Zombie Abbey

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “You want us to take our refreshments with the servants? And we’re supposed to help out somehow?”

  “Am I not making myself sufficiently clear, Kate? I want this to feel festive! For just a few minutes, it’ll be a real holiday for everybody, like a Christmas before Christmas. So we will assist the servants in bearing the refreshments to the back parlor. I promise you, it won’t be anything too difficult on our end, just the smaller things and I can, oh, I don’t know, carry a lemon or something.”

  Kate lifted her eyebrows so high, she could practically feel them hit her hairline. “A lemon?”

  “For tea! Some people take lemon in their tea, you know.”

  “Yes, I do. And I also know that, sometimes, you are too good for this world.”

  “Hardly. Now, then…” Father looked around the room, his eyes eventually settling on the person he sought. “Wright!” he called across. “A word over here, please, if you would!”

  When Wright did as had been requested, Father explained his little plan, at which point the butler stiffened and said, “With all due respect, Your Lordship, but have you gone insane?”

  …

  “Has Martin gone insane?” Grandmama said a half hour later as she used her cane with her left hand while carefully conveying a small pitcher of milk in her shaking right hand.

  Kate had never pictured her grandmother and Wright having much in common in terms of ideas—or in anything else, really—but in this, it would appear, their attitudes were as one.

  The whole group had processed up from the kitchen and were now making their way through the house and toward the back parlor. It was a snail’s progress with their three remaining healthy guests and the rest of the family except for Grandfather carrying small items ahead, while the servants with their far more burdensome trays took up the rear. No matter that it might make sense for the servants to go on ahead to set things up and ease their burden, it wouldn’t do for them to pass their betters.

  “He thought it would be fun,” Kate said brightly.

  “Fun.” Grandmama invested the word with scorn. “‘Fun’ is a nice juicy bit of gossip that you didn’t expect to hear that day and coming from a quarter from which you never expected to hear such a thing, preferably that Rowena Clarke person, who strikes me as someone who fancies herself above it all. ‘Fun’ is an enemy finding herself in a preposterously embarrassing situation. ‘Did you know you had your hat on backward or is that the fashion in Paris these days?’ But this?”

  “The others seem to be enjoying themselves,” Kate said with a chin nod ahead.

  It was true. The rest of the family and guests bearing their small items, even Father with his lemon—they all appeared to be having a jolly time; well, except for Grace, who was doing her part by carrying something, but only in a half-hearted fashion and with a somewhat grim and distracted look upon her face. But outside of her? They all seemed happy enough. Indeed, Cousin Benedict and Rowena Clarke appeared to consider it quite the good game, occasionally trading their items between themselves, something along the lines of “You take the sugar bowl for a bit and I’ll carry the little silver dish with jam in it with its tiny spoon shaped like a silver pineapple.”

  “Then they are simpletons!” Grandmama said. “And why did Martin get to carry the lemon? Come to that, why are there not more lemons? How will we ever get by with just the one?”

  “It’s symbolic,” Kate said. “I’m sure the servants are bringing more.”

  “I could have carried a lemon,” Grandmama huffed, “instead of this ridiculous milk pitcher.” As she said it, the pitcher wavered some more. “And why aren’t you carrying anything?”

  “Because I’m walking with you and making sure you are all right.”

  “If that is the case, then you should be looking after that other grandparent of yours. He cannot be trusted to carry anything.”

  “Which is why he isn’t and why I am blessed with the distinct pleasure of accompanying you.”

  “Do you think I am feeble? Do you think me incapable of carrying a small pitcher of milk without dropping it?”

  Kate sought for the politic answers to both these questions, but before she could come up with something, Grandmama was on the attack again.

  “And why is Fidelia the only one besides you and that wretched father of hers to be carrying nothing? Martin doesn’t need minding. Shouldn’t she be contributing to all this fun we are having, too?”

  Now this Kate did have an answer for.

  “You know that all Father ever expects of Mother is that she look beautiful and be happy.”

  As far as Kate was concerned, her parents had a perfect marriage.

  “He spoils her,” Grandmama said. “He always has, much to my chagrin.”

  Those walking ahead had already stepped onto the black-and-white large-checked marble floor beneath the gallery, which they would need to cross to get to the back parlor beyond. But suddenly all progress stopped and there appeared to be some kind of commotion going on, and she could hear a thumping coming from upstairs.

