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

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

  By Stephen Bills

  Copyright 2011 Stephen Bills

  Prologue: The Last Temptation of Betsy the Cow

  Hmph! Delores was in Betsy’s spot again. Betsy could see the fat cow silhouetted against the farmhouse’s light, chewing her cud on the soft grass right beside the fence – in Betsy’s spot! And this after Delores had cut in line at the milking shed this morning! Soon it would be time to teach the young cow her place.

  The other cows didn’t respect the Farmer like Betsy did. They didn’t understand that they were only alive because the Farmer willed it. He healed them when they were sick, ensured there was always food, brought them the bull…

  The Farmer was their reason for being.

  Even in this darkest of nights, with the moon but a sliver, Betsy did not fear for the Farmer kept her safe. So why couldn’t she relax? Why this feeling in her udder? The other cows sensed it too. They’d all huddled together by the farmhouse gate, but Betsy had trudged off, angry…

  And now she was alone.

  Betsy’s tail paused mid-flick. Had the grass just moved behind her? She lumbered around, but all was still. Had she heard something? Only the wind? No, because the rustling was behind her again. Betsy lowered her head and stared through her horns, daring anything to challenge her. The grass settled. Probably just a rabbit.

  Yes, that was it. The Farmer would allow a rabbit. He wouldn’t allow anything dangerous on his hill. Tracking her. Circling her…

  Betsy trotted back toward the farmhouse. There was no harm in staying with the herd.

  Unless the Farmer was testing her devotion. Maybe she should stay.

  A patch of white streaked effortlessly through the fresh spring grass, triggering something ancient and deep in Betsy: an instinct no amount of faith could override. Betsy redoubled her run. The Farmer would forgive her. He’d pat her and speak soothing words and make everything all ri—

  Pain speared into her neck, tightening, crushing. The shock triggered new energy, strength enough to run a hundred miles with this scrawny beast hanging on her throat.

  If only she wasn’t so… cold…

  Betsy keeled into the dirt, thumped, rolled, and came to rest. As the pale beast stepped into her view, Betsy prayed to the Farmer that her end would be quick.

  Chapter One: Lisa, Betsy, and the Barbaras

  A pair of dark brown eyes stared at the messy desk. Expressive eyebrows roamed up in thought then down in frustration. A thin hand smoothed the barest hint of stubble off the pointed jaw and the mouth closed, hiding crooked white teeth.

  Constable James Paddington sat back, winced at his wooden chair’s creak – he’d have to fix that – and tried to summon the will to type his reports. Not for the first time, he wished Archi would hurry up and join the twenty-first century. If the duke would let the station have a couple of computers, Paddington could just click “print” three times instead of retyping each report three times: once for his mother, once for the station’s records, and once for the duke.

  “James!”

  Paddington smoothed his already-neat black uniform and crossed the small space to the sergeant’s desk by the front doors.

  His mother didn’t look up. “Animal attack at Richard Brown’s,” she said.

  “Is Richard… sheep?” Paddington guessed.

  “That’s Thomas,” Andrea said. “Richard is cows.”

  The third Brown brother had got out of farming altogether; caused a bit of a stir at the time. “What’s Harold up to nowadays?” Paddington asked.

  “He owns the Bleeding Heck pub.” Andrea’s beady eyes were set on an abacus. She refused to use the calculator Paddington had bought her because it was technically a computer and – like most Archians – she distrusted any technology more sophisticated than the wheel.

  “Which you’d know,” she continued, “if you had a social life.”

  “I’m perfectly happy with my life.”

  “Don’t lie, dear.” She sounded almost weary. “Lisa Tanner is available.”

  That was a new twist on an old conversation. “Anything else about the attack?” Paddington asked. “Suspects? Witnesses?”

  “You remember Lisa? From school.”

  “Of course I remember her,” he snapped, hoping that would be the end of it.

