognitive impairment from the multiple sclerosis or an unrelated psychosis,” McGregor said.
“Ah ha!” Normson said. “You can’t explain why his eyes don’t have pupils!”
“His pupils are hidden behind his cataracts.”
Normson sagged a bit, defeated. “Zombies don’t bleed…”
“His blood is clotting inside his body, which combined with the lowered heart rate means you’re right, they don’t bleed.”
That was enough science for one day. “Right,” Mitchell said. “If you’re done poking it, put that zombie out of its misery. We’ll meet you later.”
“Sir,” McGregor said.
In the silence, the station seemed darker, the tick of the clock louder, the scrape of boots on threadbare carpet grating; each man alone with the knowledge that the zombies were still alive.
Not that it mattered to Mitchell. It wasn’t like he’d never killed someone before. For the others, though, Mitchell suspected the news hit hard.
Every zombie they’d shot on patrol was another count of murder.
And so they remained for two hours. From within gnawed doubts; from without came clawing at the doors, growling, howling. They tried radioing Constable Appleby, Sergeant Paddington, or the other police station. No one responded. The southern station would be closed for the night anyway.
“Anything?” Mitchell asked as Truman returned from checking outside again.
The American shrugged. “Shadows on the edge of my vision,
sinister creeping sensation up my spine. You know, the usual.”
“What are they waiting for?” Mitchell mused.
“What are they here for?” Paddington asked. Until now, he’d been content to sit at his desk in the middle of the room and stay quiet, which had been a nice change.
“What?” Mitchell asked.
“They must want something.” he mused. “Not any of you, because it would have been easier to grab you today, when you were out in pairs… so what is it?”
“You want to ask them? Step outside.”
A wolf howled, close by, and others joined in from all around the station – at least half a dozen. Mitchell had to admit, that sound got him on edge.
Unhappy silence settled on them. One man guarded each door, his L85s casting a beam of light at its centre; the others had extinguished their rifle lights to preserve the batteries.
“Any news, Jim?” asked a rounded, dull voice from the back of the room.
“Nothing new, Richard,” Paddington called back. “The thing that killed Betsy and its friends are still out there.”
“I reckon I can take ’em,” said Richard.
“Take them?” Mitchell asked. “It’s a pack of werewolves! What are you going to do, kill their leader and take over as alpha male?” He rubbed his face with both hands. Why was he here? Why had he said yes to this mission? It was supposed to be quick, simple; now they were protecting a farmer from a pack of werewolves so he couldn’t fulfil a prophecy to destroy the world.
Next time, Mitchell would napalm the place from the air.
“Is it safe to go to the toilet?” Paddington asked.
“Knock yourself out,” Mitchell said.
Paddington wound his way to the bathroom at the back of the station. Another fifteen minutes of this and Mitchell would put everyone on rosters. Three could guard while the other three slept.
Then flesh slammed against wood. Six rifles spun to face the front door as it flew inward and a pink humanoid figure disappeared off to the side. Mitchell spun off the desk and adopted a firing position.
Through the open doors stared the hungry void of the night.
Another bang, this one at the side door. Their rifles spun to it.
Too late, Mitchell spotted the feint: four werewolves darted in the momentarily-unguarded main doors.
Mitchell brought his L85 to bear on one, but it hid behind the sergeant’s desk. He saw another grey flash behind the constable’s desk, but it, too, moved before he could fire.
Why weren’t the wolves picking them off? Thompson was screamed about tails, Clarkson still wasn’t on his feet, and Peterson and Normson were both alone: all easy targets. Only Mitchell and Truman – back to back in the centre – were a genuine threat, and even they were having trouble tracking their targets.
There were at least six, streaks of white and dark grey that looked just like real wolves: they moved on all fours and had a slim physique, not the muscled half-human werewolf Mitchell had seen in films.
Then, as one, the werewolves burst from their covers and disappeared outside. After a few worried seconds, Truman crossed to the doorway and looked out.
“Anything?” Mitchell asked.
“Two cars getting away,” Truman said. “We’d never catch up.” He returned and plucked his Stetson off the ground. “What was that about?”
“Maybe they’re retarded,” Clarkson said.
Mitchell had seen sloppy attacks before, uncoordinated strikes, bad decisions. That wasn’t one of them. “Whatever they came to do, they did it,” he said. “Who’s hurt?”
The Team checked themselves. No bites, scratches, not so much as a bruise.
“Where’s Paddington?” Truman asked.
When no one replied, Mitchell said, “Normson and Thompson, front door. Clarkson and Peterson, side door. Truman, with me.”
Rifle ready, Mitchell kicked in the bathroom door. Normson’s sidearm was abandoned in its centre. A light breeze blew in the open window. Wait, no. The window was gone – someone had removed the glass. It was still six feet above the ground, though, and tiny. Someone might get in it, but they’d never get a struggling Paddington out through it.
“He’s gone…” Truman said. The words rang with “He’s dead”.
“Move,” Mitchell said. He had to focus them on something. A new mission, an objective.
Clarkson waved them over to the side door. “There’s two sets of footprints here, one dragging along the ground.”
So that was it. The wolves had come for Paddington, had waited for him to walk into their trap, and had dragged him out past six highly-trained soldiers without any of them noticing.
And these were just the mutts. What would fighting vampires be like?
“Screw this,” Clarkson said. “Let’s kill some zombies.”
Right now, Mitchell couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than shoot something. “What a good idea.”
“Really?”
“We’ll get Harold Brown,” he said. “The detective said he wouldn’t leave his pub come hell or high water. If he’s human, we protect him. If not, we put an end to him and every other undead bastard we find.”
“Really really?” Clarkson asked.
Mitchell was fed up with this place and its people and its stupid monsters. If they couldn’t hold the station against a pack of mongrels, they’d be as good as dead when the vampires leapt out of their trees and attacked them, but right now he didn’t care.
“Let’s kill some fucking undead,” he said.
“Sir, what about Paddington?” Truman asked.
“Do you know where they’ve gone?” Mitchell asked. “No? Then leave him.” Mitchell slapped a fresh magazine into his L85; he’d barely fired the old, but the action felt good. Solid. “Thompson, Peterson, guard Richard. If the werewolves come back, shoot Richard first.”
“Sir?” Peterson asked.
“They need him alive for their prophecy and I’m in a take-no-chances mood. The rest of you, let’s go.”
Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown Page 41