Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

by A. E. Moorat

  Quimby, who was nearest the door, turned, so that his back was to Conroy, the two of them looking, for a moment, as though they were trying to press forward in order to gain a better view at the races.

  The door continued to thump.

  Quimby reached for the bolt, drew it aside and pushed open the door.

  It swung on hinges that squeaked, and for a second Quimby thought that the mystery door thumper had gone, and he allowed himself a moment of relief, mentally chiding his overactive imagination, for a moment-though he would never have admitted it-he thought that it might be...

  The zombie moved across the door frame.

  It was Sir Beaumont Grantham, Quimby saw, not recognising the man at first, for his hair and clothes were in a state of disarray, and his mouth and chin were slick with gore. In one hand he held part of an entrail and as they watched, horrified, he brought it to his mouth, took a bite and began to chew, ruminatively.

  Then he started to growl.

  'Oh dear,' said Quimby.

  XL

  Inside the House, Tennant had been greatly enjoying his meal of chicken legs that his man had been kind enough to provide for him. Next to him, Granger had refused even a bite of the feast, which was most unlike him. Even when Tennant had waved the greasy but fragrant fowl limb beneath his nose, Granger had merely looked irritated and waved it away.

  Yet the right honourable MP for-wherever, Tennant couldn't recall the exact location of Granger's constituency, somewhere in the north, he thought-was quite clearly hungry.

  This being evident by the manner in which he had begun to drool.

  For, yes, there was no escaping the fact-really no getting away from it at all-that Granger was salivating. Quite copious amounts of it, too. It dangled and dropped from his lips, great strings of it hanging from his chin.

  'Sir,' said Tennant, leaning over, 'I think perhaps you may be experiencing either the pleasant recall of a most gratifying sexual encounter, or you are quite famished, for I must warn you-you are drooling, sir.'

  Granger's eyes had taken on a strange faraway look. His head jerked a little, making the strings of saliva hanging from his chin dance.

  'I say, sir, perhaps a hankie?' said Tennant, who reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for one, trying to pass it to Granger, who remained in the same state: drooling, his head jerking this way and that.

  It really was most...

  And then Tennant noticed something else. For it was not just Granger to have adopted this unusual manner. Across the house he saw other right honourable members for constituencies he'd never heard of, doing the same as Granger.

  'I say, what the bloody hell is going on?' he said, which were the last words of Lord Tennant, unless his screams were to be counted. Because as it dawned on him that all was not well in the house tonight, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder and twisted his head to see that Sir Roger Blossom, the right honourable member for somewhere near Wales, had leaned forward on the bench and bitten Tennant, his hands on Tennant's shoulder, as though he were addressing the consumption of a particularly large pork chop.

  Tennant heard a tearing sound. He saw Blossom straighten. In his mouth was a piece of red, glistening meat that still had the cloth of Tennant's waistcoat attached. He tried to stand, screaming, but next to him Granger had risen and pushed him back to the bench. From behind, Blossom grabbed him again and sank his teeth into the other shoulder, pinning him there as Granger reached and tore open his clothes, then raised his fist and rammed it into Tennant's stomach.

  Tennant coughed a geyser of blood and food as Granger sank his hand into the stomach cavity and brought out a handful of gleaming red matter, complete with bits of undigested chicken drumstick.

  And he had begun to feast.

  The other revenants needed no further invitation.

  It was dinnertime at the House.

  XLI

  The revenant lurched into the tiny room, snarling and reaching for Quimby, who cowered back, pushing into Sir John Conroy who stared terrified over his shoulder.

  'I say, Grantham,' said Quimby, 'you might have waited for the toilet, you know. Really, this is most irregular.'

  From behind Grantham came the sounds of a great commotion. Screaming and running feet. Somewhere a shot was fired.

  'Don't need the toilet, Quimby,' said Grantham, 'at least not yet. Just need to eat.'

  'Ah, well I hear the food is most passable in the members'...'

  But Grantham was shaking his head no.

  'Want to eat you, Quimby,' he said. 'Got to eat human flesh, you know that.'

