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

  * * *

  “How far away are we?” Mitchell asked calmly.

  Skylar hacked at another zombie. Luckily the undead were so fixed on getting into the Garden of Terpo and they didn’t usually notice the humans until they’d planted a crowbar in their skull.

  “I don’t know!” she shouted. “We’re not even at the gates yet!”

  And they weren’t going to be the first group to reach the Tree. Hell, the way they were going they’d be lucky to survive long enough to see the Tree, let alone secure it or stop the Browns from doing whatever the hell they did to destroy the world.

  “Truman?” Mitchell asked, far too calmly.

  “Fine, sir.” Truman swung the axe, to the crack of severing spines.

  Mitchell moved forward a few steps and brought his scythe through a zombie neck. Her head toppled off and bounced a little, which made Skylar’s dinner lurch. While they needed every advantage they could get against the thousands of zombies, it did seem cruel to kill them from behind. The zombies weren’t fighting, weren’t warriors; they were very sick people and the Team was slaughtering them.

  Another cow trundled past. That made five so far.

  After Paddington had abandoned them at the general store, the Team had toured a gardening shop and each member now had a hatchet tucked into their belt in case something happened to their primary weapon. Truman had also grabbed as many hunting knives as he could safely stash about himself. And they still had their L85s and sidearms, but the guns were reserved for killing the Browns because they were so short on ammo. They’d even taken all of McGregor’s L85 ammo.

  “I think I can see the east wall!” she called. Yes, she could. There was the angel carved into the rock, faceless, and gripping a fiery sword. Not far now, maybe a few hundred feet.

  Ahead of Skylar, Mitchell was a whirlwind of red-coated steel and black, slicing apart most of the opposition. Truman brought up the rear, lugging the propane tank with one arm and finishing off the few zombies Mitchell and Skylar missed.

  Not that Mitchell missed many.

  He was defending the south-west of the group, where the zombies were thickest, and the scythe was never still. It rolled in great sweeping curves, flicking arcs of blood through the air. When it wasn’t waving, the scythe’s snaith was being rammed into eye sockets and then brought around for the decapitation. Mitchell’s face ran thick with rivers of blood.

  Funny. Before this, Skylar had never seen the zombies bleed. Mitchell sure had a way with people.

  “Don’t suppose the zombies are stopping at the gate?” Truman asked. “Not daring to go on holy ground? Leaving the garden nice and clear for us?”

  Skylar checked. “Uh… no.”