Eventually, the trio stumbled into view of the sentry stationed on the road, and it was only much shouting of “We’re alive! Still! Really! Believe us!” that spared them another greeting from his Brown Bess.
“I think you might want to fetch the lieutenant and a few of your mates, Private Johnson!” Dr. Keckilpenny called out when the man finally lowered his musket.
“Jones,” Elizabeth corrected.
“Sorry! Jones!”
The dreadful lunged at the sound of the doctor’s voice, scratching wildly with its gray fingers.
“If you could hurry, it would be appreciated!” Elizabeth added.
Jones scampered off.
Within minutes, he was back with Lt. Tindall and a small squad of soldiers. The lieutenant came striding up tight lipped and hard eyed, but most of his men slinked cringingly behind him, looking only slightly less reluctant to go where they were told than the dreadful was.
“I didn’t believe it, but I see it’s true.” Lt. Tindall drew his sword. “All right, then . . . release it and stand back. I’ll finish it for you.”
“If our intention had been to finish it, we could have easily done that ourselves,” Elizabeth replied. The words felt good until the dreadful thrust itself at her, nearly knocking her over. Fortunately, she managed to retain her footing and, in the process, her dignity (or whatever dignity one can have when being jostled by a zombie in a butterfly net).
“Perhaps I should explain, Lieutenant,” Dr. Keckilpenny said.
“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, here’s the gist of it . . .”
When the doctor was through outlining his intentions—that the “gentleman in question” was to be held prisoner in order to “accommodate certain vital experiments”—Lt. Tindall’s response required but one word and a suitable scowl to go with it.
“Abominable!”
“There is little ‘perhaps’ about that, either, I suppose,” said Dr. Keckilpenny. “But do remember: The War Office has given me carte blanche, and I should think you’d at least want to consult with your commanding officer before contravening orders that have come down to you from so very high.”
The lieutenant devoted a long moment to grinding his perfect, pearly white teeth before speaking again.
“All right, then. You may keep the wretched thing on three conditions. One, it is to be sequestered out of sight. Two, all possible steps will be taken to ensure that it does not escape. And three, at the first sign that it is in any way endangering anyone, it will be destroyed.”
“Done, done, and done!” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “In fact, I can accommodate your first two provisos in one fell swoop. Just wait till you see my laboratory!”
Soon enough, that’s just what the lieutenant and the others were doing—though the doctor’s “laboratory” turned out to be nothing more than Netherfield’s largest, draftiest attic. Dr. Keckilpenny had found it, he explained, while exploring the house that morning, not letting anything so prosaic as a locked door keep him from getting inside.
“Medical student, remember?” he’d said when Elizabeth asked where he’d learned the fine art of lock-picking. “Every morgue or cemetery has its . . . well. Let’s let that lie, shall we? This way, everyone, this way! Allow me to present the pièce de résistance!”
He swept his long arms out toward a particularly gloomy, cobwebbed corner. Hanging from the wall was a pair of thick, black iron chains, each ending in manacles.
“What in heaven’s name?” Lt. Tindall muttered.
“I imagine some mad maiden aunt or idiot son spent many a year up here,” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “It’s what one does in the best families, I’ve found. You’re not considered a true aristocrat until you’ve got at least one daft relation howling away up in the attic. How fortunate for us that the penthouse, as it were, is currently untenanted.”
“Yes,” the lieutenant drawled. “How very.”
Still, despite his obvious reluctance, Lt. Tindall ordered his men to unpack the doctor’s prize, the zombie having been brought into the house stuffed in a trunk so as not to alarm the servants or the other soldiers. (This precaution met with only partial success, as “Dr. Keckilpenny’s equipment” kept moaning, kicking, and scratching as it was carried inside and up the stairs.) After a few frantic minutes of tugging and shoving with the zombie net, the soldiers had the dreadful chained in place.
“I’m going to keep a guard posted outside the door at the bottom of the stairs, with his musket loaded,” Lt. Tindall said as his men hurried down the staircase. He turned to leave, as well, then stopped and faced Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet,” he drew in a deep breath, “if you’re still interested in musketry instruction, I would be happy to have our Sergeant Meadows see to it.”
He couldn’t quite pull off the “happy” without a quiver in his voice, nor could he completely erase the look of distaste upon his face. He managed to jut out an elbow, though, bowing slightly as he offered to escort her outside.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Perhaps another time.”
Lt. Tindall dropped his arm.
“Suit yourself,” he said, spinning crisply on his heel and marching to and down the stairs.
Elizabeth actually felt a little sorry for him as she watched him go. The man was still a starchy martinet, but at least he’d tried.
“Thank you for staying, Miss Bennet,” Dr. Keckilpenny said. He was eyeing Elizabeth with a strange intensity, as if she were an experiment yielding unexpected—yet pleasing—results. “It’s an honor being chosen over the company of Sergeant Meadows and a Brown Beth.”
“Brown Bess. And . . . well, I . . . I just have so many questions.”
That was certainly true enough. Some of them Elizabeth couldn’t even find words for.
She turned away from the doctor’s stare and found herself looking into another.
The zombie was straining against its chains, wide eyes fixed on her. The creature seemed calm, though, as if it had accepted its captivity. It didn’t thrash, didn’t grimace, didn’t bite at the gag the soldiers had tied around its mouth to keep its screams from escaping the trunk. It almost could have passed for a living man—a youngish, not altogether unhandsome one out sleepwalking or staggering around drunk—if not for the putrid smell, the dingy tint of its skin, and the viscous black fluid that trickled from its ears and nose and mouth. Whoever he’d been, he hadn’t died violently, that much was obvious. No zombie had cursed him with a bite or scratch. The strange plague had awakened him from his grave.
“A fine specimen, isn’t he?” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “But I wonder how in the world we’re going to get him undressed.”
“Excuse me?”
The doctor nodded in the general direction of the unmentionable’s pants. “Those clothes of his—they’ll have to go. We don’t want him in the wormy old things he was buried in. He needs to be in something more . . . aliveish.”
And finally one of the questions in Elizabeth’s mind became refreshingly obvious, with obvious words to match.
“Doctor, what are you up to?”
Dr. Keckilpenny grinned. “It is a joy hearing you ask that. It can be so lonely being the only one thinking these things! May I have permission to babble?”
“Always, so long as it’s not about the weather.”
“I knew it! I knew it! A kindred spirit!”