He looked at Elizabeth again, and the two of them simply stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes, until, at a signal from neither, they both turned and started up the hill again at precisely the same moment. They moved slowly, choosing their steps with care, and when they reached the crest they crouched down, Elizabeth on one side of an old, rough-trunked elm, Dr. Keckilpenny on the other.
Below was the lake. Beside it, three figures.
One sat on the bank, back propped against a rotted-out log. The other two were stooped over it, scooping something glutinous and oozy from the top of its head.
“Excellent,” Dr. Keckilpenny said under his breath.
Elizabeth shot him a horrified glower. Then she stood and started toward the water.
“Miss Bennet, wait . . . stop, please . . . Elizabeth!”
The doctor might as well have not spoken at all. The only sound Elizabeth heard was the awful moist smacking of the unmentionables’ mastication. All she saw was the crimson-streaked pulp disappearing into their rotten maws. All she felt was her katana in her hands, and then the air streaking through her hair as she charged down the hill. And the only man she was thinking of was Lt. Tindall and the self-righteous sneer she longed to wipe from his face—and every other face that might sneer at her and her sisters.
“HAAAAAAAA-IEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
The nearest of the zombies sprang toward her, its mouth still oozing half-chewed goo. It had been a woman not so long ago. Now it fought to fully free its desiccated, purple-mottled arms from the tangles of its shroud, the better to get its clawlike fingerbones into Elizabeth’s eyes.
Elizabeth took its arms off at the elbows with her first swing of the sword. The second took off its head.
And it felt good.
She had killed unassisted. She was a warrior, and a thousand times more worthy to call herself such than the lieutenant and his bumbling redcoats. She turned to face the other unmentionable’s charge feeling indomitable, unfettered, free.
Which made it all the more of a shock when the net came down over her head and the leather straps cinched tight, pinning her arms to her sides. A jarring jerk tugged her off her feet, and she lost her grip on her sword as she crashed to the muddy bank on her backside. She could but watch, helpless, as the oncoming zombie—a male with gray, dirt-streaked skin that had yet to decay enough to fall away from the bone—lunged at her, its black tongue waggling obscenely.
Then the dreadful, too, was splashing down into the mud, its hands inches from Elizabeth’s feet. The thing flailed at her, wailing, yet it could come no closer.
The straps around her loosened, the net lifted away, and Dr. Keckilpenny bent down and offered Elizabeth his hand.
“I’m terribly sorry about that,” he said, “but if you’ll recall, I wanted one of them alive . . . as it were.”
Elizabeth pushed herself up without the doctor’s help. When she was on her feet, she noticed at last the bear trap clamped around the dreadful’s ankle and the short length of chain staked to the log beyond. She saw, too, that the body from which the unmentionables had been feeding wasn’t a proper body at alclass="underline" It was simply clothes stuffed with straw topped by a chamber pot “head.”
In the pot were the bloody, mashed remnants of a human brain.
Despite all she’d seen the past few weeks, Elizabeth blanched and looked away. She tried to hide her revulsion by pretending she was merely retrieving her katana.
No more than a minute before, she’d felt invincible. Yet now that seemed so long ago she could barely believe it ever happened, and all she could feel was disgust—as much for the pride that had momentarily blinded her as for the grotesque lumps of flesh clotting the chamber pot.
“Your bait, Doctor,” she said, careful to keep her voice from wavering. “Is it what I think it is?”
THE THING FLAILED AT HER, WAILING, YET IT COULD COME NO CLOSER.
Dr. Keckilpenny nodded. “Every zombie’s favorite delicacy. Nothing but the real thing would do, so I brought along my own supply. Don’t ask me where I got it. Suffice it to say, the first thing one learns in medical college is how to acquire one’s own specimens.”
“And now you have another.” Elizabeth turned to the slavering dreadful writhing on the ground nearby, its arms stretched out to paw uselessly at the muck and leaves between them. “What do you propose to do with it?”
“I propose,” Dr. Keckilpenny said, the old gleam firing up again in his eyes, “to turn ‘it’ back into a ‘him.’”
CHAPTER 26
AFTER SOME QUICK (and, thanks again to Jane, courteous) debate, a subject was settled on for the experiment the Reverend Mr. Cummings had agreed to. Since it wouldn’t do to unduly disturb a respectable member of the community, the party would remove itself to a far corner of the parish grounds and pay a call on a connectionless pauper woman who’d been planted there three months before. This had the added benefit of seclusion, the gravesite being further removed from the road.
All the same, before a single spade bit into the earth, Mr. Bennet insisted that the tent canvases the troops had brought be strung up around the grave.
“It wouldn’t do to have our trial here observed,” he explained while the soldiers argued over the best spots to pound in their tent pegs. “We have been spared panic in Meryton, thanks to complacency and ignorance. It is to our advantage to preserve that just a little longer, if we can.”
“In my experience, complacency and ignorance usually do a fine job preserving themselves,” Lord Lumpley yawned, idly eyeing Jane as he leaned against a mausoleum nearby. “But if you feel you must put up your little dressing screens . . .”
“Why, though, Father?” Jane asked. “What advantage could come from hiding the truth?”
“He wishes to avoid another Birmingham,” Ensign Pratt chirped. The junior officer was doing his best to loom up over his men as they began hammering pegs into the ground, but given his size, looming over anything larger than a dachshund was an impossibility. “People fleeing in huge mobs, clogging the roads, falling prey to the dreadful swarms.”
“Not just falling prey to them. Feeding them.” Mr. Bennet gave Ensign Pratt an approving nod. “I’m glad to know you’re old enough to have at least read of The Troubles.”
“Might have a hard time putting up those tents, Sir,” one of the soldiers reported. He waved his hammer at a peg he’d just pummeled into the turf with one blow. “Ground here’s all marshy like.”
“I’m sure they’ll hold, Roper. Carry on.” The ensign looked over at Mr. Bennet. “At least it will make for quick digging.”
“That it will,” Mr. Bennet said, poking a toe into the spongy sod. “For everyone.”
He threw his daughter a somber glance that moved her hand to her sword.
Ensign Pratt frowned, but Mr. Cummings didn’t even seem to notice anything was amiss, for he’d been busy leafing through his Book of Common Prayer in search of something appropriate for such an uncommon occasion.
Lord Lumpley, on the other hand, couldn’t help but notice, given that his eyes rarely strayed from Jane. He straightened up and began backing away from the others.
“Well, now that we’ve got this under way, no doubt there are other matters I could be attending to around the village. Perhaps Miss Bennet and I might—”
“Hello,” Roper said, seemingly speaking to the tuft of grass he was kneeling over. “One of my pegs is coming back out.”
“What’s that you say?” Ensign Pratt asked, moving over to take a look.
“I would advise stepping back, gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Yeah . . . right you are, sir,” Roper said—just as a hand burst from the earth, a tent peg piercing the palm. Gray fingers clamped themselves around the man’s ankle.