Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls (35 page)

Mr. Bennet nodded. “The time has come, I think, to stop trying.”

__________________

FIRST, THE THREE YOUNGEST Bennet girls had to clear the wine cellar of its dreadfuls. (There were two still squirming like worms from the packed-dirt floor, their progress slowed by the quicklime that had apparently eaten away most of their connective tissue.) Then it was time to clear the wine cellar of both its wines and its many rows of wine racks—all of which proved excellent fodder for zombie bombardment once it was hauled up to the second floor. After that, the packing began.

They started with the walls. The house, it was quickly discovered, was a Swiss cheese of secret passages and hidden vaults. With Belgrave’s reluctant help—which turned quite a bit less reluctant whenever Jane was in the vicinity—dozens of people were soon tucked away out of sight.

Which meant there were that many fewer to fight back the unmentionables breaking through. And there were steadily fewer still as more and more people were sent into the cellar to join the children and the elderly and the wounded already there. Eventually, there was no one left guarding the windows and doors at all, and the cellar was stuffed wall to wall.

“Time for you to go in, too,” Mr. Bennet said to his daughters. “Seal the door from the inside, as we discussed, and I’ll put the false wall in place out here. It won’t be pleasant down there in the dark, I’m sure, but the air holes should—where do you think you’re going?”

Lydia and Kitty were hurrying off down the hall, toward the sound of splintering wood and phlegmy moans.

“Our friends from outside are letting themselves in a trifle early!” Lydia called over her shoulder.

“We’ll just go and ask them to wait!” Kitty added.

They were drawing their swords as they darted around a corner.

“There’s no time for that now!” Mr. Bennet called after them.

“Well, there’s a
little
more time than you might have thought,” Elizabeth said.

“We’re not going down there, you know,” said Jane.

Mary hefted one side of the wood panel that had been hastily fitted to hide the landing before the cellar door. “This is really quite heavy, Papa. Together on the count of three . . .?”

Mr. Bennet looked at her, then Jane, then Elizabeth, and despite the bags under his eyes and the deep sadness within them, he seemed to be on the verge of cracking a smile. And perhaps he would have, if a familiar voice hadn’t called out from the darkness below.

“Mr. Bennet! You march those girls in here this instant!” Mrs. Bennet demanded. “You’re not going to leave me down in this filthy hole all alone!”

“Did you hear that?” one of the maids grumbled from under the stairs, where she stood stuffed in with the rest of the household staff. “The silly cow thinks she’s all alone.”

“Farewell, Mrs. Bennet. I . . .”

Whatever Mr. Bennet had been about to say went unsaid, and he instead stomped down the steps, met his wife at the bottom, and kissed her. Then he turned and marched back out of the attic, leaving Mrs. Bennet sobbing in the arms of her sister Philips.

When he reached the landing again, he couldn’t meet his daughters’ gazes: For once,
he
was the one blushing and looking away.

“Come now, all together,” he said, grabbing one side of the false wall. “One . . . two . . . lift!”

There was a distant clatter of boards falling to the floor just as he and the girls got the panel in place, and an otherworldly yowl echoed through the halls.

“That would be in the north wing, by the sound of it,” said Mr.
Bennet. “Jane, run along and greet the new arrivals, hmm? I’ll join you shortly. Mary, go see what’s keeping Lydia and Kitty. And you—”

He turned toward Elizabeth and took in a deep breath as her sisters darted away. It almost seemed as if he was waiting for them to get out of earshot.

“We will be retreating to the attic at the first opportunity,” he said. “It is essential no unmentionables see us go up there, so it’s difficult to say when that opportunity might arrive. Hopefully, it will be a matter of minutes. When we get there, we will lock the door behind us and hope for the best. There can be nothing in that attic that might give us away, however. Even the slightest disturbance would spell our doom.”

“So Dr. Keckilpenny’s captives—”

“Must be dealt with. And I thought it best that you do the dealing.”

“Of course, Father. It will be done.”

Mr. Bennet nodded just once, wordless, and headed for the north wing. Elizabeth went to the stairs.

She was barely aware of the steps under her feet, and the grunts and thumps and hammering from the halls below went unheard. All she could think of was Dr. Keckilpenny and what she could—and couldn’t—say to him.

