DISCLAIMER: I realize that with the current obesity epidemic in our country, we have to get used to phrases like "low-carb" and "Atkins-friendly" and "South Beach Diet." But for the love of all that is holy, please do not let Arby's start referring to carbohydrates as "carbies." It's just wrong, people. That oven mitt needs to meet with an unfortunate kitchen accident…

Once again, the "Shaun of the Dead" characters belong to Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright. I am merely their devotee, their minion, their underling, their literary lackey.

Inside the chapel, Ryland continued to place the various pieces needed for the ritual on the altar table. "Oh, bugger," he said abruptly.

"What is it?" Davrok asked.

"I forgot the silver dagger," he replied in exasperation. "I must have left it in the car. I'll be right back. Don't start the ritual without me." He hurried out through an exit behind the altar.

Davrok kneeled before the altar, holding the hilt of his sword even with his eyes. "For too long the weak humans have walked this earth. This night, we will reclaim the world that was once ours. I will restore the Old Ones to their former majesty. At last I will fulfill my destiny."

"What's up, D?" an interrupting female voice drifted out of the shadows. "Sorry I'm late for the party. Guess my invitation got lost in the mail, huh?"

"Slayer," he turned and growled.

"In the flesh," she replied, stepping into the flickering torchlight. "Speaking of flesh, yours is looking a little tired. But that's okay; a few antioxidants, maybe a chemical peel, and you won't look a day over 600."

"I have been waiting for you, Slayer."

"Aw, that's sweet." Sara grabbed an iron torch off the wall as she continued into the room. "You know, I'll never understand what it is about megalomaniacal vampires and torches. It's like this weird masochistic thing. I mean, come on. Fire? Not the best choice of lighting décor."

"I have waited patiently to taste your blood, to rip your tender flesh from its bones, to hear you scream till there is no longer breath in your lungs…"

"Right. Blah blah torturecakes. Are you gonna' bark all day, little doggie? Or are you gonna' bite?"

"For your arrogance, I shall see you dead, insolent strumpet!"

"Strumpet?" she repeated in disbelief. "You really gotta' bring your trash talk into the 21st century, D. Don't get me wrong, I've had my share of insolence and strumpetry, but the Elizabethan insults? Not exactly making me quake with fear."

"You are not afraid to face me?"

"Well, in the last few days, I've lost my best friend, my car, my flat, my job, and my potential love interest. So the way I see it, I got nothing left to lose."

"You have your life," he said, swinging his broadsword. She blocked it with the iron torch. The clang of metal on metal reverberated through the chapel, and the shockwave vibrated through Sara's shoulders. She quickly realized this might be one of the strongest vampires she'd ever faced. Note to self, she thought, cut off his head first and quip later.

She summoned all her strength and used the torch to push him back against the altar table. "You think you've got what it takes to bring about the end of the world, fangboy? I've seen better apocalyptic rituals in a suburban basement in Tuscaloosa."

"I had what it takes to bring down the Council. A just and fair retribution for the incessant killing of my children."

"Yeah, well, you've killed a lot of my friends. I'm here to return the favor." She pulled the torch away and rammed the sharp end into his right foot, pinning him to the floor. "And it was terribly inconsiderate of me to bring a torch to a swordfight." She unsheathed a sword from the scabbard on her back. "So let's settle this."

Davrok winced as he pulled the torch out of his foot and tossed it aside. He swung his broadsword and she blocked it. They continued to trade thrust for parry, moving across the chamber. Sara tried to use her smaller size and quicker speed to outmaneuver him, but she was getting tired and swordplay had never been her strong point.

She deflected his sword, and as he passed her, she heaved a kick at his back, slamming him into a wall. Unfazed, he brought his arm around for a forceful backhand punch. Before she could regain her footing, he punched her again. She hit the floor, and the sword left her grasp. Davrok ripped a stone statue from its foundation and threw it towards her, but she rolled quickly out of the way as it smashed into pieces.

Not quickly enough, though. As she tried to crawl toward her sword, Davrok placed his foot on her neck and pinned her to the floor with unexpected strength. She felt like the vertebrae in her neck were being crushed. "You thought you could defeat me?" he asked, removing his foot to launch a solid kick to her ribs. "I've defeated armies, ransacked and burned entire villages, and now I hold the fate of the world in my grasp. A little girl could not stop me."

