Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls

CHAPTER 9

ELIZABETH, FOR ONE, was not ready to slay her first dreadful. Yet at least she knew it. Looking at the men gathered before the baron’s manor house, it was obvious most thought otherwise of themselves. They were laughing, cocksure, anything but scared.

Perhaps it was the drink Lord Lumpley had obviously been so generous with that afternoon. Perhaps it was simply the confidence of youth, for the loudest merrymakers were invariably the youngest.

But most likely it was plain ignorance. The great, undead herds of The Troubles had never made it as far as Meryton. Here and there in the crowd, however, you could pick out the men who’d seen them. They were the ones with grim, pinched faces and haunted eyes. The men like Elizabeth’s father.

“We talked about quietly raising a militia,” he spat as the baron brayed on with his welcome speech, “and the bloated dolt throws a party.”

He got a few stares for that. It provided a moment of respite for Elizabeth and Jane, actually, for up to then the stares had been reserved for them. There had been a wave of whispers, too, and though Elizabeth did not catch any of the words, she knew exactly what was being said.

What are they wearing?

Are those swords?

The Bennets have always been eccentric, but now they’ve gone quite mad!

Holy Father, what hast Thou loosed on fair England?

This last wasn’t being said but silently prayed, to judge by the expression on Mr. Cummings’s face. He’d looked only slightly more appalled when Mr. Bennet had splattered his pulpit with zombie gore.

Elizabeth did her best to block it all out with her mantra (smooth stone beneath still water, smooth stone beneath still water . . .), but nothing could blunt the piercing sting of shame. After Papa had announced that she and Jane were to accompany him that afternoon—were, in fact, to have their coming out as warriors-in-training—she’d felt queasy and faint, as if Kitty had accidentally thwacked her upside the head with her fighting staff. Which, in a very few minutes, she did. Now, however, the pain was far sharper, stabbing deep into her heart.

Her mother had told her more than once she was a headstrong girl, insufficiently concerned with the good opinion of her neighbors. And it might have even been true, back when her gravest offense was rolling her eyes at someone else’s foolishness or speaking with a tad more honesty than polite society permits. Yet that hardly mattered now, for no young lady’s good name could survive the spectacle they were making of themselves.

The proof of that was beside her. Her sister Jane was perfection, with a reputation as unblemished as any could hope for with the Bennets for a family. Yet that hadn’t turned aside any of the stares or stifled any of the snickers, and the demure, gentle-spirited girl listened in slump-shouldered silence atop her steed as Lord Lumpley did his best to rouse the crowd that found her so absurd.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the shocking incident in our very own St. Chad’s Church a few days ago. Well, we’ll have no more of that around here! We shall sweep the countryside clean of any such rubbish . . . then sleep sound in our beds tonight knowing the peril is safely behind us once again!”

“Imbecile,” Mr. Bennet hissed so loudly his horse whinnied and pranced nervously beneath him.

“Are you ready to ride with me?” the baron cried.

“Ready!” called back a chorus of brandy-soaked voices.

“To your horses, then!”

There was a great commotion as drunken huntsmen staggered to steeds, tried to mount them, in many cases fell off, and then either lay on the ground laughing or berated some unlucky groom for his supposed incompetence in keeping the horse steady.

“Be ready with your steel, girls,” Mr. Bennet said. “I don’t know if these fools are going to kill any zombies today, but it’s quite likely they’re about to create a few.”

“Yes, Father,” Elizabeth and Jane said together.

Lord Lumpley had better luck getting himself mounted than most of his friends, and soon he came trotting toward the Bennets on a sleek, brown mare.

“I would suggest that the ladies stay to the rear. I would hate to see either of them unhorsed in all the commotion of the hunt.”

“You need not worry about my Jane,” Mr. Bennet said. “A finer horsewoman you will never see.”

He peeped over at Elizabeth, offering wordless apologies with a doleful look. A more awkward horsewoman than she one would never see, for anyone else with as little horse sense wouldn’t dare sit in the saddle. If her father had known of the baron’s plans, it very likely would have been Jane and Mary he’d brought with him to Netherfield.

“As for this idea of a hunt,” Mr. Bennet said, looking at Lord Lumpley again, “we spoke of using the hounds, yes, but only after we’d organized a proper—”

The baron stopped him with a raised hand. “We can discuss that later, Bennet. Now is the time for action.” He swiveled around, puffed out his chest (so much so that Elizabeth thought she heard a faint popping noise coming from the vicinity of his stomach), and boomed: “Produce the object!”

With a sigh of weary irritation, Mr. Bennet pulled a swaddle-wrapped handkerchief from one of the pockets of his greatcoat. This he gave to Lord Lumpley.

“Master of the Quorn!” the baron bellowed.

A small, lean man hustled over, and Lord Lumpley handed him the handkerchief. The man then sprinted away toward the milling, whimpering foxhounds clustered nearby. With each step he took, the dogs grew louder, wilder, until they were practically dancing on each other’s backs, barking madly.

The Master of the Quorn knelt before them, unwrapped the handkerchief, and let the dogs crowd in for a good sniff.

“Is that what I think it is?” Elizabeth asked.