  'You know this?' repeated Conroy, from behind him. He sounded most unhappy, his voice cold. Quimby tried to recall when he last heard Conroy speak in such a fashion. Then remembered: it was at the workhouse in Old Nichol Rookery, moments after he had torn McKenzie's tongue from his mouth...

  'Of course he knows,' said Grantham. He reached out one hand. Disgustingly, the entrail still dangled from his fingers. 'He made me, he knows. We're all the same, all of us. They say Sir Charles Hubbard has eaten his family. What have you done to us, Quimby, to make us slaves to this hunger?'

  'We're working on it,' said Quimby, holding his hands before him. Grantham was inching forward, the blood dripped from his chin. 'We're working on a refinement of the potion that will cure you. Cure you, do you hear me?'

  'You won't be working on any refinement, Quimby,' grinned Grantham, 'the only working you'll be doing is through my lower intestine, before I shit you out and you join the rest of the ordure in the streets.'

  'Er, Quimby,' said Conroy from behind. 'Your revenant seems to have behavioural issues. Perhaps you would like to remind him whom it is he serves?'

  'Quite,' said Quimby, attempting to draw himself up. 'Now look here, Grantham, you do as I tell you, is that clear? And I insist that you stand aside and allow us to exit the toilet, do I make myself understood?'

  Grantham rocked back on his heels slightly. His outstretched hand wavered. There was a moment when, beyond all reasonable expectation, things having taken the turn they had, Quimby wondered if Grantham might be about to obey; that he would simply look confused, scratch his head then shamble off and perhaps find one of the support staff to eat.

  But he did no such thing. He grinned, bared his teeth so that Quimby could see particles of meat between them, and lunged forward.

  Both Quimby and Conroy shouted out in shock, both huddled as far back into the room as was humanly possible-which was not very far at all.

  The expected attack never came, however, for Perkins had escaped the carnage taking place in the main house in order to look for his Lordship, and what he had seen taking place in one of the new toilets, was Sir Beaumont Grantham-Sir Beaumont Grantham about to eat his master.

  'Sorry sir,' he said, grabbing Grantham from behind and hauling him out of the tiny toilet, throwing him so that he slammed into the oak panelling on the opposite side of the corridor.

  Grantham scrambled to his feet, declaiming, 'They're mine.'

  'Sorry, sir, no,' said Perkins, 'and please I'd be most grateful if you might just stay where you are, sir; certainly if you would consider perhaps going elsewhere, as at the moment I am forced to assume your intention towards us are hostile.'

  Grantham uttered a cry of rage and attacked, shrieking, 'They are mine!'

  From his trousers, Perkins pulled a sword and held it so that Grantham, flying across from the other side of the hall, simply impaled himself upon it.

  But continued thrashing. Still pinned by the sword. But very much alive.

  'Don't forget, Perkins,' prompted Quimby, coming forward, somewhat more intrepid now that his manservant, who not only boasted enhanced zombie strength but who had also the foresight to bring along a sword (Perkins, I could kiss you!) had arrived and effectively disabled their attacker.

  'Come on, man-the head, the head.'

  Perkins pushed Grantham further up the corridor, the undead MP pawing at the sword blade that sp
eared him, cutting his hands to ribbons as he tried to manoeuvre himself off the blade.

  Perkins waited until he had a bit of space to move, then in one swift movement withdrew the sword and used it to decapitate Grantham, whose face wore an expression of surprise and not a little frustration as his head bounced on the beautifully polished floorboards.

  Quimby barely had time in which to gloat, make a show of relief and thank his lucky stars-or even thank Perkins, for that matter-when Conroy had taken hold of his upper arm and was hauling him back up the hall towards the entrance to the Strangers' Gallery

  'Just what is going on, Quimby?' he barked. 'What is happening?' hauling the door open and shoving Quimby through, then following him.

  The two of them stood at the top of the steps leading to the benches in which, until just recently, Quimby had been sitting, watching the usual rumpus of the house: the jeering and catcalling, the ribald jokes, the heckling and squabbling, bickering and backstabbing.

  Now, though-now there was just killing, and gut-munching, and screaming and running.

