Chapter Nine: Just Warming Up
Paddington was dead? Such a shame. Not that Mitchell could really say he was sad; the man had made his job on Archi as difficult as he could, after all. A little honesty would have cleared up the whole situation a few days earlier and saved a lot of death and bloodshed. Not to mention Mitchell wouldn’t have been demoted and forced to serve under Truman’s touchy-feely leadership.
Nonetheless, Paddington might have been useful against the vampires. Unlikely he’d have made good on that potential; but at least he’d had it.
“Doctor!” Truman called. “Is he dead?”
McGregor skidded to a halt beside Paddington, spraying sand, and fumbled inside his flak jacket with one hand as he searched for a pulse with the other, then abandoned his quest for whatever was in his vest. “He’s alive,” McGregor said.
That was a shock. Paddington’s chest wasn’t moving and he looked pale and deathly.
“You’re sure?” Truman asked.
“Clear heartbeat. That said, his heart should be beating harder than this.”
“Why?” Beck asked.
Huh… the constable was quick sometimes. Noticed the little details. An awkward moment passed before McGregor bent back over Paddington and pretended he hadn’t heard.
“The doc here’s examined him before,” Mitchell said, before Truman could take Beck into his confidence like an old friend and detail how some aspects of werewolf physiology – like the enlarged heart – passed from wolf to human form. “Paddington’s got a good pumper.”
“So there’s a weak heartbeat?” Beck clarified.
“Weak for him, yes, which means barely alive,” McGregor said.
“I’ll radio for an ambulance.”
The look of fear that flashed across Truman’s face was glorious. What would a team of paramedics make of Paddington’s medical abnormalities? That would call down a whole array of attention that Truman didn’t want.
Mitchell waited to see how Truman planned on handling this one.
Truman never had the chance. Clarkson plucked the radio from Beck’s outstretched hand. “Sorry, bud. I think it’s best if the medics keep out of this one.”
“What if he needs serious medical attention?”
“Our Doctor McGregor’s the best in the biz, right doc?”
McGregor had rolled Paddington onto his side, using one of Paddington’s own arms straight out as a kind of pillow. “I’m… I’ll be fine.”
“See?” Clarkson said.
“And if he’s not?” Beck asked.
Truman finally made a decision. “We can’t risk involving others until we know how the rest of your town feels about the new count.”
Paddington threw up on the beach, then coughed and spluttered. The group gathered around him as he gagged for breath. McGregor handed him a water bottle and Paddington washed his mouth out then drank, though he spilled as much as he managed to get in his mouth.
“You okay?” Truman asked him.
Paddington was still lying on the beach, mouth open, trying to understand where he was and why. “Truman? Why are you… Where am I?”
“Estika.”
Paddington frowned, but everything he did was slightly slowed-down, full of shaking and confusion.
“You’re three hours early, boss,” Clarkson said. “Did you think there’d be a time difference?”
Paddington leaned around McGregor and spotted Clarkson. “Whole gang’s here?” He took a couple of deep breaths as he looked around him. “This is the Mainland?”
“Is it everything you’d dreamed of?” Mitchell asked.
“To be fair, it was nicer before you threw up on it,” Clarkson said.
“It’s c… colder than I’d hoped.”
“That’s because you’re buck naked,” Truman said. He knelt and placed his jacket over him. “What happened?”
“I convinced a fisherman to ferry me here.”
“And his piece of crap boat sank?” Mitchell asked. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because you only believe the worst about people,” Paddington said.
“Yet somehow you still find ways to surprise me.”
Paddington closed his eyes and tried to remember. “It was sabotage. The boat. Something exploded. I swam as long as I could, but I passed out. It must have been hours ago.”
“Who else was on board?” Truman asked.
“Just me and Charlie.”
“And you just happened to wash up on this very beach?” Beck asked. An awkward silence formed around him. “The exact place you had intended to go, of every possible place you could have washed up – not even counting the enormous likelihood that you don’t wash up anywhere, let alone alive – that’s where you ended up? Right where you needed to be?”
The Team exchanged significant glances. Apparently the Three-God wasn’t done with the demon just yet and with all the subtlety of a cattle prod, They had positioned the necessary pieces.
“There are things we need to tell you, Beck,” Truman said.
“Later,” McGregor said, putting authority in his voice for the first time in Mitchell’s memory. “We need to get Paddington somewhere warm, now. I don’t think his temperature is much above thirty Celsius, which means he has moderate hypothermia.”
“All things in moderation,” Clarkson said.
Beck raised a finger. “Should I reiterate my ‘ambulance’ idea? Or shall we continue pretending you have complete confidence in your terrified-sounding doctor?”
Ooh, Truman managed a scowl. “Let’s go,” he said. “Back to the nest, right now.”
Truman and Mitchell took an arm and leg each and carried Paddington back up the winding path to the car. Clarkson beat them there and had the engine running. McGregor fussed around them, but he wasn’t in a position to help until Paddington was stowed in the back of the jeep.
As Clarkson drove – only occasionally drifting toward obstacles thanks to his inferior daylight vision – Mitchell radioed Skylar to let her know they were on their way. When they arrived a few minutes later, she had the couch cleared of weapons. They dumped Paddington on it still shivering, his fingers curled in on themselves.
“We need to warm him up,” McGregor said. “Towels, blankets, sleeping bags, anything.”
Skylar pointed to a pile of warm bedding already beside the couch. “You’re a dear,” McGregor said, without more than a glance at her. Paddington, though, had apparently decided that warmth wasn’t what he needed and was trying to remove his jacket and push away the blankets offered by McGregor. Truman was trying to stop him.
