The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (3 page)

Get help, she thought, outside help.

Everything was locked away.

She’d need something to keep warm outside, but there was no time; perhaps she could keep warm by running. Running did seem like a good idea.

She pulled open the outer door and plunged into the whiteness. Gunshots sounded and an angry bee zipped past her left ear, but she didn’t look behind her. Instead, she kept going, aiming for the small stone archway that was her escape route from the grounds. It was close, closer, and she was there. The stonework shattered, spreading shrapnel in her path: she held her hand out to ward it off as she sprang through, and sharp stabs of pain peppered her palm.

Above, a terrifying black shape dominated a worsening sky as a massive, ominous lump hung impossibly in the air. Huge propellers whined and complained as they manoeuvred the bulk above her. The turbulence picked up the snow falling and whipped it into huge spirals. This was the incredible object that had cast a shadow across the school earlier.

There were distant shouts behind her: “Lassen Sie die Hunde los!” and the mad barking of the dogs changed pitch suddenly.

Beyond the arch was an open area, hidden by the wall, and then there was the treeline.

Her boots disappeared into the drift with each step to slip and stumble on who knew what. The hem of her long dress became soaked, the heavy snow leaching into her petticoats and pulling her down. Cold water reached her toes and it seemed that icy fingers rose up her stockings. She went downhill and suddenly a huge white arena opened up as she reached the frozen river. Slipping at first, she found a gait that worked and began running across the wide open space.

She heard snarling and risked glancing back: huge dogs smashed through the undergrowth towards her. The three mastiffs slid around too, but their four legs were more stable, and so they pounded onwards getting closer all the time.

Georgina ran, her lungs aching from forcing the cold air in and out.

The middle of the frozen river was marked by a cut where the water flowed still. To her right, the river narrowed to stepping stones and to her left, someway off, was the waterfall leading down to the valley. Which way?

The dogs were nearly upon her.

Georgina turned to run along the irregular channel, but her speed was too great. She slipped, fell and hurtled towards the churning water, scrabbling as she slid to slow herself.

Her hunters realised the danger too. One squealed as its paws came from under it and it crashed into Georgina. Animal and human went into the water.

The air slammed out of Georgina as the cold shocked her. The water frothed as the dog thrashed about. The other dogs tried to reach Georgina as she grasped the edge of the ice sheet, her hands blue, and she tried to pull herself up towards the snapping, biting jaws. She knew that she had to get out of the freezing water, had to.

But she couldn’t and slid back, pulled by the current under the ice.

Deep breath!

Above her, the two dogs clawed and attacked the thin transparent sheet that protected her as she slipped away underneath.

Miss Charlotte

As for the youngest of the Deering-Dolittle sisters: Charlotte knew that Georgina would murder her and, far worse, Earnestine would disapprove - for Charlotte was on the Zeppelin when it took off.

Chapter II

Miss Deering-Dolittle

For the men kidnapping Earnestine, it had gone badly. In an undignified rush they had bundled the struggling young lady along a corridor, up some stairs and then towards the stables. Earnestine had not been worried or afraid, because she was so thoroughly vexed with a kind of spitting rage that her usual refined and controlled demeanour did not know one end of from the other. For her part, she had lashed out at the March Hare, Mad Hatter and the Dormouse with her sharp pointed Baker Street boots whenever the opportunity had presented itself, and was rewarded as often as not with a yelp and a Germanic curse. Nevertheless, the indignities had continued and the Cheshire Cat, that irritatingly handsome Gardener’s Hand, had eluded her.

The cold air on her ankles – oh, her dress must be riding up… it was mortifying!

They were outside and barely across the snow covered croquet lawn when Earnestine found herself pitched into the air and slung across the back of a horse. The beast’s haunches forced the wind out of her lungs, blowing up the disgusting great coat that still imprisoned her like a bag. Her feet, stuck out of the coat, froze, and yet, struggling inside the thick material, she was too hot. Someone, she was fairly sure it was that upstart oik, mounted the saddle to her right and took control of the reins.

A man’s hand slapped her derriere and they set off at a mad dash.

