Chapter Twenty-Four: The Big Bad Wolf
Throughout the day, Paddington had asked about Richard Brown, Conall, and the other wolves, but no one – zombie or human – had seen head or tail of them.
Paddington could always have released his inner wolf to smell them out, but he suspected that Richard would smell him too, and being hunted didn’t fit with his strategy of staying as far from the wolves as possible.
Yet now that Paddington was driving toward where he suspected they were, he found certain death to be very liberating: he didn’t have to worry any more. Either this would work or he would die.
Paddington parked his car at the start of Richard’s driveway. He needed to walk the final stretch so there was no possibility of escape. Do or die. If he kept driving, he lose his nerve and blow his only chance of being useful just to live another few hours in fear.
As the cool breeze brought smells of pine and oak to him, Paddington removed his jacket, undid every second button on his shirt, and threw his shoes and socks into the back of his car. Confident that he could escape his clothes as quickly as was practical, Paddington started up the drive. It was dirt and gravel, a few hundred feet long, and he winced with every pebble in the soft pads of his feet. He couldn’t see anyone ahead, but he doubted he would until they wanted him to.
Once he reached the house, Paddington paused to stare at the fields. Usually, even at its quietest, Richard’s farm had a background of low moos. Now there was silence; nothing larger than a cricket dared make noise. Even the tiniest new moon seemed afraid to disturb the stillness.
The grass behind him rustled and Paddington turned to find wolves emerging from the tree line, the shadows, and the house. He couldn’t tell one wolf from any other, but Richard was easy to spot: he was the seven-foot bipedal werewolf with muscles like a pile of rocks. Strong rocks, too. His hair was thinner than the wolves’ fur and his torn jeans announced him to be both man and animal.
The others could have passed for common wolves, but there was no way to mistake Richard for a creature of nature.
“Ah, you’re here,” Paddington said warmly.
“’Erro James,” said Richard. He seemed to have trouble wrapping his shortened muzzle around “L”s. “Solved the mystery of Betsy’s death yet?”
“A while ago,” Paddington said, forcing his foot to remain steady: it wanted to flee, but Richard would pounce if it did. He’d chase just because Paddington had run. “My girlfriend killed her. I’ll pay for the damages.”
“Damn right you will.” Richard’s jaw and chest were covered in blood. It seemed he’d been doing a lot of chasing and catching lately. Richard smiled. “Tear him apart,” he told his pack, “piece by piece, but keep him conscientious.”
“Conscious,” Paddington said automatically.
“I want him to feel it.”
Paddington nodded calmly as, around him, a group of seven thick-coated wolves advanced. There was nowhere to run and Paddington would never change in time to defend himself, but Paddington’s plan didn’t involve running. Or changing.
Or, hopefully, being torn to pieces.
“I see you’re missing a wolf,” he said. “I take it Conall isn’t with you any more.”
Now or never.
“Fascinating thing, pack dynamics,” Paddington said. “Take the omega.” He swept a hand toward the rattiest and dirtiest of the wolves; probably Dom. “Usually the joker,” Paddington continued, “the playful one, the comedian. Good for morale, your omega. But the alpha…”
The wolves had stopped six feet away and were watching Paddington attentively.
“The alpha is another matter. You’re the alpha, Richard?”
The werewolf glanced to his subordinates, perhaps trying to work out why they weren’t already tearing bits off Paddington.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Paddington said. “You killed the last alpha, so now you’re the leader, is that right?”
“I can kill you myself!” said Richard.
Paddington looked at the slobbering mouth and its rows of razor-sharp teeth. “I know,” he said evenly. “But that’s the problem. Real wolves prefer psychological warfare to actual violence. The fight for supremacy isn’t a fight to the death, it’s a test of skill that lasts until one wolf submits to the other. You, Richard, have no idea what an alpha actually does or is.”
“And you’re going to tell me?” asked Richard, stepping forward. Although fifteen feet away, he was more of a threat than all the wolves, who were at least content to listen to Paddington before killing him.
“Yes, I am,” Paddington said. “Alphas aren’t generals. They don’t order the pack and they aren’t always the strongest. Their main two roles, in fact, are negotiating with other packs and holding their own pack together. They’re social workers. The other wolves follow because they choose to.”
“Kill him!” Richard waved a clawed hand at Paddington. The wolves moved in a step.
“Wait!” Paddington shouted, his hands out. He looked each wolf in his yellow eyes as he spoke. “You can feel that what I’m saying is right!”
“What are you on about?” yelled Richard.
Paddington spoke slowly, both because he couldn’t convince his throat to work faster and because he was quite enjoying his life and wanted it to last as long as possible. “In wolf packs,” Paddington said, “the alphas are decided not by strength, but by reproductive success. The alpha male and alpha female are a mated pair… and the last time I checked, I was the only one here mating with another wolf.”
Paddington became aware, through the frantic darting of Richard’s red eyes, that the wolves had shifted the focus of their gazes.
“I’m better’n you!” shouted Richard. “All of you!”
“Maybe you’re what werewolves were originally,” Paddington said, “before their blood was diluted by time or by the occasional actual wolf humping a branch of the family tree, but you’re not one of us… And you’re not part of this pack.”
Richard snarled, lowering his back ready to attack the first wolf to step forward, but none was that stupid. The pack moved as a unit. Even Richard couldn’t fight seven wolves at once.
Let alone eight.
With a grin, Paddington pulled off his shirt and slipped out of his trousers. The clothes raised small plumes of dust as they hit the dirt, and a second later James’s front paws did as well.
It was like someone had cranked up the contrast. Once-shadowy shapes of wolf and werewolf became as visible as if they were under the midday sun. The stars overhead were brighter but the sky blacker, a truer black.
James inhaled deeply through his long muzzle. There was death in the air, rotting meat, and lots of blood on Richard. Different kinds of blood, as well – cattle, wolf, and… was it human? – whose aftersmells lingered like a fine wine.
Two of the braver wolves nipped at the werewolf, testing the waters and darting back out. The werewolf’s wide head jittered at the wolves, trying to watch all of them at once, then he swung an arm at someone. The wolf ducked, but Richard had already gone, leaping over their heads and raising clouds of dust as he sped toward the city.
Eight wolves gave chase.