  It wasn’t. “You were friends, weren’t you?” As always, Andrea’s falsely-innocent voice carried the faintest air of hope that Paddington might find a nice girl – or a nice-enough girl, or any girl, really, at this stage – and settle down and be happy.

  “I do not want to talk about Lisa,” Paddington said. He never wanted to talk about Lisa. Andrea knew that. Why bring her up?

  “Maybe she wants to talk to you…” Andrea said.

  “She doesn’t.” He was twenty-eight now; this was none of Andrea’s business. Why couldn’t she let him live his own life? After all, if he didn’t want to be happy – and he wasn’t saying that he wasn’t happy – wasn’t that his decision?

  “I’m sure she’s forgotten about the… incident,” Andrea said.

  “You weren’t there!” Paddington yelled. Why couldn’t she drop it? She always had to push and push until he snapped. Well, now he’d snapped.

  His mother’s eyes were commanding and heartless. “It was fifteen years ago, James,” she said. “It’s time you got over her.”

  “A second ago you wanted me to date her! Or… do you want me to get over her by dating her?”

  “Well nothing else has worked!” Andrea’s voice cracked halfway through the sentence; what had started in anger ended near tears and passed through frustration on the way. Years of arguments had brought her to breaking point. Andrea never showed emotion, or backed down, or admitted defeat. Rumour was she hadn’t even cried when Paddington’s father had died.

  But she was crying now.

  What should he do? Comfort her? He’d have to walk around the desk to do that and by the time he reached her the moment would probably have passed…

  Andrea sniffed away the tears and muttered, “Off to Richard’s then, constable.”

  They were boss and employee again; familiar footing. Probably for the best, really.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Quentin, the only other officer in Archi’s northern police station, was engrossed in his paperwork – and clearly not listening to their conversation – so he didn’t notice Paddington until Paddington was right beside the desk. In minutes, they were heading west in the police van, toward the farms.

  “So… what’s happened?” Quentin asked. “At Richard’s.”

  “Animal attack.” Paddington stared at the roads past the steering wheel. The stupid, narrow, winding roads. Why couldn’t someone plan a road that went straight? Was that so hard?

  Beside him, Quentin stared out the window at the touches of fresh green that spring had brought. After a few streets, the new life even made Paddington feel a bit better.

  “He should have called a doctor,” Quentin said.

  Paddington tried to remember what they’d been talking about last. “What?” he asked, when he couldn’t.

  Quentin had the expression of a monkey attempting a crossword. “If Richard’s been attacked, he should call a doctor.”

  “One of his animals was attacked.”

  “He should call a vet then.”

  Why did they have to go through this every time? Why did Paddington have to point and shout for Quentin to notice the blindingly obvious? “Maybe the attack is suspicious.”

  Quentin brightened. “Lucky we
’re coming then.”

  “No, it’s not lucky! He called us!”

  Quentin shrugged a that’s-as-may-be and Paddington concentrated on the road again. Should he talk about Lisa? Could he trust Quentin to keep his mouth shut? Probably not, but he didn’t have a lot of options. He either talked to Quentin or no one. “Have you seen Lisa since she got back?” Paddington asked.

  Quentin shrugged. “A couple of times.”

  “What’s she like?” To Paddington, Lisa was still a metal-toothed ten-year-old, an image that stirred the feelings of joy and fear in his stomach into a confused paste.

  Quentin winced. “Bit thin, poor thing. Not much up front, either. And her face ain’t exactly roses.”

  “I thought you were dating Denise now.” Paddington could never keep up with Quentin’s relationships. Probably because there were so many of them.

  “And Rose,” Quentin said. “One woman’s not enough for Quentin Appleby.”

  Huh. Paddington rarely ever had one. He was too thin and wordy and intelligent, whereas Quentin’s large legs, robust arms, and ability to drain a keg were attractive qualities. Apparently.

  “But I meant roses the plant,” Quentin said. “So are you going to call Lisa, Jim?”