She’d tried to see him the day before, during a brief lull between breaches. She’d found the door to the attic locked, and she lacked the nerve to knock. She’d laughed about it to herself as she’d gone back downstairs to face another onslaught. The dreadfuls she could face. But a man for whom her feelings were . . .
complicated
? That she ran from.

Only she couldn’t run from it now.

The door to the attic was still locked. She rapped on it firmly.

“Dr. Keckilpenny! It’s Elizabeth Bennet! I need to speak to you!”

There was no answer from the other side of the door. No sound at all.

Elizabeth knocked again.

“Doctor! Please! It’s urgent!”

Still nothing.

Elizabeth could hear the noises from downstairs. Shrieks and the scuffling of feet.

She pounded on the door with both fists.

“Dr. Keckilpenny! Are you there? Are you all right? Answer me!”

When there was no response, Elizabeth stepped back for a kick that she hoped would break open the door. She knew it was worse than futile: Damage the knob and lock, and the room beyond would be useless as a hiding place. But what choice was there?

And she had to know about the doctor. Would it end with him so embittered toward her that he’d actually leave her to the dreadfuls? Or could it be that he wasn’t up there at all? Perhaps he’d engineered his own escape, abandoned them, just like Master Hawksworth.

The thought of the Master gave her the rage she needed. No lock was going to stop her. She swiveled on her right foot and drew up her left just as steps started down the stairs on the other side of the door.

A moment later, the key rattled in the lock, and the door opened. Not wide. Just a crack. Then the footsteps began again. And by the time Elizabeth was inside, at the bottom of the stairs, Dr. Keckilpenny was nearly at the top.

He hadn’t said a word to her.

It was words she’d always liked best about the man. He had so many, and never quite the ones she expected. She found herself longing for a few of them even now, as the sound of fighting grew louder from the ground floor and she climbed to the attic with her hand on her sword.

Mr. Smith spoke to her first.

“Buh ruhz,” he growled. “Buh ruhz!”

He was in his usual position, standing with arms thrown back behind him as he strained against the shackles that held him in place. He was noticeably more decayed, however, his skin blotchy and bloated, peeling away here and there to reveal glistening sinew and bone beneath. A family of flies had discovered him, it seemed, for the right side of his face was aswarm with maggots.

“Buh ruhzzzzzz . . . buh ruhzzzzz.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Smith. And you, as well, Doctor. I must admit, I’m disappointed to find your pupil’s vocabulary unexpanded.”

Elizabeth winced at her own words. Death was at their door—quite literally—and here she was chattering away like it was just another guest come for high tea.

She stepped toward Mr. Smith.

“Yes, alas, our friend’s diction is no better,” Dr. Keckilpenny said, his own voice weary and rough. “Yet I find that I understand him now, all the same.”

Elizabeth stopped. “You do?”

There was only one small window in the attic, set high near the arching rafters, and the doctor was standing directly beneath it. The rays of sunlight caught only the topmost curls of his unkempt hair, leaving the rest of him little more than a faint gray silhouette.

“Perfectly,” he said. “I’ve already done some of your work for you. Hadn’t you noticed?”

He spread out his hands and cocked his head, and it took Elizabeth a moment to work out what he was referring to.

“Your trunk . . . the dead soldier . . .”

The doctor nodded. “Gone. I dragged him down to the second floor and pushed him out a window last night. I’ve overheard enough talk in the hall to know that sort of thing’s all the rage. And seeing as I didn’t need a spare anymore—”

A chill rippled across Elizabeth’s shoulders. “What do you mean you were doing my work for me?”

“You’ve been sent to kill my subjects, haven’t you?” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “I’m afraid, if you mean to see it through, you’ll have to kill me as well.”

Elizabeth laughed joylessly, and her fingers suddenly felt slick on the hilt of her katana, her grip unsure.

“Oh, come now, Doctor! Histrionics don’t suit you. You must face
this with cold logic, as befits a man of science. Your experiment has run its course, and now necessity demands—”

“So that’s truly how you see me?” the doctor cut in. “A creature of unfeeling intellect without the passion even for a little melodrama when faced with his own failure?
Failures
, I should say because, by gad, the plural is called for here. No wonder you said I was . . . what was it? Only half a good man?”

