“This is all going to happen fast, so here’s the deal,” she shouted. “The helpers are free. No debts, no obligations, no bullshit. Anyone from Happy Valley who doesn’t like it—too bad. But here’s the thing. A gang called the Rovers are about to attack the town. Those whistles you hear are them coming. There are a lot of them. They won’t give a crap if you’re a resident here or a slave. They’re coming to take this place away from all of us, and they aren’t going to be nice about it. We don’t have time for a debate and this isn’t a democracy. I’m in charge.”

“Says who?” growled one of the men from town. One of the helpers, a tall black man wearing work gloves and with grass stains on the knees of his pants, got up in his face.

“How about you shut the fuck up while you can still make that choice on your own? Right about now she’s the first person to say something I want to hear in a long damn time.”

“You watch your mouth, nig—”

And that was as far as he got before the helper hooked a hard right fist into his gut and then brought his knee up as the man folded.

Then everyone was fighting.

— 39 —: THE WARRIOR WOMAN, THE SOLDIER, AND THE DOG

— 39 —

THE WARRIOR WOMAN, THE SOLDIER, AND THE DOG

There were about a dozen of them, give or take. Everyone looked pretty well battered from the brawl they’d been engaged in. That didn’t seem to matter, though, because by now they were all pumping adrenaline by the gallon.

Baskerville went crashing through them to Rachael, and his bulk—with all of the leather and spikes—slammed into the zombie holding her ankle. Baskerville is trained not to bite the dead, but he has no issues at all generally and enthusiastically fucking them up. I saw parts fly and then Rachael shimmied backward with the hand still clutched around her ankle, but no arms attached to it. She kicked it off and got immediately to her feet without wasting time on shock and surprise. Smart.

The Rovers and the townies were caught in a moment of indecision as to whether to fight me or each other. That was stupid. They should have fought me.

Ah well.

I didn’t bother with my gun. Too noisy and bullets are hard to find. I had a katana and forty-plus years of practical experience with it. So I laid in with a will.

The blade is so perfectly made. The layered steel hammered and honed to a thing of art by a master sword maker. It’s not a chopping weapon; it’s surgical, and in the hands of an expert it seems to melt its way through flesh and bone with long, sweeping movements. I am an expert.

So, long story short . . . they all died.