  That was the million-pound question. Paddington received enough rejection and ridicule and hurt without going looking for it. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You want to be careful talking to a Mainlander like her.” Quentin pronounced “Mainlander” like it was a disease he might catch.

  “You really don’t need to fear technology,” Paddington said. Now he sounded weary.

  “There’s a reason we haven’t got all the problems they do,” Quentin said, “the rapes and killings and such. Do you want to make Archi like that?”

  “But if we didn’t trade with the Mainland we wouldn’t have cars, or TV, or medicine!”

  “Right, b—”

  “And you don’t think it’s paranoid to limit Mainland travel to one boat a year?”

  “Keeps the tourists out,” Quentin said.

  Paddington reached his considerable wit’s end. “But think how much better life would be!”

  “Talk like that’s an insult to everything we’ve got here.”

  Paddington wasn’t sure Archi offered anything worth the paranoia with which its citizens regarded the rest of the planet.

  “On the other hand,” Quentin said, “you haven’t got much to lose, have you? By asking Lisa out, I mean.” Quentin held up his fingers: “Look, one, she’ll go out with you. Two, you love the Mainland and she lived there. Three… uh…”

  Paddington waited, but it seemed Quentin had finished. “Thanks for that uplifting assessment of my love life.”

  “I’m just saying, you could do worse,” Quentin said. “Well no you couldn’t, but you can’t do better so you might as well do her!”

  Paddington laughed. He felt better for having talked to Quentin, but he wasn’t sure why. He parked the police van in front of Richard’s cottage. The whole island was spread before them: the browns and greens of the duke’s forest to the north; the red roofs charred by black chimneys to the south; and the blues and browns of the three rivers flowing to the city gardens in the island’s centre.

  There was no movement through the farmhouse’s grubby windows. They circled the house and found Richard – a weather-beaten man of his early fifties – hunched in his vegetable patch. He tipped a patchy straw hat in greeting. “’Ello Quentin.” People usually ignored Paddington.

  “Hello Richard,” Quentin said.

  “Want some carrots?” Richard’s voice quavered; his hands moved from task to task, keeping busy rather than actually busy. “I use all me own manure.”

  Paddington didn’t ask for clarification; he didn’t want any. “We’re here about your cow.”

  Richard’s face was creased with crows’ feet, baked by the sun, and wet with tears, but at the mention of his cow his squinted eyes focussed. Once-busy hands wiped slowly on his blue overalls. “This way.”

  They climbed on Richard’s red tractor and chugged across the paddocks to the crime scene. Richard had covered the cow’s corpse with a tarpaulin, which he reverently drew back to the neck. Paddington rolled his eyes and flung it off. How bad could it b—

  Bile filled his mouth. The cow had been hollowed out. What remained of her was coated with dark red, almost brown, blood. Bones lay exposed; others had been eaten. One eye stared, terrified, into the sky. Paddington wanted to close it.

  “I’m sorry, Richard,” Quentin said somewhere behind him.

  “I nursed Betsy since she was a calf!” the weeping farmer said.

  Paddington stared, transfixed, at the carcass. He wanted to solve proper crimes? Well, now he had one. Now he had to be professional. Concentrate on the facts, find out what happened. Ignore how disgusting it was, ignore the maggots, and find the killer. Save the next cow.

  Careful not to touch the corpse, Paddington crouched. “Was there anything special about this cow? Financially?”

  “Is that all yeh think about? Money?” Richard started toward Paddington, but Quentin brought him away with a soothing hand to the shoulder. Thank the Three-God that Quentin was good with people, because Paddington always found the perfect way to offend them.

  “It’s okay, Richard,” Quentin said.

  “Betsy was a good cow,” Richard said. “Good temperamenture.”

  Quentin patted Richard’s scrawny shoulder, then said, “Jim, you don’t think that’s why she was killed, do you?”

  Was Quentin referring to something two conversations ago again? “You’ve lost me,” Paddington said.