  Kate left her grandmother’s side and pressed through, in order to see what was going on, arriving just in time to discover the duke pointing at something overhead.

  Kate looked up to where he was pointing, at a portly figure clad in a nightshirt who appeared to be moving in an unsteady fashion toward the pink marble railing of the gallery.

  “Look!” the duke said. “It’s Mr. Young! He’s made a complete recovery!” Then concern filled his voice. “But are you sure you should be out of bed, Mr. Young?”

  “It can’t be,” Grace said, dumbstruck. “This isn’t happening. It’s simply not possible.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kate demanded.

  “That can’t be Mr. Young up there.” Grace paused, gulping. “Merry is dead.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Eight

  “Dead? What are you talking about?” Lizzy heard Kate demand of Grace a second time.

  “The man can’t be dead,” Grandmama said, having used her cane to pry her way through the others so that she now had a view from the very front row, spilling only a little milk along the way. “Even I, with my aging sight, can see. Why, he’s standing right up there.”

  “M-Merry,” Grace began in a halting fashion. “When I went up to check on him earlier. I was with him. And then he died. It was horrible. So how can he…”

  “If you thought he had died,” Father said, sounding mildly peevish, “why didn’t you tell anybody?”

  “I didn’t want to spoil your good time,” Grace said, apology and regret written all over her.

  “Only you,” Kate said with derision, “would leave out such a vital bit of information for such a trivial reason. And now, as you can see, you were wrong anyway.”

  “Yes, but,” Grace started, her eyes clouded with confusion. “Unless…perhaps I was mistaken? I’m not a doctor, after all, so maybe…” Lizzy felt that her sister seemed to be filling with hope, but then two things happened, almost simultaneously.

  The duke started to move forward, walking toward the foot of the grand staircase, while the figure above moved closer to the railing, peering down at them.

  “No!” Grace cried, and Lizzy could see that whatever the reason, whatever Grace was seeing that they weren’t, somehow all hope had left her now.

  “No!” Grace shouted more urgently as the figure drew yet nearer to the railing above. “Don’t you understand?”

  Lizzy had seen the valet, Parker, with her own eyes; Dr. Webb, too. Parker and Dr. Webb had obviously been a menace; anyone who was paying attention could see that. But she couldn’t bring herself to think that this situation was anything like those situations. Mr. Young didn’t seem menacing at all, merely questing somehow. And besides, as she’d told Benedict earlier: the threat was all out there. It wasn’t, could never be, in here.

  And yet…

  “What is it, Grace?” Lizzy said, forcing herself to ask the question gent
ly while inside she could feel only a sense of rising urgency. “What don’t we understand?”

  “Yes, Grace,” Kate said haughtily. “Do tell us what only you are perceptive enough to see.”

  “Merry is…” Grace started. “Merry was terrified of heights. He told me so himself when I took him on a tour of the abbey. He couldn’t even bring himself to look up there from down here the other day. Merry—if this really were the Merry I knew—would never be able to bring himself to look down here from up there.”

  The man above was now pressed against the railing, arms stretched outward over the marble, grasping at air, as though he would walk right through the railing and reach for them if he could.

  From this great distance, Lizzy couldn’t see his eyes, but suddenly she was certain about what she would see if she could: the same thing she’d seen in Parker’s eyes and then Dr. Webb’s. Oh, how could she have been so stupid? When Dr. Webb bit Mr. Young, he must have somehow transmitted whatever was wrong with him to the other man, like a disease, an infection passed from one person to the next. And then they’d brought Mr. Young back here, to the house. She’d thought they were safe here, inside…

  But they weren’t, not anymore.

  “Perhaps Mr. Young is just delirious,” Cousin Benedict said. “I’m sure there must be some reasonable explanation.”

  “No,” Grace said. “I—”

  “What is that cat doing up there?” Mr. Wright called out, indignant.

  “Henry Clay!” Fanny shouted from behind.

  Lizzy could just glimpse, between the gaps in the marble railing, a furry object moving at high speed toward the man.

  The man must have been stumbled up somehow by the cat, for now he was tumbling up and over the railing, and then his body was falling, flailing in the air, falling from that terrible height, until it crashed to the black-and-white marble floor, just barely missing the duke.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Nine

  The man should have died.

