by A. E. Moorat
'Oh no, Your Grace,' she said, smiling, 'nothing quite so exciting, it is only ink.'
When she returned to her bedchamber in order to dress for meeting the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, she checked beneath her writing desk.
Maggie Brown, of course, was gone.
VIII
The home of Lord Quimby
Lord Quimby dropped the bloodied axe, which, just moments ago he had wrenched from the wall. It had been hung there as decoration, but had now been pressed into service decapitating zombies-in which function it had served admirably. Breathing heavily, Quimby surveyed the devastation in his library.
For devastation it was-truly it had been a night to dismember. There had been a long and bloody battle. In fact, he thought, it had been more like a massacre, and in the manner of such events there was a good deal of restorative work to be done in its wake. The library looked as though someone had taken the decision to redecorate it, and in place of paint and wallpaper, used offal instead, accessorising the colour scheme with severed limbs, strings of glistening entrails and decapitated torsos. Moreover, thanks to the exposure of so much internal workings, including the inevitable rupture of bowels and vacation of bladders, the room also bore a most unpleasant odour, that of a latrine.
In all, it was a stinking, bloody mess.
Quimby was now the only living person in the house. The photogenic drawer, Craven, had made his escape; the three prostitutes had not been so lucky. Surprised by the five zombies, who had boasted greater numbers and enhanced strength, it was they who accounted for much of the viscera currently decorating the library.
The butchery had been in full swing when Quimby, Perkins and Craven burst into the room; the sight before them, that of a charnel house.
The first thing Quimby saw was Rosa-such a talented girl, he had been led to understand-on her knees screaming and clutching at her stomach as she was attacked by a zombie named Jones-his only male-who was tugging her insides from a gash in her belly as though they were a string of sausages, then pushing them into his mouth and munching upon them with the kind of gusto usually reserved for the consumption of a fine steak.
They are, Quimby thought, they actually are eating the prostitutes.
This was incredible. For a mad moment he considered conferring with Perkins, for they were witnessing an entirely unexpected side effect of the process. They had of course been expecting decomposition (and by the looks of the zombies, the degradation had already begun), but this...taste for human flesh.
There was no time to ruminate upon the finding, however. The other two prostitutes were in a similar state of siege. Fanny lay on the floor, dead it seemed, while two of the creatures, Miss Corwent and Miss Stanley, knelt over her, devouring her with great ferocity. As he watched, horrified yet fascinated, Miss Corwent wrenched one of Fanny's arms from its socket and sank her teeth into it, just as though it were a chicken leg she was enjoying during a leisurely picnic out of doors; while opposite her, Miss Stanley tore a significant chunk of flesh from Fanny's throat and sat back on her haunches with her chin aloft, all the better to gulp down the still-warm meat, which she did with evident gratification, greedily licking the blood from her fingers as the last strip of skin disappeared between her lips.
The prostitute called Sugar, meanwhile, a girl Quimby had been most eager to sample, stood with her back to a bookcase attempting to ward off Miss Pearce and a zombie he knew only as Jacqueline. Sugar was wielding a bust of Quimby's father as a weapon and at the same time screaming at the three men for their assistance, having seen them enter the room. For a moment, Quimby wondered if she might make good her escape, such was the spirit of her defence. Then she made a connection, striking Miss Pearce with the bust and knocking her sideways in a move he would have applauded had it not left her so exposed. Indeed, Jacqueline used the moment to strike, driving her fist into Sugar's face and into her mouth, Sugar's jaw breaking with a snap. With a low, gurgling moan, Sugar dropped to her knees and Jacqueline moved to stand over her, ramming her fist further down the poor woman's throat until it was immersed fully to the elbow. She seemed almost to be rummaging for something, an expression on her face like that of a child rooting about in the sawdust of a lucky dip barrel. Then her gore-streaked arm emerged, her hand clutching an assortment of innards that she pushed greedily into her own mouth as, behind her, Sugar fell forward to the library floor, blood pouring from her mouth which gaped loosely open.