Her father nodded.

In the church, after dispatching Mr. Ford, Mr. Bennet had collected a peculiar memento mori: the dead man’s ears.

The hounds, it seemed, didn’t like the smell of them. Their yips turned to whines, their tails curled between their legs, their ears flattened back on their heads, they cringed and wet the ground. One by one, however, they stuck their noses in the air, nostrils flaring.

When the Master of the Quorn stood up, they circled each other uncertainly for a moment, then slowly set off across the lawn. Once they were under way, they seemed to forget their fear. The barking began again, and their hesitant lope became a dash.

“They’ve got the scent!” someone called out.

“Tallyho!” Lord Lumpley shouted, and he gave his horse a hard slap of the crop to set her off. Within seconds, two dozen huntsmen were thundering away after him—and two of the more besotted ones quickly rolled backward off their charging mounts. Mr. Bennet and his daughters trotted over to make sure they were still alive.

They were . . . though to judge by their groans, they weren’t especially happy about it.

“So,” Elizabeth said, “tallyho, then?”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “Jane, if you would please catch up with Lord Lumpley and see to it he doesn’t do anything too spectacularly stupid. Elizabeth . . .” Mr. Bennet reached over and patted her white-knuckled hands, which were wrapped so tightly around the reins that her fingernails bit into her palms. “Good luck.”

They set off after the hunting party, but they didn’t remain together long. Within a minute, Jane had not just caught up with the other riders but was passing most of them. Elizabeth, meanwhile, had to use all the skill and will at her disposal both to stay on her horse and to keep from screaming while doing so.

It didn’t help, of course, that she had to ride sidesaddle, an experience akin to sitting on a rocking chair with no back set adrift in a rowboat in stormy seas. She’d never had the best “seat” to begin with, and that had been when riding at a leisurely amble along smooth country lanes. Going at a gallop through field and brush—as the party was doing now—convinced her she soon would have no seat at all.

Elizabeth’s only consolation was the fact that she was doing better than many of the men. When she sent her horse flying over a narrow stream, she flashed past a red-coated fellow sitting in it shaking his head. When she took another leap over a low hedge, she noticed two huntsmen on the other side stumbling after the horses that had just thrown them. And when she rounded a stand of trees and barely avoided a gamekeeper’s cottage half hidden in the shadow, she saw a horse standing stock still before it—and its former rider hanging half on, half off the roof.

Nerve-racking as the chase was, Elizabeth would’ve realized she was grateful for the pure, thought-obliterating terror of it if she could’ve slowed down long enough to think at all. Better to worry about falling off a horse than ponder the unsettling question the ride itself presented.

What exactly were they chasing?

Eventually, however, Elizabeth could avoid the question no longer. From up ahead, she heard a strangled blast of the hunting horn and the sharp, yelping screams of injured dogs.

A moment later, she reined up her horse beside a small lake. The rest of the hunting party was already there, on foot now—except for the few who’d wheeled their mounts around and gone galloping in the opposite direction as soon as they saw what the hounds had found.

A dripping, bedraggled figure was struggling to pull itself out of the water. From its waterlogged dress and long, brown hair it was easy to see it had once been a woman. The rest of it, though, hardly even seemed human. The flesh was bloated and green, and a swollen tongue protruded obscenely from its mouth, giving the creature the look of a giant frog. It was trying to walk to the shore with outstretched arms, yet it seemed to make no progress, and Elizabeth didn’t understand why until she dismounted and forced herself to move closer.

A rope had been tied to the woman’s waist, and the other end was wound around a gray lump in the water just behind her: a stone the size of a Christmas goose.

“Oh, no,” Jane whispered, voice choked with pity and despair. “Not her.”

Bile burned the back of Elizabeth’s throat.

She was looking at her sister’s missing friend, Emily Ward. The girl had drowned herself. And now she was back.

Growling hounds ringed the shoreline before the dreadful. A few had apparently braved the shallows to attack it, for the creature’s right sleeve was torn off, the green flesh beneath hanging ragged where it had been chewed and torn. In the brush some distance away were two dogs whimpering as they limped away from the trees the unmentionable had hurled them against.

“Good God,” Lord Lumpley muttered, looking almost as green as the zombie. “Good God . . .”

“Not as sporting as you remember it, My Lord?” Mr. Bennet asked.

The baron simply shook his head. Most of his fellow huntsmen had stumbled off into the bracken to throw up, though a few—the older, sober ones, mostly—stood their ground.

The Reverend Mr. Cummings came rolling up in his little dogcart just as Lord Lumpley spun on his heel and streaked for the trees to join his retching friends. The vicar hopped from his carriage—then found his knees not entirely up to the task at hand. As he started toward the lake, his legs were wobbling so badly it looked like he’d slipped a pair of snakes down his trousers.

“B-but surely that’s not Miss W-w-w-w-ard? G-G-God save us!”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Mr. Bennet mumbled under his breath.

One of the more frenzied hounds made a running lunge for the dreadful, sinking its fangs deep into the thing’s throat. The zombie screamed, though more in rage than pain, it seemed to Elizabeth, and then knocked the dog aside into the shallows.

