Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls

CHAPTER 14

BY THE TIME THE UNMENTIONABLE had helped Elizabeth to her feet, it was obvious he wasn’t an unmentionable at all. He was a man—albeit one with tousled hair, filthy clothes, and face and hands smeared with either thick green greasepaint or pea soup.

“What are you doing out here dressed like that?” Elizabeth asked, far, far too unnerved for a simple “Thank you” or “How do you do?”

The man grinned, flashing big, pearly white teeth.

“Testing a theory!” he enthused (and it was a disconcerting thing, seeing what looked like a dreadful enthuse). “I thought it might be possible to mingle with the zombies. Disguise life. They are frightfully dim, you know. That’s one of the few advantages we have over them. We’re easy to kill, and they’re thick as bricks. I’ve often wondered, if people didn’t make a habit of screaming and running around and such every time they saw a zombie, would the poor things even know whom to eat? Simply remaining calm might be the best defense we have, it seemed to me. Muss your hair, cock your head, and groan out a few oooohs and ahhhhs, and the undead might well shuffle right past!”

Despite everything—her stinging scrapes and throbbing bruises, the stench of rotting flesh on the air, the lingering jolt of terror she could still feel tingling over her goosepimpled skin—Elizabeth found herself smiling back at the man.

BY THE TIME THE UNMENTIONABLE HAD HELPED ELIZABETH TO HER FEET, IT WAS OBVIOUS HE WASN’T AN UNMENTIONABLE AT ALL.

“Was it working?” she asked.

“Well, no,” the man said, still grinning. “When you arrived, I do believe our friend here was about to eat me. Then perhaps you would’ve had the chance to save me. That throw you made with your knife was absolutely smashing, by the by! Had the blade been but a little larger, it would have done the job admirably. As it is, I don’t think it penetrated the medulla oblongata. That’s the trick, you know—severing the connection between the cerebellum and the spinal cord. Or, barring that, making sure there’s nothing left for the spinal cord to connect to. It’s one of the great puzzles about the zombies, if you ask me: Why would the undead need their brains? If they’re animated by, oh, evil or whatever you want to call it, how could anything purely physiological have any effect on . . . oh, dear. There’s something hanging from one of my nostrils, isn’t there?”

“No, no . . . it’s just . . .”

Elizabeth kept gaping at the man as he rubbed his rather prodigious nose. When he was done, there was a bare spot on the tip where he’d wiped away the paint, a little dot of pink shining out from the chalky green.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Elizabeth said.

“No, indeed. I’ve just arrived from London with a company of His Majesty’s finest. Well, I hope they’re his finest. His Majesty’s youngest and most ill trained, they seem to me. Not that I know anything about military discipline. And they’re in fine, new, spotless red coats, at least, so I suppose that counts for something. They’re all off that way.” He flapped a long arm toward the west, then reconsidered and squinted to the east. “Or was it that way? I’ve managed to get myself more than a little lost, I must admit. At any rate, the soldiers are setting up camp outside that little village close by here . . . somewhere.”

“You mean Meryton?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Charming hamlet, that. A shame about the zombies.”

“Yes. It is.”

Elizabeth looked the man up and down again. Though he was tall and lean—clearly full grown, if nowhere near aged—there remained something childlike about him. Perhaps it was his natural exuberance, perhaps the wide, brown eyes so full of wonder. Perhaps it was the leaves and twigs in his dark hair, and the fact that he didn’t appear to mind them in the slightest. Whatever it was, it made him seem both irrepressibly curious and achingly vulnerable, and Elizabeth felt the strange urge to take him by the hand and ask if he’d like a piece of candy.

“Did you bring more shot and powder for your pistol?” she asked.

“What? Oh. Powder?” The man stared at his flintlock as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “No. If I did need this, I assumed, there’d hardly be time to reload for a second shot.”

Elizabeth turned back to the dead dreadful stretched out on the ground and took hold of the dagger jutting from its forehead. After a little tugging, the blade popped free with a sickening slurp.

