At first there didn’t seem to be a use for this, because they weren’t even trying to reach the walls. For a moment I thought they were afraid of more gunfire, but then as more and more of the Molotov cocktails exploded, the sense of it became obvious. The Rovers had lured the dead out of the forest with whistles, and now they were creating lines of fire on the field to drive the dead along corridors of flame that narrowed down to where the walls had been breached. Zombies shy away from flames—not sure if they’re afraid of it or because there’s nothing about the burning heat that smells of life or food. In any case, they shifted away and moved toward the smell of life beyond the walls.

It was another sign the Rovers had thought this through.

I glanced back at the three Rovers and the cart near me. By standing on my tippy-toes I could see the necks of dozens of bottles with rags stuck in the mouths. More cocktails for the garden party.

I grinned. Sometimes I love being who I am and thinking the way I think.

I drew my pistol and walked around behind them. They were really focused on what was happening on the field. I took up a solid shooter’s stance, raised the gun in a two-hand grip and said, “Hey, fellas.”

They whirled.

They saw the gun. Then they saw Baskerville come loping out of the brush. Their weapons—an axe, a scythe and assorted knives—stuck up from a corner of the cart.

“Who the fuck are you?” demanded one of them.

I pointed the barrel at his face and said, “Shhhhhh.”

They shushed.

“You cats have one chance here,” I told them. “Strip off those hazmat suits. Do it right now. No . . . no talk, no questions. That’s it, good boys.”

They removed the garments and stood in their leather and spikes, with their necklaces of ugly parts. And, as it turned out, it was two men and a woman.

“You,” I said to the guy who’d asked who I was, “pick up the clothes and put them over there next to my dog. Be real careful about it, too. Baskerville hasn’t eaten yet this morning and although you probably have too small a dick to fill his belly, that is where he’d take his first bite. Feel me?”

He apparently did, and moved with all the delicate care of someone walking blindfolded through a minefield. He dropped the mucky white garments a few feet from Baskerville.