by Неизвестный
Onstage, the first scene had begun. Two princes of the royal Puglia family had begun their part. Their third, the quietly suffering Prince Risoni, waited for his cue. He wiped his brow again, his face growing ever paler as the throbbing in his wounded hand slowly spread up his arm.
“What hear you of Count Gemelli’s plans, good brother?” asked Prince Paccheri, eldest son of the king, his majesty Fiori Puglia.
“I trust not that man, but our father’s ear he doth have,” replied Prince Filini, the second eldest.
“I wager it is war he doth seek, to usurp the crown, aided by our falling in battle, good brother,” said Prince Paccheri.
Prince Risoni, the youngest of the three princes, lurched onto stage a few beats after his cue. He appeared somewhat dazed, raising an unexpected titter of laughter from the crowd. “How now, good brothers!” Prince Risoni finally managed to squeak through the growing pain in his arm. Backstage, Lieutenant Richard Litchfield held his ears, hiding in the shadows. He tried to block out the back-and-forth dialogue of the elder princes, as they explained for the audience the state of the conflict with the Calabria family, sworn enemies of the Puglia royal family, and how the mysterious court advisor, Count Gemelli, seemed to be making things worse.
William, seeing a lull in his backstage work, once more approached the tortured officer. “So, how do you think it is going?”
“Fine! Just stay on script and get the message across.” Richard fought his urge to strangle the infuriating playwright.
William nodded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, were you really there? Against the Armada? I heard some of the cast talking, they said you were.” William pressed himself against the wall to let some bodies pass in the narrow space backstage, readying themselves for the upcoming onstage battle.
Richard perked up. At least this would distract him for a moment. “Yes, I was there. I was serving aboard one of the ships that met them. And, yes, the rumors are true. The dead walking amongst the crew of the Spanish galleons were a factor in their defeat. But only in part.”
“And, is it true that—” William began.
Richard cut him off. “The rumors of British intrigue being the cause of the enemy vessels’ infection are just that.” Richard smiled at William from his shadowy hiding place. “Just rumors.”
Onstage, the ambush began. The soldiers of Calabria, sworn enemies of the Puglia, swarmed onstage, all three of them. The three princes fought valiantly to fend off their attackers. Richard, backstage, shielded his eyes against the sight. No matter how he shouted at them, these actors could not manage to make a sword fight look authentic. Wild, chopping swings and lengthy pauses for heroic poses made them look like fools. But the audience lapped it up, laughing and “oohing” appropriately in time with the action. Most importantly, they gasped on cue as the brave young Prince Risoni fell, victim of a final stab from the departing, defeated enemy.
“Brother! Thou hast fallen!” shouted the elder princes, joining the brave Risoni as life failed him. The illness of the actor beneath the costume was acute. The throbbing in the wound upon his hand had spread to the rest of his body. His gasps of pain made his character’s death seem all the more real. Henry Darcy joined his character in death, there upon the stage.
Even Richard had to admit, it looked pretty good.
“Now, brother, flee us to seek aid, to move our littlest brother’s body,” said Prince Paccheri.
“A noble carriage for his noble body,” agreed Prince Filini.
The pair moved offstage, leaving the body alone. The audience murmured, some of them aware of the folly of leaving a fallen body alone, unmolested, in these dark days.
William watched as Risoni remained at rest. “Get up now, your lines!” William hissed at the prone actor. His moving soliloquy on the nature of death and the rest it might bring was going wasted! The audience rustled, curious at the pause in the action and the general state of immobility of the actor at center stage.
Richard nodded approvingly. For weeks he had battled the writer and his cast, insistent that the dead not be portrayed as speaking. As far as he could tell, the good Prince was playing dead to perfection.
“Next scene!” William signaled backstage, and the cast and crew rushed to comply. The narrator rushed onstage to explain to the crowd the terrible mistake the elder princes had made, leaving a recently-fallen body untended. While the chances were slim, the horrible new condition that afflicted those rare few might lead the body to rise again. A mindless killer, wandering, feeding, spreading the curse to others through their wounds.