It was clear that the rider was deliberately choosing the most uneven ground as Earnestine was thrown about, bounced and bucked. She felt utterly sick, bruised and battered despite the armour of her corset, and then suddenly it was over. Hands grabbed her and manhandled her down like a package. She tipped alarmingly to one side as she slid from the horse’s neck. Even dazed and confused she managed to kick out, unsure whether her frozen toes would know it if she did find a target.

“Hellcat!”

Luckily, she landed on her feet and she stood upright before, to her embarrassment, she dropped into a sitting position, hurting her pummelled and bruised dignity. When finally, by sheer pertinacity, she freed herself, the shock of cold air was stupefying. She sat, panting, almost retching as her internal organs shifted back into place.

The four ruffians had gathered around each other, speaking German.

“Excuse–” she managed.

“Sorry, we must get the horses inside,” said… well, Earnestine didn’t know, because they were just dark shapes in the swirling snow.

“Excuse me?”

They ignored her.

This would have made Earnestine apoplectic had her frame known how to generate such a state, and a barrage of ‘excuse me’s did not disturb them from their worried sounding Germanic mumbling.

Their attention was focused with quick glances up the road.

It was intolerable, utterly intolerable: “Excuse me!!!”

“Shhh, Fräulein, please.”

This Gardener’s Hand, even dressed up in some pseudo uniform, had the utter temerity to tell her what to do.
Her!

“We must go back for the others,” the Gardener’s Hand said in English.

“Isn’t one enough,” the March Hare replied. He limped
– ha!

“Excuse me!”

The March Hare raised an insistent finger: “Fräulein, quiet.”

“I will not.”

“You will,” he said.

“We are responsible,” said the Gardener’s Hand, coming over to Earnestine.

“Pieter, we must get the horses inside,” the Mad Hatter repeated.

The Gardener’s Hand reached down and kindly helped Earnestine to her feet. She hit him, and then she ran off away from the looming building and into the white nothingness.

“Ach!” The man gave chase, slipping and stumbling after her. “Earnestine, Earnestine, we must get indoors.”

“Get away from me!”

“Earnestine.”

“Go to hell!”

She’d sworn!

Hopefully the wind had carried her words away and he wouldn’t have heard. She glanced back: he wasn’t far behind and she recognised the building now as the inn in the village down the valley. It was, as Miss Hardcastle had often pointed out, absolutely out of bounds: under no circumstances, girls, are you to go down to the village. Earnestine had tried so hard to be responsible, only to be thwarted by the Family Curse:
I must not explore.

Pieter was a few paces away.

Earnestine forced her cold fingers into a fist. He stopped, scared, and finally Earnestine felt she was gaining control of the situation.

“Now, Pieter,” she said, “you are to apologise, take me back to the college immediately and explain to the Principal. Do you hear? Do you hear?”

He hadn’t – he was looking over her shoulder.

“Listen to me!”

“Earnestine–”

“Miss Deering–Dolittle to you.”

“Miss, you must come with me now.”

She wasn’t going to look, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, but, of course, she did.

Behind a flickering curtain of falling snow that sparkled where the gaslight from the inn caught the swirling flakes, the road led up into the stygian night. In the distance were other lights, eerie and fizzing like lightning. She saw figures marching towards them in an uneven line, their distorted faces illuminated by the sparks in their… helmets? Their clothes were rags and yet they moved with complete disregard for the icy storm.

“Come with me or we will die,” Pieter repeated, his hand touching hers gently.

She snatched her hand away: “I will die then.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I am not going on an adventure.”

Pieter put his hands together as if he was praying and then touched his lips in thought.

He began carefully: “My colleagues, Herr Metzger, Hauptmann Schneider and Oberst Kroll, and I will protect you.”

Earnestine followed his indication from the March Hare to the Dormouse and finally resting upon the solid frame of the Mad Hatter: Metzger, Schneider and Kroll… and Pieter: names to remember to tell the Head Mistress.

“We need to go to the inn.”

“The inn?”

“It is a strong building and… they are nearly upon us.”

“Oh, very well.”

