Chapter 6

"Lady Catherine," said Parson Collins, "let me take this time to thank you so much for your generous, I repeat, generous hospitality during this trying time."

Darcy watched his aunt offer a brief nod as a response. He thought he detected a hint of annoyance spreading across her face, but that came second to the praise, which she relished in. They were all gathered in a parlor room awaiting news from the north. Darcy had the letter from The Canal in hand. He read it over and over, hoping to discover some detail he had overlooked. His index finger moved lazily in a back and forth motion against his lips as he concentrated.

"My dear cousin is so fortunate to be of your intimate acquaintance, as we all are, in this trying time. I am sure Mr. Wickham knows of your superior warrior skills and is dreading the moment when he shall cross blades with, your Ladyship," prattled Parson Collins on nervously. His wife sat silently by his side. She, Darcy noticed, had not said a single thing since Elizabeth had been taken. Instead her face was solemn and occasionally he would see her wipe a stray tear from her cheek.

All of Elizabeth's sisters were present. Lydia, Kitty and Mary all sat in the corner cleaning muskets and sharpening blades. Mrs. Bennet had taken to her room and only came out occasionally to eat. Bingley and Jane sat closest to his solitary spot in the corner. They had a glow about them and, despite the circumstances, shared occasional knowing looks with each other that would send a reddish hue to one or both of their faces.

Sick of his new cousin's prattling and Charles and Jane's glances, he folded his letter and made for the door. Georgiana shot him a worried glance as he walked off but he offered her something resembling a smile as he exited the room, which eased her enough at present, and she soon began polishing her musket once more.

He needed to get away. He wanted his loneliness to crash down around him like a wave. To feel its sharp sting like the first time Elizabeth had rejected him. Like after he sliced his father's head clean off his body. Or even the way it had overpowered him after his mother had been eaten by undead when he was just a boy. He realized he anticipated these moments in his life. As soon as he embraced feelings of joy and bliss they were ripped away as if the good Lord didn't want him to endure too much happiness in his life. Instead he was meant to suffer in a world plagued with undead at every corner. In one where his wife, the most fearsome warrior he knew, was kidnapped and possibly dead.

He turned up the hall and opened the door of the library. Entering into the dim room, he embraced the comforting, musty smell that only old books could provide. Walking to the cabinet, he removed a bottle of liquor and turned towards the desk. Despite himself, he was surprised to see Mr. Bennet sitting comfortably in a chair. He was equally shocked when he noticed the man held no book in hand, but simply had his head resting against the back of the chair. Darcy lifted the bottle up, silently voicing his question.

Mr. Bennet nodded in the affirmative, and Darcy removed two glasses, carefully pouring them each a glass. He sat across from his father-in-law and they both took their first swallow together.

They then sat in comfortable silence, both men lost in their own thoughts. He knew not how much time had passed before Mr. Bennet asked, "What are you thinking of, my son?"

Darcy broke from his reverie and looked up at the older man. In the dim light he could almost imagine it was his own father sitting before him.

"When I asked you for Elizabeth's hand," Darcy admitted.

Mr. Bennet smiled. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"Yes," Fitzwilliam replied. "You said, 'Love her well, lead her with wisdom, comfort her in times of trial, and always remember to keep your blade ready for both defense against the undead and her sharp wit.'"

Both gentlemen chuckled for a moment and the room fell into silence once more.

"I hate seeing you bearing the burden of Wickham's actions all on your own," Mr. Bennet said, "but that just confirms my belief that there is no one else worthy of her."

"I feel helpless," he confessed. "If Wickham is at Pemberley with the undead from The Canal, then that leaves thousands against mere hundreds. Us, the Black Guard, and remaining militia cannot take on such numbers. And odds are he had Elizabeth trapped somewhere inside. What should I do?" His eyes pleaded.

"Think of your home," Mr. Bennet said. "Is there anything that may give us even the slightest advantage if we battle at Pemberley?"

Darcy sat back and pondered this. He and Wickham had both grown up together so they shared mostly the same experiences, apart from the years Darcy went to Japan to train. But their childhood was filled with adventures in the garden, swimming in the lake, afternoon rides, and playing near the outer wall, sometimes even sneaking through the bars to the open countryside. He thought of a game they once played in their youth. They would blindfold each other and see who could walk the furthest from the safety of the wall before fear overtook them. Darcy always ventured the furthest. On many occasions Wickham would even pretended to be an undead, growling and moaning in an attempt to scare Darcy into a loss.

