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

by Stephen Bills

  * * *

  It was hard not to tremble with a blade pressed against his neck, but if he trembled the blade was more likely to cut him. So Paddington focussed on the top of the stairs, at the man lurking there, and not on the knife, which was now slicing patterns into his shirt.

  “Don’t kill him!” shouted the man atop the stairs.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Curt yelled back.

  Paddington took a stab in the dark before Curt took one in the light. “Dom!”

  The silhouette jittered at the sound of his name and, busted, pulled the door shut and trudged down the stairs. He looked substantially worse than he had two days ago and he’d been, well, mangy then. Now his long hair was greasy and his eyes were skittish. How long had he been living in fear of Conall’s punishment?

  “So,” Paddington said, “why are you two my guardians?”

  “It had to be someone,” Curt said. His face was deep, his long hair black, his beard untrimmed. Despite being the youngest of the pack, his reputation was the loudest. He was violent, impressionable, and anxious to impress. Bad combination.

  “Someone, yes, but why you? Is it punishment?”

  “Quiet.” Curt emphasised his point with that of his knife.

  “I know why he doesn’t trust Dom…” Paddington continued quickly.

  That got Curt’s attention. “Something you want to say, Dom?”

  “No,” Dominic said.

  Curt stepped toward him. Stalked, almost. “You’re awful nervous for an innocent man.”

  “You’ve got a knife!”

  “Did Conall even tell you what the Brothers will do?” Paddington asked, feeling that he was once more gaining momentum…

  Curt turned, wonder in his eyes. “They will restore the glory of our Race.”

  …and once more Paddington’s momentum slammed him into a brick wall.

  “And I’ve had enough of your filth!” Curt shouted.

  “You prefer it simple, Curt?” Paddington asked. “Sit, stay, guard?”

  Curt brought the knife close. Paddington closed his eyes and waited for the killing strike. Instead he heard the tinkling of buttons on concrete, then cold air blasted his belly. Paddington sucked in deep breaths. He was alive. Still tied to a chair, yes, but uninjured.

  “A bit thin, aren’t you?” Curt asked him. He’d put the knife away, but Paddington doubted that was a good sign. “A bit weak.” He slammed a fist into Paddington’s ribs. Paddington clenched his teeth and stomach to keep from crying out.

  “This’ll toughen you up,” Curt said.

  Another jab: playful, warming up. Paddington gasped against the pain, then strained against the cuffs. They were solid. He wasn’t the first person they’d dragged down here.

  Or dragged out?

  Curt flexed his fingers, then stepped in and accompanied his words with punches. “Lone… wolves… need… to be… tough!”

  The world blacked down then reappeared.

  Curt grinned. Paddington fought unconsciousness to glare back. He’d put up with this every day of his life: be tough, be quiet, stop thinking, do as you’re told. Right now he didn’t care that he was tied to a chair or that Curt might kill him, he wouldn’t do what they wanted. He wouldn’t pass out. He wouldn’t go quietly. Paddington saw red.

  “Tough, both of you,” Curt said, “Pansy Paddington and Terrible Tanner.”

  That did it. Paddington was past seeing red. He now saw a pale yellow.

  “And speaking of your girlfr…” Curt stopped and stared.

  Paddington’s peripheral vision expanded. Dominic became visible, standing hunched by the stairs, but almost two-dimensional. Also, his flesh was yellow and his dark blue jacket had turned a dull violet.

  James Paddington’s shrinking, furry hands slipped easily out of the handcuffs and shirt. He landed on the concrete on all fours. Fur spread thick across his back and legs, covering the cellar’s chill. His fingers withdrew and wrist bones fused soundlessly. His arms simply became legs, as if this were the most natural and obvious thing in the world. Free of his trousers, his tail curled around until it touched the fur on his back. One ear turned to zero in on Dominic’s whispered “Holy shit.”

  In front of him, another wolf stood on an abandoned bathrobe, his dark ears flat against the side of his head, staring. James stood tall, fur bristling, and revealed his front teeth.

  His captor sized him up: this was no newly-turned pup who didn’t know his tail from a hole in the ground. This was a wolf, bigger than Curt and clearly dangerous. Behind gold eyes churned the brain of a policeman and a wolf in perfect unity. And this new wolf was, in an undeniable way, far more Wolf than Curt was. And Curt knew it.

  And James knew that Curt knew it.

  Right on cue, Curt dropped to the ground, rolled onto his back, and pulled his paws in toward himself, exposing his chest and neck in submission.

  James turned to Dominic. Fear poured off the human in waves and only strengthened as James approached. Dominic followed his gaze to the door at the top of the stairs. “Do you want to go out, bo… detective?” Dominic asked. In seconds he’d opened the door and was pressing himself against the wall as James trotted past him into Conall’s kitchen. So many smells! Plastic. Steel. Lino. Wood. Water. Deodorant. Sweat.

  Six humans had passed through here. Their scents lingered in the air and had been stamped into the ground with every step. At the base of the door was a worn wolfydoor.

  Outside, the wind whipped against him but James wasn’t cold. His coat was thick and snug. He wanted to stretch his neck out and howl up at the stars, but doing so would attract the attention of the other wolves. Or Adonis. Or Mitchell.

  James suspected they’d be less than understanding.

  Not that James understood it himself, not consciously, but he didn’t dwell on that. He was a wolf, and he knew what to do. His eyes worked better in the low light than his human eyes had – everything was brighter than it should have been, especially with the moon hiding behind heavy clouds – but his eyes weren’t how he planned to navigate.

  His nose was, and it felt supercharged. Two-hundred-and-twenty million scent-sensitive cells detected salt water close to the east and south, acrid smoke and the stink of decay far west, and minutes-old car emissions leading north.

  James went north at a trot. Now that the wolves knew where James stood – against them, on all four legs – Lisa wasn’t safe. Again.

  The scenery took a while to get used to: the once-green trees and shrubs that lined the streets were stale yellows and whites. Before, he couldn’t tell one from the other; now he could differentiate them by smell. They were amazing. He’d have to ask Lisa their names.

  He ran, long nose cutting through the wind with little resistance. Not like being a human, with all the aerodynamics of a parachute. And those horrible, constricting clothes.

  Now he ran free, ears turning this way and that toward his homeland as he’d never heard it before: the roar of the ocean, the clip of claws on cobbles, the—

  There was another wolf across the street! Keeping pace with him! James stopped and faced it. The other wolf stopped too. The wind blew it straight toward him, but it had no scent.

  The detective in him prodded that he’d missed something important, but the wolf was too concerned with this new threat to listen.

  James approached, and so did the other wolf. He paused, and the other did too. And there still wasn’t any smell! As James broke eye contact to check for other wolves – for an ambush – he spotted a shimmer and realised what the detective in him had worked out: the other wolf was his reflection in the shop’s window.

  The sides of his muzzle and cheeks were creamy, but from the eyes up his fur was flecks of black and dark grey. There were touches of brown too, near the ears. He had a complete contingent of whiskers and, when he opened his maw, a long mouthful of teeth. The fur on his body was a mingling of dark brown, white, and blacks.

  Turning from the
glass, James set off again, more quickly. He kept to the edge of the street, ready to dart into cover if needed. The thought of regular people filled him with trepidation. They shouldn’t, he knew: no one would be mounting any search parties for a wolf, not with a third of the island swarming with the undead.

  Ahead, the smell of Conall’s car – one of few recently – continued straight. That was odd: Quentin’s was closer by veering right. Surely Conall would know that. Didn’t matter.

  James left the scent of the car and ran right, toward Lisa.