"You forget," she noted, "I'm a little girl, with a lot of knives." She pulled a large dagger from a shoulder holster and plunged it into his leg. As he cried out in pain, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed her sword again.

He snarled as he removed the dagger and began to advance on her again. "I would have made your death quick and painless, Slayer. Now I shall revoke that privilege." He began his attack with renewed strength. She tried her best to block each swing of his sword, but each blow was coming closer to hitting a vital organ.

When they locked swords again, she forced his blade off to the side and thrust her elbow backward into his jaw. Disengaging her sword and spinning quickly, she thrust backward, plunging the sword into his chest. She heard him growl in agony and fall to his knees.

She turned to face him. "Ironic, isn't it? I believe this was how you killed my friend Will."

"The weakling with red hair?" Davrok remarked with a pained growl. "I regretted staining my sword with his blood."

She plunged the sword further and twisted the blade, making him cry out. "Any more snide remarks and I will break out some torture methods of my own, you Turkish twat." Withdrawing the sword, she then placed the sharp blade against his neck. "Now tell me where the girl is?" she demanded.

"What girl?"

"The one whose blood opens the seal. Where is she?"

"There is no girl here. Other than you."

"What?"

"It's your blood that opens the seal, Slayer. Welcome to your destiny."

She readied the sword to deliver a fatal blow but was stopped when something painfully sharp slammed into her shoulder. She turned to see Professor Ryland holding a tranquilizer gun. Reaching around, she felt the syringe sticking out of her back. "That's not fair," she uttered, before collapsing to the floor.

After a brief stop at the Council, Grayson and Shaun continued to speed along the A1 enroute to Kimbolton, with Grayson using the rear-view mirror to keep a close eye on Ed in the backseat. He wasn't entirely comfortable trusting Shaun yet, and he really didn't trust their zombie companion. But in light of the circumstances, he'd try to make the best of it.

"Another day, another apocalypse, huh?" Grayson observed casually. "You've seen one, you've seen a hundred. You know, mankind has predicted its own demise far more often than it has ever actually faced it."

Shaun stared at him from the passenger seat. "What?"

"I'm serious. It was in this article Michael Crichton wrote recently. In 1975, Newsweek noted signs that weather patterns had begun to change, that the world was going to freeze because of steadily dropping temperatures and that there would be catastrophic famines. When in fact, global temperatures are on the rise. But only by four degrees over the next 100 years. And the predicting explosion of world population that would translate into mass starvation and environmental degradation? Still hasn't happened. Fertility rates have fallen steadily, and per capita food production has increased.

"In 1972, the Club of Rome predicted that by 1993 we would have exhausted all our supplies of gold, mercury, tin, zinc, oil, copper, lead and natural gas. Yet 1993 came and went, and we still have all those things. Killer bees, Y2K, cancer caused by living near power lines. It's all an over-reaction, a symptom of our mortal humanity. It's like Mark Twain said, 'I've seen a heap of trouble in my life, and most of it never came to pass.'"

"Grayson, could you please shut up about the doomsday scenarios? I think I'm sufficiently pessimistic as it is."

"Fine. Just trying to make conversation."

They continued to drive along in silence.

"She's gonna' be fine, y'know," Grayson assured.

"Yeah, I know."

"I mean, she's got divine protection. What do you expect with a last name like Cross?"

Shaun glanced at him in confusion. Till that moment, it had never occurred that he didn't even know Sara's last name. Here he was, ready to risk his life for a girl he hardly knew.

"I gather from your expression you didn't know," Grayson remarked.

"No," he said slowly.

"Come on, you know the Big Guy isn't gonna' let anything happen to a girl with a name like that."

"No, no, I suppose not," he agreed. "So, um, what other insights can you give me into Sara? Y'know, if I were interested, which I'm not saying that I am."

Grayson glanced at him sideways and shook his head. "I think we have slightly more pressing matters at hand, Shaun."

"Right, you're right. You're absolutely right." He focused on the road ahead and the landscape zooming by. "Just tell me, does she like goatees? Because I can lose it easily."