Quimby barely registered the library door open and close, knowing only that Craven had left the room shortly after a bright magnesium flash that had the effect of alerting the five zombies to their presence. And they all looked in the direction of the library door where Quimby and Perkins stood.
'Oh dear,' said Quimby.
His Lordship's first instinct was to run. There was nothing to be gained by staying here, he reasoned, save to be eaten as dessert. The best course of action would be to let the zombies escape, sate their appetite on the streets and then, with any luck, the army would deal with them. There was nothing to lead them back to Quimby, not unless the brutes had suddenly learned to think as well.
'What shall we do, sir?' asked Perkins.
'Run, Perkins,' said Quimby.
'But what if they get out, sir? They'll eat the public, sir.'
Quimby looked in disbelief at his manservant.
'Well, would you prefer it if they ate--'
However, he never finished his sentence. As they were deliberating, Jones, who was nearest, had stood from the corpse of Rosa and was walking over, his mouth coated in coagulating blood, which slid down the front of his neck. As he came closer he lurched forward, heading straight for Quimby.
Who grabbed Perkins and used him as a shield.
'Sir,' protested Perkins, caught off-balance, his arms flailing, unprepared to meet Jones who came with teeth bared, sinking them into Perkins' shoulder.
Perkins screamed. 'Sir,' he squealed, staggering backwards, thumping back against the door and blocking it just as Quimby whirled round to make his escape.
'Get out of the way, you fool!' shouted Quimby, trying to kick Perkins out of his path. But by now Jones had brought his full weight to bear and the two men were firmly lodged against the door. Jones's teeth were embedded deeply in Perkins' shoulder as he shook his head trying to worry free a chunk of flesh and Quimby fancied that he must have torn through an artery in the neck, for all of a sudden Perkins' terrified face was obscured by a spray of blood.
'Sir,' wailed Perkins as he sank to the floor, ineffectually beating at the creature with his hands.
From behind him Quimby heard a low growl and turned to see Jacqueline shambling towards him, one arm outstretched, black with Sugar's viscera. Forgetting about kicking Perkins away from the door, he dodged behind Jacqueline. Good, she was heading towards Perkins. He watched as she bent down and grasped one of his legs, lifting it, then biting into it, at which Perkins' screams increased in intensity, if such a thing were possible. Now Miss Pearce had joined the gathering. She bent forward, almost as though to offer Perkins the variety of sexual excitement Quimby had in mind when he had first conceived of the night. In fact, she was nuzzling further upwards, at Perkins' stomach, where she no doubt hoped to find meat of a rather more succulent nature, and his screams as she sank her teeth into his belly indicated that she had been successful in this regard.
Quimby was not off the menu, though, and was very much aware of the fact. Miss Corwent and Miss Stanley both regarded him with an expression of blank hunger that sent him tearing over to the wall near the window, where he spotted the axe, an artefact he had never paid much mind before, save to provide vague and wholly concocted explanations for its presence should a visitor ask. Many years ago, prior to bedding her, he had told Lady Caroline Lamb that the axe had belonged to his ancestor who had stood alongside Queen Elizabeth when she gave her famous speech at Tilbury and that she must not touch it (which she seemed about to ask to do) as it was razor sharp. The knowledge ha
d certainly increased her ardour; the Prime Minister's wife had been no disappointment in that area, and Quimby's comments post-coitus, though made in the manner of his usual fabrication, had in fact been genuine on that occasion.
Now, he thought, scrambling up to the desk in order to reach the axe, were his comments about the blade also genuine?
There was only one way to find out.
He stepped down from the desk and to the side, drawing Miss Corwent towards him. He took a step backwards to balance himself.
Perkins was still screaming. For pity's sake, man, keep it down, thought Quimby, crossly.
And he swung the weapon around himself in the manner of a competitor at the Highland games.
There was more to this axe-wielding than met the eye, he thought, as he braced a leg against the library desk, working to remove the blade from the wood in which it had become lodged, having missed Miss Corwent.
The blade was keen, at least there was that, he thought.