He marched towards the inn and Earnestine had to run to keep up.

Inside it was warm; the lights cast a red glow over the furnishings and a fire burned in the hearth. A woman, the Innkeeper’s wife, bustled about, making everyone welcome.

“Barricade the doors,” Pieter said.

The other gardeners had already selected the heaviest furniture.

The Innkeeper’s wife started to protest and her clientele stood to assist. About twenty villagers, arranged around small tables, scraped their chairs back as they stood. The gardeners ignored them until one burly giant of a man grabbed the bench he was moving. They exchanged angry words in different languages.

“Achtung!”

Pieter stood on a table.

Earnestine was embarrassed: “Get down.”

“We are about to be attacked and we must defend ourselves. Everyone!”

He repeated it in French and then German.

The pause that followed was long, and then someone said something that made the villagers laugh.

A crash!

The Innkeeper’s wife screamed.

Kroll shouted: “Achtung! Achtung!”

Everyone mobilised, grabbing stools and fire irons in the rush. One of the gardeners, Schneider, took out a pistol and fired at the door. He took two strides forward, right up to the threshold, and discharged another three shots. They got the door closed. A bench was quickly jammed into position. Metzger unbuckled his belt and dumped his sword on a chair, so he could help pile more furniture against the entrance.

From outside, hands slapped against the windows and then faces, distorted by the old glass and insane expressions, pushed against the front. They were everywhere. A woman screamed.

“This is an adventure,” said Earnestine to herself.

She was a calm pivot around which the villagers rushed: tables brought forward, a shotgun found and other men went to the back of the building.

“Why do you not want an adventure?” Pieter asked.

“Mother gave explicit instructions: no exploring, no trouble, no adventures.”

“Go upstairs and look!” someone shouted.

One of the gardeners sprinted to the staircase taking the steps two at a time.

“I would like to know what’s going on,” Earnestine demanded.

“We are being attacked,” Pieter replied. He checked his pistol.

“I fathomed that!”

Shouts at the back of the building intensified. Somewhere in the back room or beyond, Earnestine wasn’t sure of the size of the inn, a skirmish was escalating. A man’s scream, high pitched and utterly shocking, pierced the racket.

“They are inside,” said Metzger.

Schneider came far enough downstairs to lean over the banister: “They are everywhere.”

Someone shouted: “Ghuls, ghuls.”

“Are we surrounded?” Kroll asked.

“Ja.”

“Can’t run, can’t fight, can’t…”

Dread moans issued at the rear of the inn, finally overcoming the shouts and screams. The battle tumbled into the passageway outside the main room. Earnestine became mesmerised by Metzger’s discarded belt, the curved sword tucked safely in the leather protection of a scabbard. She took hold of the hilt and slid the cutlass out.

“Fräulein,” said Metzger, “do you know how to use that?”

“Of course not.”

“Best if you stab at arm’s length and–”

Earnestine slashed sideways and cut through the ‘ghoul’ as he lumbered into the room: once, twice. The man kept going. Pieter grabbed her free arm and pulled her towards the staircase. Out of the lounge and in the hallway, it became obvious that the rear of the house had been breached. The ghouls fell upon the villagers; bodies lay strewn about, twitching, as the assailants bent down to bite and tear at the flesh.

Earnestine hacked at the one chasing them again, and when they reached the bottom step Kroll emptied two rounds into its chest. It lurched back, almost toppling, but then came forward again.

“Mein Gott!”

Earnestine felt like she was falling upwards, such was the force as Pieter pushed and Kroll pulled. Metzger flung a chair over them. They reached the landing and stumbled on.

Kroll stood his ground on the top step, aimed carefully and fired at almost point blank range at the next attacker. After the roar of the explosion, a small black dot appeared in the ragged landscape of the man’s forehead, and the back of his head burst in a shower of red and black. The metal box attached to his head sparked and exploded. The corpse dropped like a stone.

“Now we know how to kill them,” said Metzger.

“Ja,” Kroll agreed. “Pity that was my last round.”

“A soldier shouldn’t run out of bullets,” Earnestine chided.