  “Perhaps the other cows ran away but Betsy didn’t and that’s why it got her?”

  Quentin’s problem was he was always too busy with people to look at things. Paddington pointed to a short trail of blood beside the corpse. “She ran. She tried, anyway.”

  Richard bawled. Quentin soothed. Paddington examined.

  The crater where Betsy had hit the earth was deep. She’d probably broken a bone or two just in the tumble. And that was before her insides were devoured. Odds were excellent that Betsy had suffered before her demise.

  “Did you see anything?” Paddington asked.

  Richard wiped his nose on his hand, then wiped his hand on his overalls. His bleary eyes went hard again. “I heard the girls crying out; came out to see what the fuss was and there was this… thing… eatin’ her. It ran off when it saw me, but by then Betsy was… was…” Richard collapsed into heaving cries again.

  “Can you describe it? This thing?”

  “Half her size, maybe,” Richard said through sniffs. “Red fur. On the belly. White on the top. And these eyes that stared right into yeh. It was evil.”

  Paddington wrote that in his notebook. Evil… What else was there to ask? If anyone owned an animal this vicious everyone would know about it, but the animal couldn’t be wild or someone would have reported attacks before now. What did that make it, apart from impossible?

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm you?” Paddington asked.

  “No.”

  “What about Thomas?”

  Richard shook his head. “That’s just harmless fun.”

  “Last week you crossed his rainwater and septic tank lines in the name of fun. We’d better have a word with him.”

  One farm across and ten minutes later, they did. Thomas, the eldest Brown brother by a matter of minutes, was a mirror of Richard: thin, average height, with a craggy face and gnarled hands. They even dressed in the same filthy overalls. Were it not for the backdrop of sheep instead of cows, they might not have moved at all.

  “’Ello Quentin,” Thomas said.

  “Hello Thomas,” Quentin said.

  “We’re here about Betsy, one of your brother’s cows,” Paddington said.

  “Which one’s Betsy?” Thomas asked.

  What did that matter? One cow was the same as any other,
surely.

  “The friendly one,” Quentin said. “Used to hang around with Barbara.”

  How would Quentin know that? And… why?

  Thomas placed his hands on his hips and thrust his neck forward like a chicken ready for the block. “What’s my Barbara doing in his paddock?”

  “Not your Barbara, his Barbara,” Quentin said. “With the droopy eye.”

  Quentin’s knowledge of Richard’s cows was bordering on creepy, so Paddington whispered, “How do you know that?”

  “He talks about them down the pub.”

  “And he names them all?” Paddington asked.

  “O’ course,” Thomas said.

  Paddington hesitated, worried that his expectations of the Browns were about to hit bottom. “You name your sheep, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Aye, they’re all called Barbara. Saves time when I want them to come to me.”

  “Betsy,” Paddington said, to get them back on track, “was killed by an animal last night. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I’d never hurt one of his ladies,” Thomas said. “But if there’s some nasty about, I’ll keep an eye out, don’t you worry.”

  “Hey, Jim,” Quentin said, “we should do that with Richard.”

  “Good idea,” Paddington said. Why hadn’t it been his? Surely he hadn’t just been out-thought by one of the Browns. That was embarrassing for most of the populace, let alone him.

  They returned to Richard’s. While Quentin distracted Richard with gossip and tea, Paddington photographed the crime scene and filled plastic bags with samples of hair, blood, and grass.

  Back at the station, Paddington developed his photos and Quentin suggested they talk to Harold, the third Brown brother. That was Quentin’s second helpful suggestion in one day, which made Paddington suspicious, but it was a good idea so they piled into the police van and headed south.

  Harold’s pub turned out to be a single smoke-filled room with a U-shaped bar in the centre and all the atmosphere of a dark cupboard. Even before lunchtime, the Bleeding Heck housed half a dozen regulars, most of them roughly keg-shaped. On Archi, both sexes appreciated wide shoulders connected to hips by parentheses.