The prince’s body was dragged offstage as the intrigue between Count Gemelli and Queen Bavette was established. He had dirt on her, and it would prevent her from disrupting his plans for disposing of King Fiori.
The body of Prince Risoni continued to play its part. That which had killed him, so painfully, was now reanimating him. Slowly, the body of the costumed Henry Darcy twitched upon the wooden floor and began to rise.
“Funeral scene!” William signaled backstage and the cast and crew set to work. The costumer rushed to Prince Risoni, ready to throw a damp gray cloth over the actor’s head, the better to appear a lifeless corpse. Upon seeing the actor, he decided the Prince didn’t need it. Someone else must have already prepared the actor, he already looked the part. Risoni’s body let out a low moan, reaching for the man, the hunger for flesh already consuming what passed for its mind.
“Come on!” Prince Paccheri and King Fiori grabbed Risoni’s barely-animated corpse and dragged it onstage, flopping it onto the flimsy bench next to the trapdoor in the stage. The scene was set, the body was atop the Puglia family’s royal crypt, and the rest of the royals had assembled for the ceremony.
“Curse be to mine enemies, having our son from us ta’en!” King Fiori bemoaned his loss, shaking his fist skyward. The actors playing Queen Bavette and Princess Barbina wailed in falsetto at their loss. Count Gemelli skulked in the corner, lurking, to remind the audience of his evil, traitorous nature.
“We beseech thee, look with favor upon . . . ,” the priest began, as the body of Prince Risoni began to rise from its prone position. “Not yet!” hissed the priest, pushing the corpse back down onto the table.
Backstage, William grimaced at the miscue by the young actor.
The funeral continued, with soliloquies on the nature of life and death bursting forth from the King and Queen. Frequent interruptions by the body at the center disturbed them, the actor apparently wildly confused as to when it was his turn. The trapdoor was slid open and the body was hoisted off the table by the cast for its deposit into the crypt.
The dead Risoni flailed, this time on cue, and gripped a convenient arm, that of the actor wearing the wig and dress of Queen Bavette. The cast gasped and erupted with a horrified “Zounds!” to emphasize their surprise over the rise of the dead. The audience was less impressed, having seen it coming due to the frequent miscues by the dead actor.
Prince Paccheri immediately drew his stage sword and moved to dispose of the animated corpse. Just as quickly, the King, reinforcing the family’s tragic misunderstanding, ordered him to hold. “Thine own brother thou wouldst stab in death? What manner of love is this?” questioned King Fiori.
“One speaketh so often of that which is rotten in Denmark, what say you of the rot before thee?” retorted the Prince, gesturing widely at the struggling corpse.
Risoni’s body lurched again in their arms, tugging itself towards the Queen. It clamped its jaw around the arm it held, digging its teeth in. The Queen, played by one of the eldest boys in the cast, howled and cursed as the actor tried to tug away, his artificial royal bosom shaking with the effort. “Not so hard, you fool!” he hissed at the corpse as he saw blood erupt from his broken skin.
Risoni’s body was now poised over the trapdoor, and the rest of the cast, upset with the actor’s fumbling of the scene, simply dropped it through the hole. The fierce grip of its hand and jaw dragged Queen Bavette along wi
th it, through the trapdoor. The unexpected headfirst dive of the Queen and the howls of painful surprise echoing beneath the stage shocked the audience with its realism.
Backstage, William howled in pain of his own. “She’s not supposed to go in there! Just Risoni! He gets buried, then comes back up! What are they doing out there? We need the Queen for act two! And three!” He stomped his feet and flailed his arms for an immediate scene change.
Richard, meanwhile, had grown suspicious. Drawing a hidden dagger from under his uniform, he grabbed a stagehand and dragged him along as he sought access. “If I’m not out before the next scene ends, set fire to the theatre!” Richard hissed at the shaken stagehand.
“I don’t think Mister Shak—” the frightened stagehand began.