“What’s he doing?” Clarkson asked.
“It’s called paradoxical undressing,” McGregor said. “The brain thinks he’s too warm, either from a malfunction of the hypothalamus or because the new rush of blood feels hot to him.”
“But he’s actually freezing?”
“Yes. That’s why it’s paradoxical: because he needs more layers, not less.”
“This is for your own good,” Truman said, pinning Paddington’s shoulders.
“Towels… Dry me…” Paddington seemed emphatic, but by no means rushed. Lethargy still hung on him, slowing his every movement. He pointed at Beck. “Get… him… out.”
What for? Was he suddenly worried about his modesty?
McGregor understood, though. “Captain, escort Beck outside right now. Clarkson, towel.”
Truman ushered the constable toward the door, despite his protests and pleas to let him call an ambulance.
“He… gone?” Paddington asked.
McGregor helped him out of the jacket and rubbed his hair with the towel.
“Yeah. That’s as dry as I can get you.”
Paddington closed his eyes with droopy slow motions. He opened them somewhat more quickly. And now they were gold. Not brown, but gold.
Ah. So that’s what he was doing.
Fur spread along Paddington’s elongating face; his nose blackened; his ears sped to the top
of his head and arrived there triangular; his legs thinned, foot stretched, thigh shrank; and soon there was a timber wolf lying on the couch where Paddington had been.
The wolf reached out gingerly toward Skylar and took a blanket from her with his mouth. She let it go, then placed the other end down by his tail.
McGregor smiled. “Natural insulation.”
“We have more blankets, you know,” Mitchell said.
“The extra layer of fur isn’t going to hurt.”
“How long until he’s better?”
“Hours. Maybe less if I have hair dryers or hot water bottles.”
Mitchell nodded and headed into the hallway to talk to Truman, but Beck was still making a fuss. “I don’t see why I had to leave. Or why you won’t let me call an ambulance.”
“He just needs some privacy.”
“Privacy? We found him naked on the beach. It’s a bit late for privacy.”
“It’s his choice.”
“And this is my home,” Beck said. “I get the feeling you’re keeping secrets from me. Who is he?”
“Our expert,” Truman said. “Detective Chief Constable James Paddington from Archi.”
“The place the vampires came from?”
“Yes.”
Beck looked like a caricature skull: forehead, dark pits at the eyes, pasty skin, prominent jaw. “And you think we can trust him?”
“We can trust him,” Truman said.
“So you say.” Beck’s eyes flicked across to Mitchell, then back to Truman. “But how do I know that I can trust you?”
“What? You called us.”
“I found a webpage. Anyone can have a webpage.”
“How about guns?” Mitchell asked.
“Safety that weapon, Mitchell,” Truman said. “You want me to have my superiors call you, Joel?”
“I don’t doubt you’re a legitimate unit,” Beck said. “I doubt your aims and goals. You’ve hardly inspired confidence so far. You bring a vampire with you and tell me he’s tame. You know as little as I do, but keep making demands that I’m supposed to go along with because you’re the experts. But you’re keeping secrets from me, which makes me think I’m just the poor fool who’ll be left to sort out the mess when you’ve done… whatever you’re actually here to do.”
“No one’s here to take advantage of you,” Truman said. He placed a hand on Beck’s shoulder, which made it look like he was strong-arming Beck which was, sadly, not the case. At least if Truman strong-armed him they might get somewhere. “We’re here to help.”
Oh, god. Had Truman actually just said that?
“You want my help?” Beck asked. “Then no more secrets.” He started for the door.
Mitchell blocked the way with his body and his L85.
“Mitchell! Stand down!” Truman shouted.
Was Truman serious? They’d already sprung a daytime vampire on him. Too much weirdness at once would send the constable from reluctant ally to fearful enemy.
“Sir, with resp—”
“Now… private.”
Ah, the rank. Truman used it when he wanted to remind Mitchell that he wasn’t in charge anymore, he was just a common soldier.
Fine. Mitchell would behave like one. Truman could deal with the fallout.
Mitchell safetied his rifle and lowered it from Beck’s forehead.
“No more secrets, Beck,” Truman said, and opened the door. When they’d all gone through, Mitchell shut and stood in front of it, ready to stop Beck when he tried to run back out.
At first Beck couldn’t see Paddington past Skylar, who had apparently found her mothering instinct after twenty-eight years. Beck walked around her and McGregor and saw the wolf lying right where the hypothermic human had been. A frown passed over his pronounced brow. “Where did the dog come from?” Beck asked.
“Dog?” Clarkson said. “On behalf of my boss, we take offence at that.”
“Your boss?” Beck looked closer. “A wolf?” He jumped back a step; Paddington must have done something scary, like open his eyes. “A tame one? Is this part of the strategy? Wolves to fight the vampires?” His eyes lit up, then, and he laughed and clapped his hands. “He’s a werewolf. A werewolf to fight the vampires! How many other monsters do you have on that island of his? Mummies?”
“No mummies,” Clarkson said. “Used to be zombies, but they all died.”
“Ha ha! Zombies! Spectacular.” Beck’s emphasised consonant pronunciation made a meal of the word, highlighting the c’s and t’s.
Sadly, Beck didn’t seem to be freaking out so, for now, Truman’s trust had been validated. Dammit.
“You’re okay with this?” Clarkson asked.
Beck shrugged and waved an arm at him. “Aren’t werewolves vampires’ natural enemies or something?”
“Did you bring hot water bottles?” McGregor asked. “Or hair dryers?”
“I’ll go,” Mitchell said. At least it would get him away from the hug-fest that would occur after everyone sang Kumbaya and braided each other’s hair.