“I think it might be best if I were to escort you back to Meryton.” She wiped the knife on the ground, then slid it back into its ankle scabbard, careful to keep any exposed leg hidden from the gentleman. “We can’t have you wandering lost alone in these woods.”

Elizabeth waited for those big, brown eyes to blink, for the ebullience to be replaced by indignation.

“You . . . escort me?” she expected to hear.

“Splendid!” the man said instead. “That’ll give me a chance to ask about the zombies hereabouts. Was this the first one you’ve seen yourself?”

Elizabeth answered as she led the stranger out of the woods to the nearest lane, telling him about Mr. Ford’s funeral and Lord Lumpley’s dreadful (in every sense) hunting party. He showed no sign of surprise when she mentioned her own role in both events, merely asking when she was done, “Are all Hertfordshire girls so intrepid?”

“Only my sisters and myself, so far as I know.”

“Ah. More’s the pity . . .” The stranger had been wiping his face as they walked, and now he waved his green-smeared handkerchief the way they’d just come. “And what of that poor soul back there? Did you recognize him?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “There wasn’t much left one could recognize.”

“True. Yet from his clothes and what was left of his hair, I fancy we could whip up a hypothesis, or make a decent guess, at least. Now . . .”

The young man—for such he turned out to be when the paint came off his face—tapped a long finger against his chin.

“When I came across him in that clearing, he was crawling around stuffing voles in his mouth. I saw no sign of fresh soil upon him, nor was that a shroud he wore—it was shabby, worn clothing. A wild-haired, bearded fellow, he seemed to be, as well. So. Supposition: He was a nomadic peddler or vagabond who died in the woods some time ago, perhaps at the hands of a gentleman of the road, perhaps lost in foul weather, perhaps . . . oh, I don’t know. Perhaps he was eaten by voles. It would explain his lust for revenge upon them. At any rate, he was never buried—which would be in keeping with the other zombies seen in the vicinity of late, as none so far have dug their way from an actual grave.”

The man looked over at Elizabeth, obviously eager for her thoughts on his theory. He quickly furrowed his brow and brushed at his beak of a nose.

Without meaning to, she’d been giving him that look again.

“May I ask you a few questions?” she said.

“Certainly . . . so long as ‘Were you dropped on your head as a child?’ isn’t among them. I’ve grown rather tired of that one.”

“It’s actually The Zed Word I’m wondering about.”

“Zombie? What of it?”

“Well, there it is again. You use it. Quite liberally.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“It’s not polite.”

The young man threw his arms out and railed up at the heavens. “Oh, we can’t have that, can we? We can’t go around being impolite when we’re about to be overrun by reanimated cadavers! Egad—the English! How can we face a problem squarely when we can’t even bring ourselves to name it?”

And just as suddenly as it had begun, the tirade ended, and the man looked into Elizabeth’s eyes and smiled.

“What else were you wondering about?”

“Who are you?”

The question popped out with far less subtlety than Elizabeth would have preferred, and the man opened his eyes wide again, clapping a hand to his cheek as if he’d just been slapped.

“Oh, dear me! I’ve done it again! I am forever forgetting the importance of proper introductions. As there is no one here to do the honors for us . . .” He cleared his throat and, without missing a step, offered Elizabeth a bow. “Dr. Bertram Keckilpenny, at your service.”

Elizabeth hoped her eyebrows didn’t fly up too high at that “Doctor.” Keckilpenny’s intelligence was obvious, but he hardly seemed old enough to be anything but a particularly gifted (and eccentric) second-year at Cambridge.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Elizabeth Bennet.”

It seemed horribly forward, introducing herself like that, and she felt all the more self-conscious when Keckilpenny goggled his eyes at her yet again.

“Bennet, you say? Bennet, Bennet, Bennet. Hmm. It seems to me that name’s ever so important, somehow. You’re not famous are you, Miss Bennet?”

“Me?” Elizabeth laughed. “No, I should think not.”

The laughter died on her lips when she saw what stood in their path.

Up the lane a way was one of her neighbors—a gossip-prone crone by the name of Mrs. Adams. The old woman was watching their approach with a mix of horror and exhilaration on her face. She obviously couldn’t wait to tell someone, anyone, of what she’d seen, and she wouldn’t have far to go to do it, either: Meryton was just around the next bend.