Christ, how on earth could he concentrate with Perkins screaming like that? With a grunt it was free, and he danced to the side once more, to give himself a little room. Abruptly, Perkins ceased his screaming. Quimby, grateful for the reduction in noise, once again took up position, Miss Corwent still shambling towards him. Once again he swung, but this time he took no chances. Rather than swinging from side to side, he chopped downwards, his intention being to strike Miss Corwent at the crown and cleave her from head to toe. His aim was true and Miss Corwent was opened almost to the hip, the two parts of her body dividing like a split tree-stump, depositing her insides to the floor as they did so, then hanging there, as...
She kept on coming.
Amazed, Quimby looked at her, then gazed at her internal organs quivering on the boards. She had the body of a weak and feeble woman, he thought, distractedly, but she had the heart and stomach of, well, a seemingly invincible zombie. Curse the woman!
Then from his side came a low groan and Miss Stanley was almost upon him. He dodged to the side, raised the axe and swiped wildly, smashing the blade into Miss Stanley's skull, which sprayed grey brain matter as it opened and she slid to the floor, eyes rolling up.
The head, he thought. You have to sever the head.
Turning back to Miss Corwent, he swung underarm, twice, in order to achieve the same effect and was relieved to see her sink downwards, her seemingly inexorable progress halted at last.
Jacqueline was moving towards him but he was now becoming accustomed to his new role as executioner and he took her head off at the neck. Now covered in gore, he bared his teeth and chopped at Miss Pearce until she, too, was dead, the top of her head rolling to the middle of the library floor where it joined a gruesome collection of entrails.
Finally, Quimby went to Jones, who was kneeling, oblivious to the carnage around him, spooning Perkins' stomach into his mouth with a cupped hand. Revolted, Quimby stood over him and brought the axe down upon his neck with every ounce of his strength. So hard was the blow that it severed the head of Jones and continued its journey forth, amputating Perkins' leg just above the knee.
Now, Quimby stood, letting the axe drop from his fingers and surveyed the scene.
Not for long did he tarry, though. Whirling, he pulled open the library door and dashed to the stairs, descending them two at a time until he reached a large, thick curtain in the main hall that he swept aside to reveal a huge oak door. He felt along the top of the doorframe to locate the key, opened the door, then was breathing in stale, damp air (though it was still a great deal more pleasant than the faecal aroma of his library) as he ran down the stone steps to his laboratory.
Once in the cellar he lit a burner with shaking hands then raced along the workbench, collecting to himself silver-stoppered jars boasting labels such as jimson weed, belladonna, monkshood; others, smuggled into the country by Perkins from Haiti, marked only with symbols.
Hands shaking, Quimby mixed ingredients into a round-bottom flask, placing it above the burner to heat it until it began to bubble and smoke, holding it aloft and swirling it to further mix the ingredients. Good. It was Perkins who usually mixed the potions but this looked perfect. Then, holding the jar carefully he raced back upstairs. Their theory had always been the closer to death the more brain function should be retained. Now to test that theory.
Back in the library and Quimby, gagging at the smell and rank atmosphere in the room, pushed the headless corpse of Jones aside and knelt to Perkins. Placing a hand beneath his head, he lifted his lips to the warm beaker and poured the smallest amount of potion into his servant's mouth, thought about it for a second, shrugged, then poured the entire contents of the beaker inside.
Now Quimby picked up the axe and retreated to the centre of the room, his shoes squelching in blood and body parts as he did so, and stood to watch. For a few seconds there was no reaction, and Quimby feared he had been too hasty when measuring out the quantities. But then Perkins' lips moved, and he coughed, spitting a mix of potion and blood onto his own chin; his eyes opened and rolled about his head and he jerked, very suddenly, so that he moved from lying on his back to lying on his side. The parts of his lower intestine that had not been devoured slithered out of him, but this seemed in no way a barrier to his recovery, which continued apace, for now he was coughing and spluttering, expelling much foul-looking fluid, his whole body jerking and shuddering in very much the same manner as their previous reanimations, so that Quimby allowed himself to believe that it had worked. Thank God, he thought, thank God Perkins was alive. How else was this mess to be cleared up?