Darcy also thought of their games of hide and seek within Pemberley on rainy days. The home was filled with secret passages and rooms and only he knew where they all were, which could work to their advantage. But that was only in the event they could make it into the home. If Wickham had somehow managed to get thousands of undead to Pemberley, then they would have to go through them. Or under them, he thought.

Darcy glanced up at Mr. Bennet, his eyes bright. "I think I know how," he said.

Darcy ate little at dinner and grew more frustrated with Parson Collins' insatiable appetite. He was not sure if his distaste for the man stemmed from his general character, his initial attraction towards Elizabeth, or his complete disregard for her current well-being. Darcy raised his glass to his lips, taking another sip of water in an effort to hold his tongue.

He and his father-in-law worked out the particulars and set a general plan. All they were waiting for was the riders from the north to return, which Darcy expected to be any moment.

As if on cue, the dining room doors flew open and Franklin rushed in, two of the three northern riders following closely behind. The introduction was lost in the commotion as everyone took in the appearance of the gentlemen. Their faces were blackened with dust and their eyes were weary. Both were taking deep breaths as if they had run the distance from Pemberley instead of riding upon horseback.

Darcy rose to his feet and ran towards the men. He grasped Leftenant Watters' arms and pleaded for him to speak. He saw Ashton grip the other man and they led them both to nearby chairs and ordered for glasses of water to be brought. Darcy's eyes scanned from Leftenant Watters, to the Black Guard member, and back several times before the former spoke.

"We made it to Pemberley," he breathed out, moving into an ungentlemanly position in the chair.

"And?!" bellowed Darcy after the man paused.

"And there were thousands and thousands of undead. They were hardly visible in the moonlight but we could hear them," Watters said. He paused to take a sip of water. "We weren't there long. Henry's horse got spooked, and he was bucked off. The undead all turned and began running towards us. We barely escaped through the hole in the outer wall. Once we crossed over I glanced back, and Henry was completely surrounded."

"Did you see Elizabeth?" Darcy asked urgently.

"No. I am sorry, Colonel," Watters responded. "But we could see candles burning in the lower windows. We also found scraps of dirty white cloth on the northern road to Pemberley like a trail of breadcrumbs. Sadly they were in Henry's satchel and are now all lost. But if I were a betting man, I would hazard to guess Wickham and Elizabeth were both inside."

Darcy sighed in relief and ran a hand through his hair, moving the dark strands from his eyes. They found her. And his quick-witted wife had made certain of it.

"These undead," Watters continued, "were the furthest gone I have ever seen. It was as if all the humanity had been drained from them. Lord knows how much human blood they had consumed to reach that point. I shudder to think where it came from. And they surrounded the house as if they were specifically ordered to protect it. It's like they have no choice. They wandered in the same area until they were alerted to our presence. Then they followed us to the outer wall before rounding back to the house. It was as if they were following direct orders. "

"Yes," responded Darcy calmly, finally letting one truth free. "Wickham can control them."

Everyone shot him shocked expressions.

"What do you mean?" his aunt asked.

"I have been mulling over the idea for some time," said Darcy. "When Elizabeth and I were racing back to Hingham Bridge they completely disregarded us while we rode through. They could have killed us and eaten our brains, but they were so focused on reaching the bridge it was as if they were programmed for a specific mission, everything else came secondary- including their primal urges. Parson Collins, do you remember when you spoke of the zombie antichrist leading the undead in the end times?"

"From the book of Revelation?" Parson Collins verified, pieces of scone falling from his mouth. He swallowed. "Of course I do! I am, after all sir, a man of the cloth."

"I believe there is more to it than him simply leading the undead," Darcy continued. "I think that he can control the undead. All undead."

"Then, if what you say is true," commented Ashton Trafford, "they are the largest unified militia in the world."

"Now," Darcy thought aloud, "we have to determine how far their bond reaches. Can they break their trance? If so, what are the barriers? What orders have they been given? Does he have to voice their orders or is it innate? And, most importantly, if we kill Wickham, do they all die?"

"How do you plan on testing this?" inquired Ashton Trafford.

"I haven't the slightest clue," Darcy admitted with a sigh. "We will have to plan for the worst and hope for the best. But rest assured, if I have any chance to put my blade through Wickham's skull, I will not hesitate. Truth be told, I should have done it a long time ago."

"Well, we already know one thing," Ashton said optimistically. "They cannot go beyond the outer wall."