  The fall should have killed him.

  A moment ago, the duke had stood there, watching as the man he’d come to think of as a sort of friend had stumbled over the railing, crashing down toward him. It was just sheer luck that the duke had been standing sufficiently out of the way as not to be crushed himself in the process.

  Well, maybe “crushed” wasn’t the right word.

  But surely he’d have been badly injured. Perhaps broken a bone or received a really nasty conk on the head?

  Raymond Allen took a step toward the crumpled body of Meriwether Young, facedown and still on the floor. Oh, to find a friend, only to lose him so quickly!

  “Don’t!” the duke heard Daniel cry out and other voices, Lady Grace’s distinct among them, repeating the entreaty.

  The duke ignored them. Why were people always trying to tell him what to do? He merely wanted to lay a hand of benediction on his friend, his poor dead friend. Where would be the harm in—

  Mr. Young’s hand shot out toward the duke as others began to scream. There was the sound of porcelain breaking. How well the duke knew that sound! In his own home, porcelain was always breaking. It did seem to be his lot in life to hire only the most clumsy-fingered of servants, but oh how he missed home now—home! The duke looked toward the direction of the sound briefly enough to see the shattered porcelain and spreading milk near the dowager countess’s feet and cane.

  Oh, why was his mind filling up with such nattering nonsense like the problem with clumsy-fingered servants when—

  The duke felt his feet take a few scuttling steps in retreat, moving out of the way as Mr. Young lifted his head from the floor, although his eyes were still directed downward. Now that he was so much closer, the duke could smell the wretched rotting stench coming off him in waves. Worse, although unpleasant smells were never, well, pleasant, the duke saw now that Mr. Young’s legs were twisted at improbable angles to each other and yet he dragged his body upward onto his elbows and lower arms, inching himself toward the duke, occasionally shooting out an arm as though to grab on to whatever part of him he might catch.

  The duke couldn’t believe his eyes, and yet what choice did he have?

  He was going backward, Mr. Young kept coming forward, the two of them caught in a circular pattern, with Mr. Young a grotesque crab seemingly in pursuit of the duke’s feet.

  The duke could see that Mr. Young’s body was broken. Now that he’d had a moment to get over the shock and study him more closely, he could see that even his neck was at a bizarre angle that would normally be indicative of death.

  “I should have brought my gun!” he heard Lady Elizabeth shout in frustration. “Why didn’t I bring my gun! I’ll just go and—”

  In his peripheral vision, the duke saw her break from the group that had been frozen in place at the sight of this bizarre tableau. Lady Elizabeth was edging around Mr. Young and him on the left, inching toward the grand staircase, presumably to get the promised gun. Mr. Young had now managed to raise his face so that he was no longer looking downward, and the duke could see his eyes: milky with death and yet also, somehow, hungry. And then Mr. Young darted that head forward, even with its broken neck, teeth bared, snapping at him in hunger and frustration, and the duke knew that if Mr. Young could catch him… Well, he didn’t want to think about that just now. But suddenly, that gun couldn’t come quickly enough for him.

  Whatever Mr. Young had been in life, he was that no longer.

  But something in Lady Elizabeth’s progress, as she neared her goal of the foot of the stairs, must have attracted Mr. Young’s attention. For now his focus on the duke’s circularly retreating feet had been broken and had instead been shifted upon Lady Elizabeth.

  Lady Elizabeth, in their short acquaintance, had never struck him as the type to experience fear, yet she certainly looked fearful now as she backed away from that grasping hand.

  “Father, do something!” Lady Kate cried.

  He noted that Lady Kate hadn’t cried out when he had been in immediate danger, but who could blame her? He’d pick Lady Elizabeth over himself any day. And Lady Elizabeth was Lady Kate’s sister, after all.

  “What can I…” His Lordship started to say, waving the lemon in his hand impotently as if holding the fruit in one hand precluded him from taking action with the other.

  Or maybe, like all of them, he simply had no idea what to do.

  The duke thought that people liked to think they’d be brave in any emergency, but you honestly never did know what you were capable of until you were actually faced with one, did you?

