by Mark Beynon
"No! We stand and fight. Let's send these bastards back to hell!" Charles cried, leading the charge.
Middleton and Underhill swung their clubs at the lead zombie and its withered corpse vanished in a cloud of powdered bone and flesh. One of the fishermen, seeing how easily his compatriots had taken down the creature, mistimed his attack and gasped for air as a cold, dead hand clamped itself around his neck. Even through the leather of the cape its grip was ferocious. In one final act of desperation, he planted his axe into the zombies' back. It didn't seem to notice the blow and snapped its jaws down on the fisherman's throat, tearing through leather and flesh, moaning in pleasure as blood jetted over its hideous face. The fisherman let out an inhuman, gurgling scream and dropped. He was dead before he hit the ground. Davenant turned and separated the zombie's head from its shoulders as it bent to feast - the power of the blade surprising him. He saw Betterton and Charles hack another of the undead to pieces, whilst some of the smugglers saw off the final zombie.
Davenant looked down at the body of the fallen fisherman, the blood pooling black around his head. "I'm sorry, Paul," he said. "I'm so sorry."
Charles removed his mask as he strode over. "If we don't do something, Will, that man is going to return."
Davenant nodded, but couldn't bring himself to desecrate his friend's body. This was a man he had drunk with at the Chine Inn, a man he had braved the seas with in foul weather. As he looked down sadly at Paul's body it twitched, blood trickling from the broken windpipe. Just a reflex action, Davenant told himself, just muscles relaxing. But then Paul let out an agonised scream and rose, unsteadily, to his feet. Time seemed to stand still for Davenant. He looked into Paul's clouded eyes and saw the hunger there. For a moment they stood watching each other, the living and the dead. Then with a growl Paul launched himself forwards, his lips pulled back in a terrifying snarl. Davenant swung his sword, closing his eyes as the blade connected, keeping them closed as the headless corpse staggered against him. He sobbed as his friend's body sank to the floor, covering him in blood and gore as it dropped.
"It had to be done," said Charles, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And I would expect all of you to do the same for any one of us." He said, turning to the group. Davenant could see the disgusted expressions on their faces.
"His Majesty is right, if you get bitten or killed by any one of these abominations then you shall become one yourself. You have seen what they can do. Even these gowns and our armour are no guarantee against them. Always, always be on your guard."
As Davenant watched his harsh words sink in, the awful realisation beginning to dawn, he could have sworn he saw something moving quickly through the ruins of a nearby house. It couldn't have been one of the undead, he thought. They weren't that fast. Davenant shrugged it off, concluding that it may just have been a trick of the light or a pall of fog. Even so, he checked his armour was secured before he moved off with caution.
As they made their way towards Bankside, Davenant remembered the promise he had made to Elizabeth that he would ensure that he and Betterton return to Shanklin alive. It was a foolish promise to make as the odds were stacked firmly against their survival, yet he never let Betterton out of his sight. Years before he would have happily seen the man hang for his betrayal, but now he was protecting him as one of his own.
They were now passing the ruins of St George's Church - its elaborate stonework engraved with gargoyles - and heading downhill. In the distance Davenant could see a shimmer of water and realised that they were nearing the Thames.
"Whatever you do, make sure you keep your masks on!" Charles said. "As we get closer to the centre of the city the stench will become overpowering. Be on your guard, soon we will be surrounded by the dead."
They soon found themselves by the water's edge and Davenant looked nervously out over the river. What he saw would haunt his dreams for years to come. It was far, far worse than he remembered it being. In the distance he could see London Bridge teeming with the dead, scavenging for food. Several skirmishes had broken out between rival factions on the opposite side of the Thames, the dead tearing at each other in their desperate hunger. In places, the crowds of zombies were so dense that occasionally one of them would tumble into the water and be swept away. Armageddon had come to the city, the darkest passages of Revelations being played out before their eyes.
Davenant noticed that the Kryfangan were nowhere to be seen. Was that why the dead were now turning on one another?
Whatever the reason, Davenant was left in no doubt that the situation was now more dangerous than it had ever been.
"It's just as I remember it," breathed Henri at his shoulder.
"We must cross the river," said Charles. "The buildings on that side are grouped closer together and it will be easier for a fire to spread from there."
"And how do you expect us to get over there?" Betterton asked.
"We need to cross the bridge. It's our only way in."
Davenant clutched the silver cross hanging around his neck and muttered a few words in prayer.
"I never had you down as a religious man, Will," said Tom.
"Oh, I never used to be, but when we came to London fifteen years ago, it was hard not to see the evidence of evil incarnate before our very eyes. It was then that I stared to pray. What about you, Tom, do you have faith?"
"Some may have us down as godless men, but it's not true."
Charles drew the group together and outlined his plan.
"We move quickly and we do not stop. Speed is the one thing that they do not possess. If you stop, you will die. Should you get bitten, you stay on the bridge and kill as many of them as possible before they take you down. Now, if we are ready, gentlemen?" The young clergyman whispered a few soft words, blessing those who were about to go into battle.