  Many of the right honourable members must have made good their escape before Quimby arrived on the scene, others had been clamouring for the door, which was beneath the Strangers' Gallery, so that Quimby, Conroy and Perkins had to descend the steps to the balcony and lean over the handrail to properly view the scene there.

  It was of carnage. There had been a crush at the door, a pile of bodies blocked it almost to the top. Four of the revenants, having seen the opportunity for easy pickings had made their way over there and were attacking the writhing, screaming pile at random, tearing off limbs and ripping flesh from them with their teeth as though they were one of Tennant's drumsticks; plunging their faces into flesh and coming away with mouthfuls of red, dripping meat; unfurling strings of intestine, the bodies of the dead piling up at the doorway, further imprisoning the living.

  Those right honourable members not caught up in the crush at the doorway were in the process either of cowering and screaming, or running and screaming, or being devoured and screaming or, in some rare instances fighting back against the remaining zombies who attacked at random, indiscriminately taking food where it could be found.

  Then, as they watched, there was a movement at one of the members' galleries to their left. A door burst open and on to the gallery rushed three women. One, older, with wild, black hair; a second, much shorter, whose face was covered with a scarf and who wore a three-pointed hat so that she looked a little like a highwayman, and a third, who held a bow, and who was Quimby noticed, with a surge of feeling he had never before experienced, absolutely...beautiful.

  For a second he was entranced by her, hypnotised by the flow of her limbs and the grace of her body as she ran to the edge of the gallery, raised her bow, notched an arrow, took aim and fired.

  Then: 'Party's over,' shouted the older woman, her accent Scottish, and she and the second were leaping down from the gallery balcony and onto the main floor, both immediately coming adrift, having failed to take into account the floor now being slick with gore. They regained their feet, the first woman immediately wielding the broadsword she held and slashing a revenant that had began lurching in her direction.

  Oh-it was Sir Digby Chambers, Quimby noticed. Poor old Digby. Quimby had always quite liked him really; say what you like about him, but when he set his cap at something, he didn't stop until the job was done. Now he moved and lurched and his jaws moved as though unable to control his need for raw flesh-which, Quimby supposed, was exactly the case.

  And instead of going down, however, Digby kept on advancing. Just as tenacious in death as he had been in life, he kept on coming. The warrior woman struck again, and again, taking off one of its arms, then the other.

  'He won't go down,' shouted the woman in frustration.

  The second woman was having the same difficulty. She fought with what looked like a sword in one hand and a most unusual spinning saw in the other, striking out at two opponents simultaneously, both of whom were rocked by mutilating injuries that should have felled them-though neither of whom fell.

  'I've got the same problem here!' she yelled. Zombies from other parts of the house were aware of their presence now and were moving over. Bravely the two women stood their ground, chopping and slashing, sliding in the gore about their feet, unable to understand why their attacks had no effect.

  'Arrows do not harm them,' shouted the archer, her accent of the South Americas, and before he could stop himself, Quimby was leaning over the handrail, cupping a hand to his mouth and calling to her, 'Go for the head, my dear. You must destroy the brain!'

  She looked over at him. Their eyes met. He attempted a nonchalant smile, as though he were often to be found dispensing bon mots concerning the best way of killing zombies in the House of Commons.

  'Go for the brain!' she called down to her two comrades.

  The older of the two women heard, relaying the message to the shorter one. 'Your M--' she started, then stopped, 'Tora!'

  The woman looked at her. 'Tora?'

  The older woman shrugged. 'Just go for the brain, Tora, go for the brain.'

  And Quimby basked for a moment.

  Then, Conroy blindsided him and he was thrust between the benches, catching his head, the pain making him shout out. The next thing he knew Conroy was above him and his eyes were burning with anger and hatred as he snarled, 'You're going to die for this, Quimby.'

  'Sorry, sir,' came the voice from above them both, and once again Perkins was saving his master's skin, hauling Conroy from him. Sadly for Perkins, Conroy was no Sir Beaumont Grantham, and he twisted in Perkins' grasp, shouting, 'Unhand me, gimp,' and kicking out with his left foot at what he knew to be Perkins' weak spot: the leg. Sugar's leg.