Elizabeth was glad, at that moment, that she couldn’t make out the doctor’s face in the gloom of the room. She was sure to see pain she’d put there herself. And that pained
her
.

“I owe you an apology, Doctor. I spoke far too harshly.”

“Indeed, you greatly underestimated me. I am, at the very least, two-thirds of a good man, if not even three-quarters.” Dr. Keckilpenny chortled at his own joke, but the sound quickly turned into a snort of disgust. “I am an arrogant ass. I came here with the temerity to think I would accomplish what no one else could. All I ended up doing was what so very, very many have done before me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, I went and lost my heart. Who’d have thought I even had one to begin with? It was my mind people always thought I was losing. And then . . . I guess you could say I lost all the rest of me as well.”

The doctor stepped closer, shrugging off his cutaway coat as he came. His movements were stiff, deliberate, and as he moved forward into the light Elizabeth could see how pale and sweaty was his face.

He stopped a few feet from her, dangerously close to Mr. Smith. Yet the dreadful paid no attention to him. Its hungry gaze stayed only on her.

Dr. Keckilpenny tossed his coat aside and began rolling up the right sleeve of his shirt. It was stained reddish black, and once it was up over the elbow, Elizabeth could see why.

She gasped.

His upper arm was bloody and mangled, with a chunk ripped away
as large as her fist. The flesh ringing the wound had turned purple, and the rest of the arm was as gray and mottled as marble.

“When?” was all Elizabeth could say.

“Not long after our little talk up here with Master Hercules or Lord Samson or whatever his name is. My better—or at least bigger—half. I was trying to interest Smithy in a game of whist and I grew careless, and the ingrate bit me. After all I’ve done for him! I suppose I could’ve gone down to see Dr. Thorne about it. I find I’ve grown rather attached to my limbs, though, ho ho, and the survival rate of the doctor’s patients hardly inspires confidence. And, well, I suppose my pride wouldn’t allow—”

A deafening crash echoed up the stairwell, followed by frenzied shouts and a long, piercing screech.

“Buh ruhz!” Mr. Smith howled as if in answer, and he tried to charge at Elizabeth, his feet slapping and sliding over the floorboards even as he went nowhere. “Buuuuhhhhhh ruuuuuuuhhhhzzzzzz!”

“Yes, yes—the lady has them in abundance, and quite luscious they are, too,” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “‘Brains,’ he’s saying, Miss Bennet. Buhrain-uhz. I know it because I can hear the call, as well, though the plague hasn’t fully taken me yet. It’s really a rather delicious irony: It was your mind I was attracted to from the beginning. My longing’s just growing a little too literal.”

There was more commotion downstairs, and Elizabeth heard her father shout “Quadrangle of Death, if you please! Very nice!”

“It’s time,” Dr. Keckilpenny said, and he straightened his shoulders and lifted his head high. “I’d prefer it if you attended to me first.”

“Doctor . . . Bertram . . . I can’t—”

There was a sickening
riiiiiiiip
, and Mr. Smith barreled across the room. He’d freed himself from his chains—by freeing himself of his arms. They plopped to the floor still in the sleeves of his moldy coat as he charged at Elizabeth.

“Brrrrrrrrrraaaaaaiiiiinnnnsss!”

Elizabeth jumped back knowing she wouldn’t get the katana from
its sheath in time. But then Mr. Smith suddenly had arms again—two long, thin ones, wrapped tight around his body from behind, dragging him to a halt.

“Do it!” Dr. Keckilpenny shouted. “Do it now!”

Mr. Smith turned his head and bit a huge, pulpy hunk from the man’s shoulder.

The doctor screamed but managed to hold on.

“What you feel doesn’t matter, Elizabeth! What you think doesn’t matter! Just do!”

She took off both their heads with one swing.

There wasn’t much blood left in Mr. Smith, but the same couldn’t be said of Dr. Keckilpenny. A geyser sprayed the room as he fell, and Elizabeth’s gown was dyed bright red.

Her father and sisters came up the stairs a moment later, moving quickly but quietly, the door behind them again closed and locked.

“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said when she saw the bodies lying near the top of the steps. “What—”

Mr. Bennet shushed her.

“Don’t speak,” he whispered. He paused to look all the girls in the eye, lingering longest on Lydia and Kitty. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Our lives depend upon it.”