* * *
Paddington strained to hear movement behind him; what use were ears that couldn’t swivel? Who’d designed that? Trying to ignore the glares from the Andrastes, he stopped in front of the wolves and smoothed his beard and tried to slow his thumping heartbeat. The mix of terror and excitement was… fun. Was right. He’d liked it, felt at home in it. Now he had to go back to being normal.
“It’s over,” he said. “No fighting vampires, unless they start it.”
Even as he said it, Paddington heard voices from the south-east: real voices, through his ears, not zombie-voices in his mind. The wolves ran into the trees. The vampires had already vanished. Paddington stayed, listening, trying to pick voices out of the crowd. Lisa and Quentin were in the lead, followed by many of Archi’s finest shooters. Suddenly the night felt very cold, probably because he was exposing so much flesh to it.
Or because of the frigid gun barrel being pressed into his spine.
“How long have you been a werewolf?” Mitchell whispered.
“A few days.”
The first few lines of the crowd were visible under the trees, if Paddington squinted. Quentin led them, shotgun in hand. Around him, others checked that the zombie corpses on the ground were really dead and, occasionally, shot one which hadn’t been.
Mitchell’s head leaned over Paddington’s shoulder and nodded at the crowd. “That looks like your girlfriend.”
“Probably because it is,” Paddington said.
“You broke her out while we were visiting the mayor.”
“How could I? I was with you the whole night, remember? We came here, saw the Tree.” Paddington nodded at the half-destroyed rock. The top was jagged now instead of smooth, and cracks ran down each of its three faces.
“At your suggestion,” Mitchell said.
The crowd was nearly upon them.
“Why should I play along, detective?” Mitchell asked.
“Because you want to get off this island alive.” Paddington stepped toward the two-hundred strong crowd. He’d have to come up with some convincing lie about why he’d been naked on a battlefield, but that could wait for a bit.
Three steps had him in Lisa’s arms and her in his. “Could I borrow that jacket?” he asked.
Lisa considered for a long moment as she hugged him. “If you must,” she said at last. The pale green coat didn’t reach lower than Paddington’s thighs, but it was better than nothing, which was his other option. Behind him, Mitchell had disappeared again.
Quentin stared at the corpses covering the ground. “Looks like we’re a bit late.”
“They’ve gone back south,” Paddington said, buttoning the coat. “Create a barricade from the southern edge of the garden all the way east and west.”
“What for? We’ve got them on the run!”
“They need somewhere to live,” Paddington said.
This was greeted with, at best, mild offence. Others swore openly.
“If you attack the zombies,” Paddington shouted over the din, “they’ll lose their minds and we’ll lose our friends. If you leave them alone, I can convince them to stay south.”
“So we hand over half the island?” Quentin asked. He was leaning forward, making sure Paddington was serious.
“It’s already theirs,” Paddington said. “Just let them keep it for a few months.”
“What happens after that?” Quentin asked.
“After that… they won’t need it.”
Quentin waited another moment in case Paddington felt like telling him what was going on, but now wasn’t the time. He wasn’t going to tell Quentin that the zombies were still alive with the whole of Archi listening in or they’d try to rescue their loved ones. The island needed quarantine now, not chaos and foolish heroism.
“Get this cleaned up!” Quentin said. “Remember: don’t go near their mouths! Even the re-dead ones!”
Lisa looked from the corpses to the broken remains of the Tree. “Looks like you’ve had quite a night.”
“It’s not over yet.” Paddington released a long breath, embraced the silence, then opened his eyes. “Right! Let’s go convince the zombies.”
Ten minutes later, they caught up with the horde. Even breathing through his mouth, Paddington could taste sour milk and rotten eggs. Images of maggots and puddles of sick rushed to his mind. At least it was less awful than it had been through his wolf-nose.
They found Norm lumbering along next to Gladys. All good? Norm asked. I think this is everyone. Well, everyone still alive. Jim, are you wearing a green jacket?
“Yes.”
Looks nice on you.
“They’ve given you the south,” Paddington said. “Can I trust you to stay there?”
No. Post guards. There’ll always be radicals: thinking for oneself is what zombity is all abou—
Norm missed a step and smacked to the ground, wheezing. Paddington reached down to help him up, but Norm shook his head and stared into Paddington’s eyes.
I couldn’t stomach the fruit, he said.
What does that mean? Gladys asked. Her knees cracked as she first bent, then fell, beside Norm. She placed an arm around his quivering shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Paddington said, and that was enough. Gladys returned to cradling Norm; Lisa wrapped a warm hand around Paddington’s. “Thank you, Norm.”
My pleasure. Norm extended his stump of a left arm and Paddington shook it. It had the texture of cold chicken skin, but Paddington kept shaking until the arm drooped and Norm closed his pearly eyes.
And there they stayed, islands in a flowing sea of bodies, uttering silent goodbyes and prayers. Gladys held Norm and wept tearlessly. Paddington slipped an arm around Lisa and pulled her into a hug.
If not for Norm, the Team would have been overwhelmed, the Browns would have reached the Tree, and Adonis would have shipped them to the Mainland to convert the whole world.
Paddington was glad Norm had died with dignity; not in a battle he’d never desired, not taken by the brainlust, but in peac—
“Blarch!” Norm said, convulsing. Gladys shrieked. Paddington lost his breath, first from shock and second from Lisa crushing his ribs.
After a few mute seconds, he said, “I think he’s actually gone now.”
The current moved on around them.