"And we shall use that to our advantage," said Darcy. He decided to voice part of his plan. "When I arrived back from my training in Japan, my father would take me on walks of the grounds. We would occasionally do this to check for stray undead, and if we happened to find one, it meant there was a breach in the outer wall. One day he took me past the outer fence towards a cluster of trees just south of the Pemberley limits. It was the area with the most shelter, and, it just so happens, the only area where one could spy upon the house without being seen. Behind one old tree was a grate. He opened the hatch and told me to climb inside. I took the stairs downward into the darkness, and at the bottom was a long, dank corridor. He grabbed a torch nearby and soon the fire lit the path in front of us. It seemed like we walked for ages before the tunnel revealed another set of stairs. My father glanced down at me and said, 'Under no circumstances are you to tell anyone about this. It is a secret passed down from one Darcy man to another. Only use this passage if we are under attack, but just bring your sister.' He then told me to proceed up the stairs. It leads directly underneath Pemberley to the back kitchens. This," Darcy concluded, "is our way in."

Darcy sat at his desk writing five letters by candlelight. Now that he knew their whereabouts, he needed to call all available militia to come to their aid. If he could send out the letters tonight they could have reinforcements tomorrow night at the earliest. He instructed each to bring as much ammunition as possible, and in his letter to those still stationed at Hingham Bridge he ordered any leftover explosives to be brought from when they detonated the bridge.

Lifting the ladle containing the red wax, he poured a glob onto the paper before pressing his signet ring into the hot liquid. Once the Darcy crest cooled on each, he took all five letters in hand and left his room, making for the main floor of the estate. He told five of the militia members already at Rosings to ready themselves after dinner. They met him at the stairwell, and he handed each a letter and accompanying region. They were dressed simply in their regimentals, uniform overcoats, and hats.

They shuffled down the stairway together and made for the horses standing ready at the end of the front garden, Darcy voicing commands the entire length. He reiterated to them the importance of assembling all available militia and that this battle was literally the end battle between the living and the dead. If they lost, soon all of England, Scotland, and then the rest of the world would be undead. The five riders mounted and then were off. Darcy watched them ride away until they blended into the night.

He rested his left hand on the hilt of his katana. After they were out of sight he realized for the first time he had hope. If their plan worked, he could be with Elizabeth the day after next. Although the men hadn't seen her, he knew she was alive. He was certain of it. He could feel her presence with him even now, comforting him. Guiding him. He bent his head and gave a silent prayer that the plan would succeed, for Elizabeth to remain unharmed, and that Wickham would soon meet the Maker and be damned for all eternity.

Darcy turned and walked back to the house, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. He heard another sound resembling a moan behind him, and turned around sharply, removing his blade. But nothing was there. The riders had long since gone and the Black Guard remained fixed in their positions.

Sheathing his katana once more, he rubbed his hands over his weary face and continued towards the stairs. As he approached the landing, he noticed Georgiana and Ashton standing in an intimate fashion by one of the windows, talking softly. They stepped further apart upon noticing him.

Darcy shot a stern glare towards Ashton and then at his sister. Deciding he had best save this discussion for a time when his brain wasn't clouded from a lack of sleep, he instead asked where the others were.

Ashton found his voice first, for his sister was still in a state of shock at his silence on the subject.

"The younger Bennet sisters are in the throne room with your aunt and cousin and Miss Bingley preparing the last of the weapons," said Ashton. "Mr. and Mrs. Bingley are with them. And Parson and Mrs. Collins have retired to their room for the evening."

"Shall we join them?" encouraged Darcy. He ushered for them to proceed in front of him up the hall to the throne room.

They all sat upon various sofas and chairs sharpening blades, polishing muskets, and taking note of their ammunition supply. Darcy walked over to an available whetstone near the door and began sharpening his katana. He could hear his younger sisters-in-law quietly talking about Ashton Trafford. He smirked. They were going to be disappointed when they discovered he might soon be courting his younger sister.

Lydia then turned her eyes on him and smiled. She had all but recovered her lively disposition but her smiles did not quite yet meet her eyes. He could still see the anger that haunted her but now it was mixed with determination; this was her moment of retribution.

Her eyes then flickered to the doorway and her smile fell, all the color fading from her face. Darcy turned to his right and gripped the hilt of his katana tighter for in it stood five and twenty members of his aunt's Black Guard. Fresh blood trickled down some of their chins and they all stared forward, eyeing the ladies and their fresh brains. They moaned and snarled at the party, their bodies blocking the main entrance to the room. All movement ceased as the others too realized the precarious situation they now found themselves in. The undead had infiltrated Rosings- the safest place in England.