As they made their way down the uneven stone steps and onto the riverbank, Davenant spared a glance to his left and over the Southwark skyline, trying to see what had become of the once thriving Bankside theatres. Not one was left standing. The monuments to Shakespeare, Burbage and Marlowe were nothing more than rubble and rotting timber. This act of theatrical heresy spurred Davenant onwards and he barged his way to the front of the group alongside Charles and Middleton, his blood-stained sword poised and ready. As they reached the steps to London Bridge, the zombies reacted to their presence, jerking their way towards them, their jaws snapping. Swords flashed and the steps were soon covered with withered, twitching limbs. They ran frantically up the timber stairs and proceeded quickly underneath the archway and its tall vaulted ceiling. The skulls of the traitors of yesteryear still topped the numerous metal spikes that adorned the southern gateway. As the group sprinted over the bridge, they came face to face with their next challenge, a group of zombies dressed in shabby soldiers' apparel, clutching rusting weapons. Davenant wondered whether they were the same soldiers sent by Charles to investigate London's downfall.
"Come," cried Charles. "They are nothing but dried bone and sinew. They will fall beneath our blades."
Davenant parried the dagger of an assailant before thrusting his sword through the chest of another undead soldier. The blow didn't impede the creature in the slightest and it lunged at him, jaws snapping. Before it could tear the flesh from him, Betterton charged in and decapitated the fiend. "Come on, old man!" he cried. "I've got my fair share to take care of without having to contend with yours as well!"
"Go for their heads!" Davenant shouted to his comrades. "It's the only true stopper."
There was a collective ring of steel on rotting flesh and bone - heads rolled along the bridge and fell into the river below. Davenant turned to see if there were any human casualties and noticed Tom and the smugglers leaning over one of their fallen men. "Was he bitten?" asked Davenant.
Tom shook his head. "No, he was stabbed through the heart by one of our own in the confusion. Poor Edward, his wife was expecting their third child."
Davenant saw the dead closing in on the scent
of fresh meat. "We need to leave now. Say your prayers for Edward later."
They continued onwards through the old shops and archways of the bridge. They met little resistance until they reached the dark stone tunnel which ran through the half-timbered Nonesuch House. The mouth of the tunnel was crowded with zombies. Davenant estimated that there must have been at least three hundred of them.
"Oh God in heaven!" cried Charles. "We'll never hack our way through that."
Davenant turned and saw that their way back was similarly blocked. The press of rotting flesh was too dense to rush through. Only a miracle could save them now. He considered jumping into the Thames and chancing his luck at swimming to the bank.
And then a miracle occurred.
The pounding of hooves rang out along the north bank, drawing the attention of the undead away from them. Turning their backs on the group, they shuffled back along the cobbled path and towards the sound. There was just enough room for them to make a break for the tunnel and get off the bridge.
Davenant couldn't believe their luck. He could see the Kryfangan now and they were just as he remembered them. He watched as they shredded their enemy, saturating the riverbank with gore.
CHAPTER FORTY
They finally made it across the bridge, hacking at the undead as they went, their gowns and plague masks covered by the remnants of their enemies. Once they were in the city they ran for what seemed like an hour. Finally they pulled up, the dead left behind them for the time being.
"I am too old to be running around like this," gasped Davenant.
"Don't worry Sir William, our plan will soon come to fruition. I say that we start our fire right here." Charles said.
"And where is here?" asked Betterton.
"Pudding Lane, according to that sign. I propose we start with the bakery over there. It's in the middle of a cluster of buildings and these dried old timbers should take quite quickly."
As they entered the kitchen, Charles turned to Davenant. "Take the others upstairs and dispatch any undead you find. We must not be interrupted in our task."
Davenant nodded and motioned Betterton and Underhill to follow him. Charles found a pile of straw and started to stuff both ovens with it, adding firewood and discarded aprons to the blend. Next he scattered the floor with bags of old flour, making sure that it was evenly spread. Middleton returned from the cellar with some bottles of rum he had found and proceeded to liberally douse any exposed timbers. As he did so he could hear the three making their way up the stairs and onto the first floor. He heard their footsteps cross the ceiling before stopping, no doubt examining one of the upper chambers. Suddenly, another set of footsteps creaked their way across the timber, it now sounded as if there were four of them up there.
"Wait here, my Lord. I just want to check on something," he said, darting from the kitchen. As he reached the top of the staircase, his eyes struggled to acclimatise to the dark corridor. He could just about discern movement ahead.
"Sir William, is that you? Underhill, Betterton?"
There was no reply, just the howling of the wind outside. Middleton edged forwards, his sword at the ready. There was no one on the landing, but he could see three doors leading into rooms on either side of the corridor. His hand reached out for the first of the doors to his left. Middleton eased it open with infinite gentleness before creeping inside. To his relief, the chamber was empty, only a four-poster bed occupied the cramped space within. Middleton breathed a sigh of relief and tried the second door along.
He managed to whack Underhill in the face as he threw open the door, forcing Betterton and Davenant to cry out in surprise as he barged his way into the room.
"What are you doing, you great fool?" cried Davenant.