“Good morning, Mrs. Adams!” Elizabeth called to her.

The woman managed a brusque nod, then turned and scurried toward town.

“Your question has proved prophetic, Doctor,” Elizabeth said. “I believe I soon will be famous in these parts. Notorious, even . . . if I’m not already.”

It took Keckilpenny a moment to grasp her meaning, so far removed were his thoughts from propriety and the need to keep up appearances.

“Ahhhhh.” He looked over at Elizabeth’s dirty, blood-speckled sparring gown, then down at his own shabby attempt to dress like a moldy old dreadful. “Well, I should think any young lady able to face a zombie without flinching wouldn’t have any trouble facing her neighbors.”

And he offered Elizabeth his arm.

She smiled gratefully and accepted, and the two of them strolled into Meryton with the stately grace of a lord and his lady about to be announced at a court ball. Elizabeth kept up conversation with Dr. Keckilpenny all through town, singling out points of particular interest to him (St. Chad’s Church, the adjacent graveyard, the haberdashery where Emily Ward had once worked), the better to blot out the titters and whispers from all around. The shock and shame of being uninvited to the ball had nearly killed her mother, and now this scene—when, inevitably, relayed back to Longbourn by her Aunt Philips—might well finish the job.

Elizabeth silently castigated herself for thinking of this, even ever so briefly, as a possible silver lining to her humiliation.

She finally found refuge from her neighbors’ reproachful stares when they reached the village green, for here it was soldiers doing all the staring. Some were putting up white-peaked tents, others were in the midst of marching drills complete with fife and drum, yet all (it seemed to Elizabeth) had their eyes on her.

“Porter!” Dr. Keckilpenny called to one of them. “I say, Private Porter!”

The soldier peered at him in confusion, then said, “It’s Corporal Parker, Sir.”

“Yes, yes, Parker, Parker. Do be a good fellow and fetch the colonel, would you? There’s someone here I think he should meet.”

“Very good, Sir. I’ll go get the captain.”

Cpl. Parker favored Elizabeth with a smirk before hustling away.

“I’m afraid I must bid you au revoir, Miss Bennet,” Dr. Keckilpenny said, and he tapped the side of his head with a crooked finger. “There is fresh data here, much of it, and I must set it all down in my journals before it degrades. Friend Parker’s name I can get wrong—as I get almost all names wrong until I’ve known someone at least a decade—but science demands precision. Before we part, however, I must thank you for taking the time and care to guide me here safely. You have my deepest gratitude,” the young man put his hands over his heart, “and admiration. Ah! Capt. Cannon!”

The doctor looked off to the left, and before Elizabeth turned that way, too, she might have guessed from the sound of squeaking axles and grass being flattened that someone was pushing a wheelbarrow their way. As indeed someone was, though it wasn’t so much a wheelbarrow as a wheeled man.

Strapped to a seatback mounted on a small cart was a big, bluff officer with bushy white eyebrows and mustache and mutton chops . . . and no arms or legs.

“Limbs, halt!” he barked.

The soldiers pushing him—one for each wooden shaft of the wheelbarrow—came to a sudden stop.

“Dr. Keckilpenny,” the torso-man growled, “I’ve had two squads out combing the countryside for you when I can’t spare so much as—”

“Oh, I know, I know, apologies, apologies!” Dr. Keckilpenny said cheerfully, and he began hurrying off into the camp. “But I’m back now, thanks to the young lady here. Allow me to introduce Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Bennet—Capt. Cannon. Good-bye now. Must dash!”

He darted around a tent and was gone.

It seemed a decidedly unchivalrous exit, abandoning her to the fuming glower of a stranger, and such a truly strange one, at that.

Capt. Cannon took a moment to look Elizabeth up and down—then surprised her with a warm smile.

“You wouldn’t be a relation of Mr. Oscar Bennet, would you?”

“Indeed, I would. He is my father.”

“Capital!” the captain boomed. “Then once you’re rested and refreshed, you may lead me straight to him. He’s just the man we’ve come here to see!”