pride And prejudice And zombies: dawn of the dreadfuls

chapter 22

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, the Bennets lined up outside the house to bid Jane adieu.

"I'm sure you will acquit yourself well," said Mary.

"Just you with a baron and a hundred soldiers—I'm so jealous!" said Kitty.

"I should be so lucky when I'm your age!" said Lydia.

"Be careful, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet. "But not too careful." And she gave Jane a broad wink.

Master Hawksworth watched all the proceedings from the doorway of the dojo. The only farewell he offered to Jane was a solemn bow. Yet this, in its own way, seemed as heartfelt as anything the Bennets had to say.

As Jane returned the bow, the Master's eyes flicked, for just an instant, to Elizabeth and her father.

Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth noticed, was watching the younger man with a look of dry disdain. When the Master noticed it as well, he abruptly spun on his heel and stalked back into the dojo.

Something had shifted between her father and Master Hawksworth—something, Elizabeth feared, that had to do with her. Just that morning, when she'd asked if she might accompany Jane to Nether-field, Mr. Bennet had said, "That's a splendid idea. I'll tell Hawksworth you shall be gone for the day."

Not "ask the Master." "Tell Hawksworth."

Whatever it meant, she had no chance to ask about it, however slyly she might have gone about it, for when they left Longbourn, her father suddenly began acting like her mother. He'd decided that they should walk (an armed servant in a dogcart having been dispatched with Jane's trunk at first light), and all the way to Netherfield Park he kept up a stream of nervous chatter. Fortunately, it wasn't the need for an heir or rich sons-in-law or the certainty of his own encroaching doom that occupied him: He was reviewing fighting techniques, tossing out bits of zombie lore ("Have I mentioned their fondness for cabbage patches?"), and reminding Jane, not once but twice, of the efficaciousness of the Fulcrum of Doom and its sundry variations.

It was as if all their father had learned through months of study in the Orient and years battling the unmentionables might be imparted to his daughters in one fifty-minute walk, provided he talked quickly enough. He barely paused for so much as a breath until he spotted something by the side of the road that, for a moment, seemed to take it away entirely.

"Well, well, well . . . and I was just about to get to this, too," he muttered, and he slowly approached a small mound of what looked like mincemeat or the contents of a particularly lumpy haggis. "It appears Fate has taken an interest in your education."

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Zombie droppings."

"Zombie . . . droppings?"

"Oh, my," Jane said. "I didn't think unmentionables would need to, um, you know. . . ."

"They don't. Not the way the living do, at least." Mr. Bennet pulled out a dagger, knelt down beside the gloppy mess, and began sifting through it with the tip of the blade. "It moves through their bodies without being digested and then eventually just . . . falls out. That's how you can tell it's from a dreadful."

He stabbed something, brought it up to his nose, and gave it a sniff.

It was a finger. A wedding band was still attached just above the exposed knuckle bone.

"Fresh. We must be doubly wary," Mr. Bennet said. Then he flicked the finger into the brush, stood up, and started off again up the lane. "Now where was I? Oh, yes! Eyes! Always a nice, soft, vulnerable target in a human foe, but don't bother with them when you're up against a dreadful. They seem to see without the things, somehow. . . ."