  Which snapped and tore free with a crunch, depositing Perkins to the floor. Conroy turned, ready to finish the job on Quimby.

  'Don't you ever call him a gimp again,' said Quimby and used every ounce of pugilistic experience he had ever acquired at Harrow, then at Oxford, to deliver an uppercut.

  His pugilistic experience at these establishments, however, bordered on the non-existent. And rather than sending Conroy crashing back into the benches as had been his intention, he hardly even rocked the man. Instead, he heard the bones in his hand crunch and was crippled by a searing pain that began at his fingertips and raced up his arm to the elbow.

  In an instant Conroy was upon him. In his hand was a knife. But as he moved across the gallery about to strike there came a call from the main floor below.

  'Conroy.'

  And Conroy, stopped, looked in the direction of the voice.

  'Christ,' he said, and whirled, his cloak fanning out around him. 'We will meet again, Quimby,' he called as he hurried back along the benches to the gangway, taking the steps two at a time towards the door. 'Very, very soon. And when we do,' he said pausing as he reached the top, 'you will die suffering and begging for mercy and you will rue the day we ever met.'

  And then he was gone.

  What do you mean, 'will' rue the day? thought Quimby, nursing his hurting hand and crabbing along the benches to check upon Perkins. 'Will' rue it? I already rue the day we met-matter of fact I've been rueing the day we met since the bloody day we met.

  XLII

  Maggie Brown gingerly made her way across the floor of the House of Commons, looking for all the world as though she were a farm girl, negotiating a particular muddy field. Only it wasn't mud that caused her to slip and slide and be constantly in danger of losing her footing and falling, it was blood and guts. Everywhere was strewn the bodies of MPs, the majority in the most grotesque states of mutilation. It was simple to tell victim corpse from attacker cadaver: those of the revenants were headless, or boasted several arrows in their skulls; the remainder were missing limbs or had portions of their bodies missing or had been split like pea pods to be stripped of the meat from inside. Everywhere, though, whatever the manner of their death, were dead MPs and those were soon to
be dead, who lay moaning in pain-and every now and then the air was torn by a high-pitched scream.

  One thing was for certain, Soho was going to be quiet for a while.

  Because this was a right bloody mess. She put her hands to her face, wiping from it some of the offal that had accumulated during the combat. Literally, a right bloody mess.

  'Your Ma--' she said, 'I mean, Tora, did you...'

  She stopped mid-question and was looking around.

  'Vasquez,' she said, 'where is she? Where's the-you know who?'

  Vasquez had stood and was peering over the balcony. 'I don't know, Maggie. Is she not with you?'

  'No, she's not bloody with me,' Maggie was looking with a greater urgency now, darting around the main floor of the Commons, sifting through piles of butchery in case Victoria was trapped beneath bodies, and tossing limbs aside as though she were hunting through a pile of clothes in search of a shirt to wear.

  'Oh, bloody hell,' she said, 'Tora!'

  'She shouted something, Maggie, I recall,' said Vasquez from above her, 'that was the last I remember of her.'

  'I don't believe this,' said Maggie, skating over to another corner of the room. 'Tora!' she called, 'Tora! Tora! I don't believe this, we've bloody lost her. So much for bloody protecting her, we've gone and bloody lost her. What was it you heard her shout, lassie?'

  'Maggie,' said Vasquez, 'in the heat of battle I paid it little mind, but I think what she called was Conroy.'

  Maggie stopped.

  'Conroy?'

  'Yes, Maggie,' said Vasquez, shame-faced.

  'He was here then,' said Maggie, 'She saw him. Oh my God, girl, she's gone after him. Quick,' she was already racing to the door, dragging corpses from the doorway to allow her through. 'There's nothing to be gained by staying here. We don't want to be answering the peelers' awkward questions. Let's get back. I cannot believe we've bloody lost her...'

  At Melbourne House in Piccadilly, Lord Melbourne sat with a glass of whisky, allowing his eyes to close as he, finally, after what had been days of little or no sleep, relaxed.