  This was like what had transpired at the churchyard so many hours ago. Was it possible that both events were part of the same day? Then, people had been frozen, too, except for Mr. Young, who’d stepped forward to help Dr. Webb, only to get bitten and turned into…this as a thank-you; and Lady Grace, who’d moved to help her friend Mr. Young where he fell because he was her friend; and Daniel, who’d helped with knowing how to make a tourniquet and then had been further helpful by running for the trap and horses so they could all be safely transported back here.

  Well, come to think of it, the duke wasn’t so certain anymore that Daniel should be thanked for bringing Mr. Young back safely. It might have been better, for all of them, had they finished off Mr. Young when they had the chance. If only they had known what was to come. For surely, it wouldn’t have just been better for all of them. Surely, it would have been better for Mr. Young, too, for the duke couldn’t imagine his friend—his friend—wanting to survive that, only to turn into this.

  But even Daniel, whether his bravery be ever true or occasionally just a tad misguided, might not know what to do in a situation like the one they were now confronted with.

  One of the maids shouted, her voice reaching a high pitch and causing Mr. Young’s head to point like an Irish setter, the sudden noise drawing his attention away in that direction. Now there was more shouting and cries of, “Somebody, do something!” The duke was quite sure tha
t one of the people crying that out was him.

  As the entire group drew backward, with only the duke and Lady Elizabeth as offshoots, vastly separated like cast-off stars from some cluster constellation in the night sky, the duke heard Lady Elizabeth coo in a twinkly voice, “Mr. Young. Over here, Mr. Young.”

  Whatever fear she’d been experiencing before was visibly gone now as she, with clear deliberation, drew the monster’s focus back to her.

  A thumping, the sound of running, came from above. Who could it be? Weren’t they all here? Then a voice shouted from the landing at the top of the stairs, “Lizzy! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Will,” Lizzy called back calmly, not turning around. “But unless you’ve got your pistol on you, I don’t think you can help at the moment, and you might make things worse by getting any nearer.”

  “The stable boy?” Martin Clarke said. “What is the stable boy doing here? And why is he calling my daughter ‘Lizzy’?”

  Lady Elizabeth ignored the question and, reverting to the same seductively twinkly voice she’d used on Mr. Young a moment ago, urged the others through gritted teeth, “Now, will someone else please find a weapon? I don’t think I can keep doing this all night.”

  “Martin?” the dowager countess called.

  And yet, still, all His Lordship had was his lemon.

  It occurred to the duke then that it wasn’t fair. Lady Elizabeth was doing all the hard work, and what were the rest of them doing? They were letting her.

  “Yoo-hoo!” the duke called, trying on his own imitation of Lady Elizabeth’s seductive voice. “Oh, Mr. Young! Over here! Yoo-hoo! I say, yoo-hoo!”

  Well, the duke thought, that worked perhaps a little too well.

  For now, not only was the monster facing him instead of Lady Elizabeth, but the monster had even managed to find a bit of speed in those broken bones as it made for the duke, and Lady Elizabeth screamed, “Will someone please find a weapon!” and then Her Ladyship, Fidelia Clarke—Her Ladyship!—was prying the spear-like weapon with its hatchet-like end out of the hand of the suit of armor and His Lordship was crying out, “Fidelia, what are you doing to Fred?” and she was crying back, “I’m trying to save our guest!” and when she was on top of Mr. Young she swung the curved hatchet-like end downward, severing an arm, but that didn’t stop the dead human crab, not even for a second, and Lady Elizabeth shouted at her mother as that lady raised the weapon once more, “The head, Mother, it won’t work otherwise; be sure to cut off his head!” And now Fidelia was hacking at it, lifting the weapon and bringing the hatchet-like end of it down repeatedly, like an executioner on the first day on the job, attempting to succeed until getting the thing right, and then at last, at last, the head was finally severed and it came away from the body, rolling to a stop, but even though it had stopped rolling, its teeth were still snapping as though to bite anything that would just come close enough to those snapping teeth, and Lady Elizabeth screamed to her mother, “I shot the others in the head, so maybe it’s not enough to simply cut off the head?” and then Fidelia raised her weapon once more and cleaved the head in two, and the snapping teeth finally ceased their horrible snapping, and Lady Elizabeth stood over the head, pointing to both parts of it, her voice a mixture of exhaustion and triumph as she exclaimed, “Now, surely, no one can argue with that!”