Still of Night (Dead of Night 3)

“Oh, my people are good,” she said. “It would have been better for you and your niece if you hadn’t pushed this.”

“Yes,” said Church, “everything could have been easier.”

The whistles blew closer and louder. Church sighed and raised his hand. Van Sloane looked at it. The guards looked at it. He snapped his fingers.

The arrow was a gray blur that struck hard into the dirt in the narrow space between Church and the mayor. It hit so hard that it quivered and thrummed.

Suddenly there were people everywhere, coming out from between houses and rising up from behind hedges. Dahlia grinned as the Pack raised their weapons—guns and crossbows and compound bows and slingshots. For all his size, Slow Dog move

d like greased lighting and tore a rifle out of a guard’s hands, reversed it in his grip and shoved the barrel up under the man’s chin, lifting him to his toes. Jumper took away a handgun and a hatchet with a balletic spin that was so smooth it looked choreographed. He pointed the gun at Van Sloane. Neeko and another scout seemed to come out of nowhere, taking the guns deftly away from the guards who’d been checking on the “helpers.” All at once the people surrounding the Pack were themselves surrounded. The sound of hammers being cocked back and shotguns being racked crackled through the air. Dahlia’s kukri knife flashed silver and the blade came to a sudden stop a millimeter from Margaret Van Sloane’s throat.

Church, who had not made a single move, shook his head. “We could kill you all right now. It would be easy. It shouldn’t be easy, but you’ve made it easy. And you’ve made it tempting.” He pointed to the walls, where more of the Pack now held guns while others took weapons from the sentries. “Those whistles are real, Margaret. So are the Rovers. They’re coming, and there are more of them than there are of us. They are a more professional army. Dahlia and I took your town with a group composed mostly of kids. Imagine what the Rovers will do.”

His smile was somehow much colder and less human than Van Sloane’s alligator leer.

— 37 —

THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

So, there’s this young woman, Rachael Elle. Smart, feisty, tough as hell, and a little weird. Dresses up like superheroes and calls the walking dead “orcs,” like out of Tolkien.

Now, there is nothing wrong with being crazy. A good argument can be made that going nuts is an entirely appropriate way of dealing with the end of the world and the rise of the living dead. Sanity is certainly no buffer against that.

A similar argument can be made, and successfully litigated, that I, myself, am—in purely clinical psychological terms—as crazy as a bag of hamsters. This is not a news flash to anyone who’s known me since I was a teenager.

However, sometimes things are so downright loony-tunes that even I wonder if my insanity dial has been turned to eleven.

Mind you, as a rule I am too old to be shocked by much anymore. I have both been there and done that and seen a lot of this world’s weirdest shit. Trust me on this. Sometimes, though, the universe just up and tries to fuck with you.

Case in point.

The random woman being carried into the woods was Rachael. Don’t ask me how the hell she got from where I last saw her to here. Don’t begin to ask me to calculate the odds or explain the probabilities of chance necessary to put the two of us together again like this. Stephen Hawking couldn’t have worked out those numbers. It not only proves there’s a god, but He’s also out of his fucking mind.

I stood at the edge of the clearing, with Baskerville at my side. Everyone else was frozen into a tableau of felony murder and aggravated assault. And Rachael Elle—the tough-looking woman I saw being dragged out here—was sitting on her ass with a dead guy holding her ankle and a crazy lady with a knife poised to stab her. Everyone else seemed to be a mix of Rovers and the Happy Valley residents who dragged Rachael and her two friends out here. At the moment, one of those two friends looked dead, or as near as makes no never mind. The other, a girl, looked like she’d gone all the way over the edge into total freaksville.

The moment was not a happy one for anyone.

I, however, thought it might be entertaining as fuck. Baskerville did, too. He sniffed the air in the direction of Rachael and gave a big, happy whuff.

The sound he made seemed to pop the balloon of frozen silence that held everyone immobile. And just that fast everyone was trying to kill everyone else again.

Way I saw it, the people in Happy Valley were murderous dicks. And the Rovers were a step down from sewer rats. The only civilians in this mix were Rachael and her friends.

I pointed to the three of them and told Baskerville they were friends. Then I told him to play. Actually, what I said was: “Baskerville—hit! Hit! Hit!”

He hit like a goddamn missile.

And I did a little damage my ownself. Can’t let the damn dog have all the fun.

As we rushed in, I heard a sound from the woods closer to the town. Whistles. Dozens of them blowing in patterns, like drills sergeants ordering around their troops. I knew that couldn’t be good.

One thing at a time, though. Rachael and her friends needed help right damn now.

— 38 —

THE SIEGE OF HAPPY VALLEY

Neeko hurried over to Dahlia, grinning while also casting uneasy looks at Van Sloane.