  At the bar, Paddington stared into a face that was the spitting image of Richard’s and Thomas’s, except that it was dressed in an alcohol-drenched apron instead of dung-drenched overalls.

  “Harold, is it?” Paddington asked.

  “’Ello Quentin,” Harold said, ignoring Paddington. “The usual?”

  “Yes please,” Quentin said.

  “We’re on duty, Constable Appleby,” Paddington reminded him.

  “Just a half then, Harold.”

  The stink of pipe smoke and sweat hit Paddington anew. He hated these places, where everyone was crammed in together and anyone could come up behind him and trap him in some dull conversation.

  Not that people did. They took every opportunity to avoid conversation with him.

  Somehow, that was worse.

  “Have you heard from your brothers recently?” Paddington asked Harold.

  “Not much since I left the farm last year, constable,” Harold said, handing Quentin a pint-glass that was less than half empty.

  “Does Richard have any enemies?” Paddington asked. Perhaps there’d been a grudge over the farm. Had Harold left on bad terms? Who had received his share of the land?

  Harold blinked. “Enemies? Like how?”

  Ignorance that strong couldn’t be feigned. “Never mind.” Paddington glanced around the bar. Quentin had salvaged something from this trip; maybe he could too. “Quentin, does anyone here live near the farms?”

  Quentin took a long sip of his beer as he examined the crowd. “Only Lisa Tanner,” he said.

  “What?” Then Paddington spotted her, sitting in a corner and nursing a shot glass, head bowed. What was she doing here? The Bleeding Heck was too far from her house to be her local…

  Ah. Of course. Paddington would have to talk to his mother about acceptable boundaries for her meddling.

  Quentin nudged him, eyebrows a-waggling. After taking a moment to calm himself, Paddington walked toward her. Most of the way he stared at his polished shoes. He hadn’t planned on ever speaking to Lisa again; wouldn’t be speaking to her now if she didn’t live near the farms…

  And so what if she did? What did it matter if he left one stone unturned? He’d lasted three months without seeing her, knowing that nothing good could come of it, and now he was approaching her of his own free will? After what he’d done…

  No. He couldn’t think about the Incident or he’d lose his nerve. The thing to do was keep it official, smile through gritted teeth, and get out as quick as possible.

  Preferably before she disembowelled him.

  Paddington slipped his bobby’s helmet under his arm. “Miss Tanner, I’m Constable Paddington.” He didn’t introduce Quentin because Quentin was still at the bar, chatting to Harold.

  Lisa looked up from her drink. Her eyes came from deep in thought, giving Paddington enough time to really see her. Quentin was right: by Archian standards, Lisa was ugly. Her golden hair was silky, not grubby from a day’s labours. She had curves, not thick shoulders and thighs that could pull a cart because the horse had had to be shot.

  How must he look? Six-foot-one and skinny; longish brown hair messed up from his helmet; crooked teeth; long face, thin nose, terrified brown eyes. Did he look as bad as he thought he did?

  Lisa recognised him and her eyes lit with sapphire fire. “Jim!” Her accent was Scottish, which was as bad as wearing an “I hate Archi” badge. No wonder he hadn’t heard good things about her.

  She was out of the seat and hugging him before Paddington knew what was happening. Once the shock passed, he hugged back, an awkward act with a helmet in one hand.

  “Sit down,” she said, taking her own advice.

  There was, officially, nothing wrong with sitting while interviewing someone, but Paddington needed all the distance he could get to keep this official. Seeing Lisa had brought back all his boyhood happiness and he wanted nothing more than to take her hand and… well, the rest of it had to do with sitting in a tree and spelling words one letter at a time.

  “What brings you here?” she asked, with an accent like caramel sunset.

  Also, caramel sunset? What was wrong with him?

  Paddington placed pen to notepad. It gave him something to look at other than her. Other than her smile. “I understand you live to the west of the city?”