On the other hand...
Would the reanimated Perkins retain his memory?
Quimby increased his grip on the axe and took some tentative steps forward. Probably better to be closer should he need to strike.
'Perkins,' he said, carefully, 'Perkins, are you all right?'
Perkins, whose leg had been severed just above the knee, whose stomach had been opened and emptied like a melon stripped of its fruit, who had a gaping hole in his neck and shoulder exposing white bone, red tissue and cartilage, said, 'Yes, sir, I think so, sir.'
'Good man,' said Quimby, hefting the axe. Have to be careful, he thought, don't let your guard down. What if Perkins was shamming?
'And do you...remember anything?' he asked, cautiously.
'No, sir,' said Perkins, 'nothing. Did I lose consciousness, sir?'
Quimby snorted a laugh. 'No, you fool, you died. You were eaten. Look at yourself.'
For several moments there was the sound of screaming and anguish; Perkins, now sitting upright, desperately trying to gather his intestine and replace it in the stomach cavity, only to discover parts of it missing, or severed, then giving up and flinging it away from himself like a petulant child. Then he placed his hands to the floor in order to pull himself to his feet. Or, foot. And there was renewed distress as, too late, he discovered the loss of his leg and came crashing back to the floor, sobbing and wailing, until Quimby began to become quite irritated and wished the man would bloody hurry up and pull himself together.
Once Perkins had recovered composure and was sufficiently reconciled to his situation, Quimby went to him, explaining how he had done all he could to help, but that the zombies had beaten him back. How he had tried to prevent Jones from biting into Perkins' leg, and how his failure ailed him so, and his horror at seeing Perkins' leg bitten clean through by one of the creatures; but how Perkins really must get to work before the staff returned in just a few short hours when there would be some very searching questions to answer: why there were the remains of eight dead bodies in the library for one thing.
'And then we have a couple of matters demanding our attention,' added Quimby.
'Sir?'
'Firstly, I thought the whole bloody point of raising miscreants from the dead was that they would then be miscreants under my control. Correct me if I'm wrong but they weren't very under my control this evening, were they?'
'No, sir.'
'And secondly, our friend Mr Craven.'
'What about him, sir?'
'Before he left he made a photogenic drawing of the scene.'
'Sir?'
Quimby sighed, then spoke as though addressing a child. 'Perkins, you are aware, of course, of the crime of blackmail?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well it occurs to me that, along with the making of erotic images, our friend Craven's device might be most useful in this regard. Most useful. I would, of course, have hoped to benefit from its application thus, but alas, I find myself in a position where I may well be on the receiving end. Unless Craven is as guileless as you, Perkins, which having taken his measure, I sincerely doubt. No, there's only one thing for it. We need to find this Mr Craven, and waste no time in doing so.'
'Yes, sir. And, sir?'
'Yes, Perkins.'
Perkins looked a little abashed. 'I'm hungry, sir.'
Quimby bent to pick up the axe, putting a distance between him and his manservant. 'How hungry?' he snapped.
'It's like nothing I've ever experienced, sir,' said Perkins, who was looking about the room, 'it's overwhelming.'
Quimby gestured about the room. 'Well, isn't there sufficient here, man?' he said, his face betraying his irritation and disgust. 'Good Lord, this must a banquet for a man in your...state, surely?'
'We don't have anything a little more...fresh do we, sir?'
'You needn't look at me, Perkins.'
'The hunger really is quite irrepressible, sir. It would surely be a tragedy were it to render me ungovernable, if you get my meaning. And what with my enhanced strength, sir...'
'Do not forget I have an axe, man,' roared Quimby in reply, his colour rising. 'This evening has found me well practised in dispatching the living dead back whence they came, one more should not unduly concern me!'
'Then who would clear up in my stead, sir?' asked Perkins in reply, a sweet smile playing about his lips.
There was silence in the room. Then, mollified, Quimby said, 'Very well, I shall see what I can do.'