* * *
Truman had left his axe embedded in a thick skull at the entrance to the garden and was now using two knives, slicing them in smooth round motions across zombie throats. Sweat soaked through his clothes, but they were already so wet with thick blood he didn’t really notice. In front, Skylar stabbed her crowbar into a head, kicked the body away, and grabbed the propane tank again.
And so they trudged through the trees and along the fringes of the horde. The opposition was weak, given that an army of thousands was five feet away, but was strong enough that it was only a matter of time until the Team was joined it. Truman’s arms were heavy, his legs ached, and at some point he would miss a throat and the gaping mouths would close on him.
Mitchell, however, looked like he could go all night. He still heaved the scythe, still darted toward enemies, still moved the weapon fast and precise, using the snaith to knock zombies back or the blade to lop off heads and slice through bodies, sometimes vertically.
“How far?” Skylar shouted, dropping the propane tank to swing her crowbar.
“Fifteen feet!” Truman yelled. A few more zombies and they’d be out of the trees and into in the corpse-riddled but otherwise clear dirt around the Tree.
Neck. Throw knife. Temple. Throat. Four zombies fell and Truman made it out of the tree line. Ahead, zombies were shoulder to shoulder with some lost cows and were clustered around the wolves he’d heard howling earlier.
Figures from his right landed a few feet away with instantly-recognisable grace. Truman scowled, tightened his grip on the knives, and prepared to battle a vampire hand-to-knife.
Then one of the vampires waved. “Hi guys!”
For a fleeting moment Truman thought Clarkson was being used as leverage. Then he noticed his fellow’s catlike eyes and realised that Clarkson had been turned. Truman saw Mitchell’s hands tighten on the scythe’s snaith.
“Sir, you’ve got to try this,” Clarkson said. “You should see how they turn you!”
A female vampire yanked on the chain attached to Clarkson’s neck.
“What’s with the keg?” Clarkson asked. “End-of-the-world party?”
The female vampire yanked harder.
“We’re going to set Harold on fire,” Mitchell said.
“Cool! Can I hel—Earcgh!”
The vampires grinned at the humans. Truman considered reaching for his gun, but he hadn’t been able to hit the vampires in the mansion; why should it be any different now? The Andrastes crouched, arms low, ready to attack, then spun to face the wolves at their heels. Or, on their heels.
Truman returned his attention to the horde on his left. The conversation with Clarkson had alerted the closest zombies to the presence of a nearby meal and they were staggering forward with outstretched arms and guttural moans. Truman let the moment of peace pass and returned to stabbing the hungry islanders.
Something moved through the horde toward them, fast. It bumped against zombies – Truman saw some reach down to grab it and others fall as it brushed past them. He thought he saw cream and black fur around hip-height, but when it sprang up, above the heads of the zombie, Truman saw that it was a man. A naked man.
“Don’t hurt the wolves!” he shouted.
“Detective?” Mitchell asked. His scythe passed through another throat, then he allowed himself a moment to stare. “What are you doing there? And when the hell did you grow a beard?”
It wasn’t a five o’clock shadow. It was a full beard, the kind that took weeks to grow. Was this Paddington’s grand strategy? Did facial hair protect you from zombies?
“Don’t shoot the wolves!” Paddington was still bouncing up, hopping along on his toes and looking over the zombies, none of which were even trying to bite him.
“And where are your clothes?” Mitchell shouted.
“Remember: wolves good!” Paddington shouted, then dropped out of sight. Was he ducking? Hiding? Staying below biting level? A dark wolf shot out of the crowd straight toward Truman. He raised his knives but hesitated, remembering Paddington’s words, and the wolf passed him without so much as glancing up. It took the two-wheeled trolley’s handle in its great maw and dragged it through the horde toward the Tree.
Next time he saw Paddington, Truman would have to ask him what had happened to the world, because it no longer made sense to Truman.
Right now, though, he didn’t have time for anything except instinct. The vampires and the wolves threw and bit and scratched one another; the zombies growled, and white eyes from farther and farther away turned toward the Team and marched toward their brains.
Mitchell spun the scythe and hacked and dismembered. Truman barely had room to swing his knives, but Mitchell was an infinite chain of violence, calm and in control, and nothing even got close to him. Still, for every head he removed there was another to replace it.
Truman followed Mitchell and Skylar toward the Tree, aware that every step brought him closer to the horde. Closer to the wolves and vampires darting between, around, and through it. And, hopefully, closer to stopping the prophecy.