Middleton beckoned them to stay quiet and helped Underhill to his feet. "I think there's someone else up here with us," he whispered. And then they heard footsteps creaking from further up the corridor. Middleton put his finger to his lips and shuffled over to the open doorway. He peeked around the corner and could make out someone lurching towards him in the darkness. He turned back into the room.
"It's coming. Follow me and wait for my command."
Davenant nodded and gestured to Middleton to make his move, following him closely down the narrow corridor, with Betterton and Underhill covering their backs. The footsteps had stopped. All Davenant could hear was his heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart.
"Where's it gone?" he whispered.
"I don't know. But I think it's still--"
Charging footsteps suddenly bore down on them. Out of the darkness emerged a woman so vulgar, it would have taken away the lust from the most fervent of men. What was left of her breasts were visible through a shredded blouse, their soft tissue having been eaten away, the rest of the body riddled with deep bite marks. Her face was crooked, the nose long and pointed, the eyes dark and vacant.
Middleton was knocked to the floor, the snapping of sharp teeth and the pungent stench of dead breath bearing down on his face. "For God's sake, get it off me!" he cried, pulling the creature away by its long hair. But it was too strong for him and was able to force its head through his grip, losing several clumps of hair in the process, before clamping its teeth around Middleton's neck, piercing his dark cloak.
Davenant planted his sword through the creature's head. It spasmed once and then was gone. "Help me get him to his feet," he shouted.
"I've been bitten," said Middleton bluntly. "Give me a sword, one of you. Let me finish it my way."
"No, I can't do that," replied Davenant, draping Middleton's arm over his shoulder and dragging him back down the corridor.
"The dead are coming!" cried Henri from outside.
"God in heaven," muttered Davenant. "Help me carry him down."
Betterton and Underhill supported Middleton's other arm and carried him back down the staircase. Davenant then ran into the kitchen where Charles was frantically banging a flint against the stone wall.
"It's Middleton! He's been bitten!"
Charles stopped what he was doing and turned to face him, his pale face somehow luminous against the dark stone. "No, it's not true." He looked utterly crestfallen.
"My Lord, there's no time for that now. There are more of them coming and we need to get the fire started."
Charles nodded. "Yes, yes, quite right, where was I?" His hand trembled as he fumbled for the piece of flint.
"Please, my Lord. Allow me." Davenant took the flint from Charles' sweaty palm, wrapped several pieces of straw tightly around it and smashed it against the stone of the oven. A single spark immediately lit the straw. Davenant used some of the burning grass to ignite the rum-drenched timbers of the kitchen. "We're leaving now." He said as the inferno began to take hold.
Charles stared for a moment at the flames, then turned and ran, joining Betterton, Underhill and Middleton outside. Davenant came tearing out soon after and immediately saw the throng of undead shuffling their way up the narrow street towards them, no doubt with the Kryfangan in close pursuit.
Charles was more concerned with Middleton, who leant sluggishly against a wall. "They've said some terrible things, my old friend. They've said you have been bitten. They are liars, are they not?"
"You need to leave, your Majesty. But before you do, please can you do me the honour of killing me," replied Middleton.
"How dare you ask me such a thing? You will come with us!" decreed Charles, hauling Middleton to his feet and prompting him into a run.
"We can make our way back to the river this way," cried Davenant, leading them up the street.
As they ran, Middleton could feel a burning sensation tingling down his body and into his toes. He began to feel stronger with every step he took.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Their journey back to the river didn't take half as long as Davenant had feared it would. Middleton was bravely marching on, although it was all too evident that he was severely hampered by his wound and the loss of blood. Charles
hadn't left his side, closely scrutinising his every move. His hand was rested on the handle of his axe, although the thought of killing his closest friend made him feel sick to his stomach.
The roaring flames had taken hold of the dry timber of Pudding Lane, the yard of Fish Street Hill and St Margaret's Church with ease, and as they spread east along Thames Street aided by the brisk wind, they had begun to provide a slender light for the group running blindly through the dark wilderness. A red hue already hung above the north side of the city, the fire now engulfing anything in its wake.
"Have we any idea of how we're going to get out of here?" asked Davenant, panting in between his words.
"We make it back to the bridge, cross it and return from whence we came," replied Charles. "It is as simple as that."
Davenant could see the looming shadow of the bridge up ahead. The crashing sounds that drifted along on the wind suggested that there were still vast numbers of zombies battling with the Kryfangan nearby. Davenant hoped that at least their war had shifted as far along as Billingsgate, leaving the mouth of the bridge open for them to access.
There was a clattering of hooves nearby and an unholy demonic screeching. "Quickly, into the alley!" Davenant cried, leading the group into the shadows of an inn. The vicious gallop descended into a steady trot - they were close now, less than twenty yards away. Within seconds, the dark stallions and their riders cantered slowly along the cobblestone lane, mere feet from where they were hidden. He spied four of them as they passed; bigger, heavier, more imposing than the rest of their platoon. Davenant calculated that they must be at least eight foot tall when standing. It was then that he remembered what Cromwell had told them that night in the carriage as they had fled the Cheapside streets.