“I don’t care what he thinks, we have a bigger problem than some botched lines!” The officer dove below through another trapdoor, barely touching the ladder during the short drop. He disappeared into the dark space beneath, seeking his prey.
The next scene began quietly. The priest and the nefarious Count Gemelli were discussing the latest developments, explaining to the audience the reasons for the rise of the dead prince. They carefully recited the checklist of the ways one might ensure that the recently-deceased would not rise again, as well as delivering a tedious lecture on the nature of the bites they leave. The more astute audience members wondered why they seemed to be avoiding any mention of the departed Queen. The occasional muffled thumping and moaning noises coming from beneath the stage only added to their confusion. William was incensed by the noises and sought out someone to explain the activity. The stagehands claimed ignorance of anyone doing work below.
Richard reappeared with a streak of blood across the breast of his uniform and some sticky mess upon his fearsome dagger, but it was the angry look upon his face that scattered the cast and crew as he stalked through the backstage spaces, hunting.
“What have you been doing down there?” William demanded, furious over the awful noises he had heard.
“The Queen is dead,” Richard stated flatly.
“Yes, I know, those damned fools. What were they thinking? We’ll need Princess Barbina to step up for some additional lines.” William snapped his fingers, then jabbed them at King Fiori, who nodded and went to find the boy wearing her dress.
“We require Prince Risoni for the next scene, did you manage to retrieve him?”
“No. But I shall. You need to stop the show. There is a . . . ” Richard spoke through tightly-gritted teeth.
“Stop the show? On opening day? I think not!” William laughed, pointing to usher the next group onto stage. “You just sit back here, keep out of the way. And find Prince Risoni for me!” William scampered off to correct the order of the Calabrian soldiers, lining up for their next entrance.
“I intend to.” Richard stalked off to explore another corner of the backstage maze, hopeful that the mindless corpse had not discovered an exit.
Minutes later, the officer had cornered his prey. The walking dead weren’t terribly clever, but they had their moments. Having found its way out from the depths beneath the stage, the lifeless Prince Risoni was now hopelessly tangled in the costumer’s line of over-sized dresses. Richard aimed his dagger, intending to stab the lengthy blade through one hazy white eye and into its brain, ending the poor actor’s new existence. His thrust was interrupted by William and one of his crew swooping in and whisking the lifeless creature away. He was required on stage.
“William!” Thundered Richard, catching up and spinning the playwright around to face him. “That is a postvital, it must be ended!”
“Oh, please, you do carry on. He’s just acting the part, staying in character!” William dismissed the officer with a deferential wave.
But Prince Risoni was not interested in his entrance. It had taken the opportunity to attack the stagehand escorting it. The youngest Prince’s teeth ripped at the neck of the poor man, as it dragged him down to the floor. William leaped in to cover the victim’s mouth, muffling the scream, lest it erupt from backstage and ruin the performance.
“Move!” Richard demanded, shoving William aside with a swift boot. “I must do this!” He stared into the stagehand’s eyes, hoping he understood and would forgive him. The stagehand fought to escape, kicking and clawing at the Prince tearing at his throat. The lifeless corpse’s grip was broken and the stagehand rolled away, clutching at the wound on his neck. Richard could see it was not immediately fatal, a shallower cut than he had expected.
“Don’t! I’m fine!” The stagehand protested through pain-clenched teeth. On his knees, he backed away from Richard.
“You know I have to, you’re going to be one of them soon. You know this is the right thing, for everyone.” The officer moved closer, preparing to stab at the stagehand, to end his suffering and prevent the foulness from spreading.
Behind him, William saw his opportunity. He scooped up the momentarily sated Prince Risoni’s body and aimed it towards the stage. The Prince’s lifeless face appeared strangely pleased with itself, its grey tongue probed at a trickle of blood running down its jaw.
“William! No!” Richard objected, caught in a rare moment of indecision between the two that must be put down. The stagehand took the opportunity to flee. Awkwardly, he rose and staggered painfully away from Richard, seeking refuge. In the other direction, William and the Prince reached the stage, only a few beats after the corpse’s cue. With a forceful shove in the back, the lifeless Prince Risoni was propelled, staggering awkwardly, onto stage. William wrung his hands nervously. Something was terribly wrong here.