  She seemed thrown by the question. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Did you hear anything last night near the Brown farms?” he asked her.

  “No. Why should I?” she asked quickly.

  “There was an animal attack. It’s nothing to be worried about,” he added, since she looked scared, “we’re talking to everyone who might have heard anything.”

  “Not me. Slept soundly all night. So how have you been?”

  Now it was his turn to be thrown. “I… Fine.”

  “You’re still here, I see. Still hate it?”

  “Hate is a strong word,” Paddington said. How many people were listening in on their conversation?

  “But you think Archi’s stupid?” Lisa asked. “Don’t worry, you’re right. It is stupid: the Mainlandphobia, the technophobia, the media blackout, all of it. It’s like a police state. Uh, no offense.”

  Paddington realised that he was sitting. When had that happened?

  “So the Mainland’s not like this?” he asked. Goodness he wanted to hear about the Mainland. Or kiss her. He didn’t really mind which.

  No, wait. Kiss her. Yes, he’d prefer to kiss her.

  But that wouldn’t be professional. He had to stay professional or he’d do something he regretted. He’d hurt her. Again.

  “God no,” she said. “The duke’s paranoid. Censoring the TV? Stopping anyone from getting a computer, or even a radio that can receive broadcasts from off Archi? He’s like a dictator.” She sai
d this all with nervous mirth. Anyone else on Archi would have cried heresy and assembled an angry mob by now; was she testing him? Seeing if he was the same as he had been as a kid?

  “You came back,” Paddington said. “It can’t be all bad.”

  She shrugged. “It’s clean, good sense of community, fascinating plants; I like it.”

  Paddington nodded. He really should leave right now before he said something he regretted, like whether she was doing anything Friday. “So you didn’t hear anything last night?”

  For a moment, Lisa looked shocked, then she blinked. “Uh, no. Not a peep.”

  “Thank you for your time, miss. I’d better go.” Paddington rose and turned. There. Safe.

  “Please stay,” Lisa said. Her voice was so small and pathetic that Paddington stopped. “No one else will talk to me, you see.”

  Guilt rushed up his spine. He’d driven Lisa off Archi and she’d returned an outcast. Her social exile was his fault. If not for him, she wouldn’t be sitting in a dark corner of a pub at ten-thirty on a Monday morning with only five empty spirit glasses for company.

  Paddington looked toward the bar. Quentin was well into another – full – pint. No rescue there. Not that Paddington deserved rescuing.

  “Of course,” he said.

  As he sat, Lisa inched over to him and took his hand. Hers was hard, her fingers callused and nails chipped. “So tell me, Jim: why a cop?”

  She sounded interested, excited to catch up. Not at all the reaction he’d expected. Where was the yelling? The shouts that he’d ruined her life? That he’d destroyed any chance for happiness?

  Did she honestly not hold a grudge? Or was she so lonely that she’d accept any company – even his – over being alone? Was she that desperate?

  “Why not?” he responded at last.

  “Because you always sucked at confrontation. Because from what I hear, you offend everyone you meet. Because you hate Archi and a bobby’s job is to maintain the status quo. You didn’t do it because your mother’s a cop, did you?”

  “No,” he said. “Definitely not. That was actually a reason against.”

  Lisa eased off her enthusiasm. “You two don’t get on?”

  “She’s…” Did he want to tell her? Well, no; he didn’t want to tell anyone. But he would tell her, he knew, because he couldn’t lie to her. He’d never had been able to. “She’s disappointed in me. Thinks I’m a failure.”

  “I’m sure she doesn—”

  “She’s said as much. ‘You’re not the man you should be’.”

  “Utter crap. You decide the man you should be.”

  Paddington found himself liking Lisa even more and before he could stop it, his hand had squeezed hers. Then she smiled and he smiled back and he felt heat in his cheeks and ice in his spine and a deep sensation of being home.

  “Lisa,” he said, “are you doing anything Friday?”