The dreadful’s shrieking suddenly stopped—because the hound had torn out all the flesh between the collarbone and jaw. There was no windpipe left to scream with.

And still Emily Ward struggled to reach land, the stone behind her moving but a fraction of an inch with each lurching step. Her mouth remained open wide, her arms out straight before her, as if she were beseeching, pleading for help.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said, “I don’t suppose we’ll have a better opportunity for practice than this. It’s not often you find an unmentionable staked down for you.”

Elizabeth moved a hand toward her sword. Not that she was so anxious to draw it. Gripping the hilt, she found, helped keep her hand from shaking.

“You . . . you want me to . . .?”

“No.” Her father’s eyes slowly slid from hers, locking onto the silent figure standing at her side. “It is Jane’s turn.”

“Sir!” the vicar said. “Why do you insi-si-sist on subjecting your own d-daughters to all this—”

“Last rites again, if you please!” Mr. Bennet snapped without taking his gaze from Jane.

The vicar started to reply, but whatever he meant to say died, strangled by stutters, on his spluttering tongue. He stumbled away from the Bennets and faced the lake.

“Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world,” he mumbled. “In the name of God the Father Almighty who c-c-created you . . .”

“I can’t do it,” Jane whispered.

“You must.”

Tears streaked Jane’s face, and she shook her head. “I won’t.”

Her father took an angry step toward her, scowling so fiercely he looked like another man entirely—a man Elizabeth might have fled from not so very long ago, before her training began. A man she still might flee from.

“You must!”

Jane’s tears flowed faster, then turned to sobs.

“Crying will not save us!” her father raged. “Mercy will not save us! Only the sword will save us! Draw yours and use it, girl! Do it now!”

Yet Jane just buried her head in her hands and sobbed all the harder.

Mr. Bennet stepped up so close he was practically shouting in her ear. “Prove you are not weak! Prove you are not worthless! Prove . . . oh, hang it all.”

And he wrapped his arms around his daughter and whispered “There, there.” When he peeped Elizabeth’s way a moment later, she saw her father once more, only more sad-eyed now. Defeated.

If they were to survive the coming days, this fragile, beautiful thing he cherished—her sister’s compassion and gentleness, her spirit, her very soul—had to be destroyed. Or so he’d believed. Yet still, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He’d failed. His daughters would never be warriors. Elizabeth looked around at the men watching them from beside the lake and peeping out from behind trees and bushes. Many of their faces were slack with dismay; just as many were curdled with disgust.

Her life would be in their hands, now—the hands of those who either lacked the fortitude to fight or judged her improper, mad, unworthy for daring to think a young lady might possess it. All she and Jane could do was slink home with their father, their reputations ruined, and pack away their weapons, and wait for the dreadfuls to come.

Or not.

Elizabeth heard the shing of a blade leaving its scabbard, saw a glint of sharp-edged steel, and realized only when she took her first step toward the water that it was she who’d drawn her sword. She went striding through the dogs, out into the lake, and aimed a swing of her katana at what was left of the dreadful’s neck.

She missed, instead slicing off a raised arm that promptly plopped into the water and sank. As Elizabeth brought back the sword to try again, the zombie reached out and grabbed it—actually snatched the blade out of the air with its remaining hand and held tight to it, all the while straining against the rope around its waist, pushing its black, protruding tongue toward Elizabeth’s face.

AS ELIZABETH BROUGHT BACK THE SWORD TO TRY AGAIN, THE ZOMBIE REACHED OUT AND GRABBED IT.

The stench hit Elizabeth, then, the odor of rotting flesh so close, so overpowering, her vision blurred. The katana was ripped from her grip. Her knees began to buckle.

And then another blade flashed out, and Emily Ward’s head toppled off its severed neck bone. As the rest of the body splashed backward after it, Elizabeth turned to find Jane at her side, still weeping. The sisters started to fall into each other’s arms.

“Not bad!” an unfamiliar voice boomed out. “But not good! Now dry those tears! Your father is correct—warriors weep not!”

Elizabeth and Jane looked up, past their shocked father, past the pale, trembling Mr. Cummings, past the assorted huntsmen cowering in the woods, and beheld a large, raven-haired man standing, legs spread and arms akimbo, near the vicar’s dogcart.

Lord Lumpley leaned out from behind a vine-choked oak. “Who are you?”

The man ignored him so utterly that one somehow understood he would’ve done the same even if he’d known he was a nobleman.

“You are Oscar Bennet?” he asked Elizabeth’s father.

“I am.”

The man started toward him through the brush with quick, confident steps. As he drew closer, Elizabeth noticed that he was extraordinarily young for one with such commanding ways. He was about Jane’s age, she would have guessed—eighteen years old.

He was also extraordinarily handsome, though Elizabeth was still too stunned and distraught to register that fact fully.

The sword at his side, though—that she couldn’t miss.

It was a katana.

“The Order sent you?” Mr. Bennet asked.

The young man gave his head a sharp, downward jerk. “Your message was received. I am the response.” He looked at the girls with such stony coldness he seemed more statue than man. “I am to be your daughters’ new master . . . and yours, as well, Oscar Bennet.”