pride And prejudice And zombies: dawn of the dreadfuls

Chapter 35

"ELIZABETH."

At the sound of her name, she left the blackness. She'd been sleeping but not dreaming, as with the dead—the restful dead, anyway.

She saw her haggard father kneeling beside her, sucked in a lungful of the malodorous air, heard the banging and scraping on the window boards and the raspy, incoherent cries outside. And she longed for oblivion again as memory returned.

She'd spent hours—it seemed like days—fighting back one breakthrough after another. Sometimes with her father, sometimes with her sisters, sometimes with soldiers or servants or men from the village. Never with Master Hawksworth. Whatever battles he was or wasn't fighting, he was facing them without her.

She couldn't remember falling asleep, nor did she recall crawling under the dining room table with the mothers nestling sleeping or weeping children. Yet here she was.

"Come with me," her father said softly. "It begins soon."

Elizabeth was too groggy to even ask what "it" was. She simply got up and followed.

Lydia and Kitty, she found, were passed out together atop the table, while Mary was slumped, drooling on herself prodigiously, against a grandfather clock in the hallway.

"Papa?" Elizabeth said.

Mr. Bennet just put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He was letting her sisters sleep. But why not her?

The soldiers were gone from their positions along the hall, and when Elizabeth and her father reached the foyer, she saw why. The whole company was packed in there together, bayonets affixed to their Brown Besses. Ensign Pratt was at the back, his cherubic face as round and pale as a full moon. In front, by the door, was Capt. Cannon in his wheelbarrow, turned to face his men.

". . . been telling yourselves you're not ready for all this," he was saying. "Because you lack training. Because you lack experience. Poppycock! What does that count against what you are. Englishmen! And not just that. Londoners! Young, tough ones who've already faced on the streets of Spitalfields and Camden and Limehouse foes more implacable, more cunning, more tenacious than any mere shambling rotter! Footpads, sneak thieves, pimps, degenerates—now those are fiends to fear! So you're not good at marching. So you don't know a field marshal from a major general from the company cook. I don't care, and neither should you. Because by God, you boys already know how to fight! And mark my words: This day, you shall!"

The soldiers were cheering as Elizabeth and her father started up the stairs. When the Bennets were about halfway up, the captain noticed them and said something to his Limbs, who stood beside him looking weary and grim.

Right Limb looked up at Mr. Bennet and saluted.

Elizabeth's father nodded solemnly as he carried on up the staircase.

"Papa, what is going on?" Elizabeth asked.

"You will soon see, my dear. I have arranged for box seats."

The rooms on the second floor were overflowing with huddled guests from the ball, all still in their mussed finery. Though Elizabeth didn't see her mother, she knew she was among them somewhere. Mrs. Bennet's snores were quite distinctive.

Up ahead, toward the end of the hall, Elizabeth saw Lt. Tindall speaking earnestly to her sister Jane.

". . . honor-bound to do all I can to protect your person . . . and your purity," Elizabeth heard him say as she and her father walked up. His back was to them, and so absorbed was he in his own words that he didn't notice their approach.

Jane was blushing and looking away.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat.

The lieutenant turned around.