Onstage, the trio of lusty harlots had been awaiting the entrance of the Prince. They were played by the same trio of boys that served as the soldiers of the Calabria family, well-practiced for their rapid costume change. The lifeless one’s escape from the crypt was to be observed in the village below the Castle Puglia, thus fueling rumors to the other royals that their dead Prince still walked. And the play needed some saucy language to keep the audience interested during the second act.
“How stiffly thou movest,” observed the first of the town harlots, in his best falsetto.
“Tis good, for the stiffer thou art, the greater thy use shall be,” suggested the second, earning a rowdy chuckle from the crowd.
“Stiff he does move, but perchance to remain so as I should require?” agreed the third, causing the trio to laugh and point at the Prince. The dead one took no offense, but staggered forward, its arms raised in anticipation. It began to moan, its breathless voice rising as it called out, eager to feed.
The trio of harlots used wild gestures to feign offense at the smell of the walking dead.
“Thy breath stinketh of the dirt, good sir!” the first fanned her hand before her nose.
“A horse, a horse,” the second harlot began, “thou stinkest as doth a horse!” The trio broke down laughing at this.
Backstage, Richard finished chasing the bitten stagehand and gave him a thorough skull-stabbing. Disposing of the body through a trapdoor, he turned again to the primary problem, the wandering Prince Risoni. Rushing towards the stage, he was stopped by the other two princes.
“You can’t go out there! You’ll ruin the scene!” Prince Paccheri objected, as they struggled to keep the officer from his duty.
“I must! It will kill them!”
“He’s just acting, you should be proud, he’s doing that walk you taught us better than anyone.” Prince Filini noted with admiration.
On stage, the harlots began to taunt the poor Prince, running to and fro, their dresses lifted immodestly for better mobility.
“Staggerest thou as if from a tankard house fled!” the first one cried.
“Thy odor precedes you, and doth linger well after!” the second one offered.
“Hence, rotten thing—” The third one’s line was cut off by Prince Risoni grabbing the harlot as she passed. “Hey, wait, that isn’t in the—” the harlot said as the dead one struggled
to bite at the tempting neck flesh. The pair stumbled, tripping and staggering backwards, locked in a struggle. The other two actors chased after, leading the entire ensemble on stage to crash out of sight and back into the wings together. Horrible screams were heard from the now-hidden party.
The audience, confused, began to grumble louder. Some howling and hissing of disapproval erupted. William struggled to keep the play moving. He shooed the next scene onto stage early, with whispered instructions to stretch their part out, as the Calabrian soldiers might not be immediately available for their entrance.
William was right about that. The three young men set to play those soldiers, and more recently the town harlots, were being efficiently dispatched by Richard. When William found him, the officer’s blood-soaked uniform sleeve rose and fell again, putting to rest the last of the three new postvitals, before they could rise and kill.
“You must end this, sir!” Richard demanded as he rose to meet William with a glare. “It is over! We must clear out the theatre, save the patrons.”
William, shaking with panic, lashed out at him. “No! We have to go on. Our generous benefactor, the Lord Chamberlain, the other investors, they need this to work. I need this to work, I am gambling my reputation, my fortune on this.”
“You won’t have enough actors to go on, they are already infecting each other!” Richard gestured at the new corpses at his feet. “Listen to the crowd!”
Indeed, the crowd was turning. The raucous noise of hissing and hooting was growing as the dwindling cast made the best of the scene. Backstage, the shadowy forms of Prince Risoni and its newly-deceased companions staggered haltingly in the shadows, eager to feed on their former colleagues.
William sagged. It was true. His mind reeled as his carefully-crafted denial collapsed on him. The terror of his first encounter, that day with the carriage, came back to him. The horrible noises they made. The sight of them tearing apart the coachman. He shivered at the memory. They were here.