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

by Stephen Bills

  * * *

  The sun was on its last rays as the Team left the already-gutted gun store and night truly began as they drove toward the supermarket. If the vampires were the cautious type, Truman guessed they’d be at the Tree in half an hour. That didn’t give the Team much time to stock up, secure the Tree, and fortify its defences. They’d need to go in with a clear strategy.

  “If we take out one of the Browns,” Truman asked, “that’s enough to stop the prophecy, right?”

  “Sure,” Paddington said. “But the other two will kill you.”

  “So we run,” he suggested. Was Mitchell even listening? He sat in the front, staring through the window, jaw clenched.

  “Run where?” Paddington asked. “At best you reach a boat – which probably won’t reach the Mainland without refuelling – and they wait you out.” Paddington shrugged. “And that’s assuming Adonis hasn’t made some arrangement to ship zombies onto the Mainland the instant the prophecy is fulfilled.”

  “But if we kill a Brown…” Truman said.

  “No rebirth of the world, true, but I doubt Adonis will stop just because the prophecy does.” Paddington sighed, as if explaining this to a child. “This is the last prophecy in the Book of Three; after this all bets are off. If the demon stops one of the Brothers, Adonis might try to make do with the other two. There’s no prophecies telling him not to.”

  Truman sat silently for a long time. Were they really so screwed that, even if they stopped the prophecy, they’d die? That the monsters would still leave Archi? That, even if they won, everyone lost?

  “And,” Paddington added, “Harold could probably walk underwater until he reached the Mainland. Richard could probably doggy-paddle the distance, if it came to that.”

  Truman perked up. There was something in vampire lore about not crossing running water. “But Thomas is stuck here?”

  “Cats aren’t generally great fans of getting wet, but Adonis could organise a flight off-island.”

  Truman sighed. Why were they even bothering? They might as well stop the car, find a liquor store, and enjoy their final hours.

  “Here we are,” Paddington said, applying the creaking handbrake.

  Truman looked up at the shop and thought that, for a supermarket, it rather lacked the “super”.

  “This is a corner store,” Mitchell pointed out as they climbed out of Paddington’s car.

  “It’s what we’ve got.” Paddington pushed open the store’s unlocked doors and flicked on a light, revealing small aisles with an assortment of everything.

  “Fire first,” Mitchell said. “Look for the liquor section, barbecues, fireworks.”

  They split up and scoured the aisles, except for Paddington, who followed Truman like a lost puppy. “So, did you grow up in America?”

  “Texas,” Truman said, putting down a packet of fire lighters.

  “You’re not very talkative, are you?” Paddington asked.

  “No.”

  Paddington had picked up a six-foot Hawaiian-style bamboo torch. Truman found it reassuring that bad taste found its way even to places like Archi. Some things were universal.

  “You’re better off hitting them with the pointy end than using that flame,” Truman said, and Paddington put it back while Truman investigated the deodorants. There weren’t many; Archians probably enjoyed the smell of a hard day’s labours.

  “What would you do if you saw your mother out there?” Paddington asked. “A zombie?”

  Truman glanced over. Paddington’s brown puppydog eyes were staring through a can of soup.

  “I don’t know,” Truman said. “I suppose I’d say, ‘Sorry mum’ and do what had to be done.”

  Squeaking wheels announced Mitchell and Skylar, who had strapped a propane tank onto a hand-trolley. Paddington noticed that he was holding soup and put it back.

  “Don’t suppose there’d be any weapons at the police station?” Mitchell asked.

  Paddington shook his head. “The resistance took them hours ago.”

  “And there’s no ancient forge or blacksmith around here?”

  Paddington retreated toward the door. “There’s a gardening centre across the street that might have some long-handled weapons.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Mitchell asked.

  “Prior engagement.” Paddington out the door before Mitchell could rebuke him. Truman heard the groan of the car’s engine disappear down the street and shook his head. The coward.

  They were all going to die; Paddington could at least go fighting.