Chapter 18

"Where are we going?" Elizabeth panted as they rushed down another corridor.

"The kitchens," Darcy responded. He continued running until he no longer felt her presence behind him. He halted several paces in front of her and opened his mouth to ask why he was hesitating, but she spoke first.

"The explosives will be of no use now," she began to explain, her one hand clutching her leg. "Caroline said she told Wickham about them."

"Well, currently that is our only way out," he responded, turning around as he began running once more, "so we have to at least try."

He had seen the battlefield below. Most of the undead still surrounded the house, so leaving out one of the doors was a suicide mission. Besides, after he slayed Wickham, they had gone back to their unpredictable selves, ruled by only lust for brains and flesh. Several had even begun pounding upon the windows and doors as they fled the room. Should more join in, they could easily break the glass and chase after them. A smaller horde had branched off and were fighting a few militia several paces from the rest. They were impulsive and would no longer stay within the confines of the grounds. He had to strike now while they were all grouped together surrounded by the Scots and militia. The tunnel was their only hope.

They made it to the kitchen with relative ease, only having to kill one or two stray undead along the way.

He walked over to the door and cautiously opened it, expecting an ambush, but there was none.

He turned questioningly to Elizabeth and she too began lowering her blade. The explosives were untouched.

"She lied," Elizabeth supposed.

"Possibly," he said as he stepped through and placed a foot on the first step. Removing the torch from the wall, he inspected them and the detonation cord for any changes. They were still favorable.

Elizabeth followed him in, closing the door behind her. He saw she took the stairs carefully, one step at a time. As she sat on a step and pulled her skirts up, he saw why; the run had caused her once dry blood to crack, allowing fresh blood to now pour down her leg. He thought the wounded had expanded as well. She grunted as she began tearing a piece of fabric from her gown. Darcy knelt next to her and took the cloth in his own hand, tying it around her leg, trying to slow the bleeding.

"Can you make it?" he asked.

"I think so," she responded dazedly. She rose and placed her foot on the ground. He saw her wince in pain as she fell into him.

"Here," he said, taking the dagger from her hands and securing it in his weapons belt. With the torch in one hand and his other arm around her, they began slowly making their way through the tunnel.

Halfway through, Elizabeth asked if they could stop. He could tell she was suffering; her eyes were glazed over and she was lethargic. She leaned against the wall and slowly sank into a sitting position on the floor. Raising the torch higher, he could see the sheen of sweat on her pale brow and the red now coating her entire leg and part of her dress.

"Elizabeth, we're almost there," he encouraged.

"Just a few minutes more," she said. The quietness of her voice scared him.

A chilling growl echoed through the tunnel just then. Undead. He saw her eyes grow wide as she felt frantically for the dagger at his waist while struggling to stand. Darcy reached for it and instead handed her the torch as she leaned against the wall. He caught parts of her angered expression in the dim light.

"Elizabeth," he implored, "you can barely stand. I can fight, but I need you to hold the torch so I can see."

When she offered no further disputes, he knew she needed to get to a doctor. They stood silent. Occasionally, he would glance a protective glance in his wife's direction before turning back to the darkness once more. Was the undead behind them or in front of them? Darcy gripped his blades tightly, waiting for the figure to enter the light. He wouldn't have much warning once it arrived, unless it continued to make noise. The sound of shuffling feet grew louder and louder until it suddenly ceased.

He stared into the black void, Elizabeth shielded protectively behind him. His eyes flickered around trying to pinpoint even the slightest of movements. His own shadow was motionless on the floor, blending into the darkness. He hated wasting these precious moments.

A small figure lunged at him with a growl, but he was ready. His katana met the undead's neck and the dagger easily pierced it's brains. He kicked the undead off and it fell to the floor. He raised his blades, ready for another attack, but none came. It was a stray.

"Let's go," he said, turning to Elizabeth and placing his arm around her once more.

"Look," she said, staring down at the lifeless figure.

Fitzwilliam glanced down and met the familiar face of his cousin, Anne de Bourgh. No. How did this happen? Did his aunt know? He blinked away the moisture threatening his eyes, knowing how heartbroken his aunt would be upon learning. Pushing the thought aside, he carried Elizabeth onward; she needed to get to a physician.

When they reached the other end of the tunnel, the grate was wide opened and chaos was ensuing. He peeked out and saw the majority of the battle was commencing on the posterior grounds of Pemberley, but undead had wandered to this small cluster of trees. Jane and Charles were fighting together, trying to fend them off. He sat Elizabeth on the steps.

"Stay here," he said. "I'm going to help them and will be right back."

She didn't reply. He kissed her quickly and exited the tunnel, closing the grate securely behind him. Raising his blades, he came up behind the undead and started slaughtering them one by one. Charles threw him a relieved expression before slicing down another.

"Where's Lizzy?!" Jane hollered to him.

He ignored her, not wishing her to be distracted. After the last zombie had been killed, Charles ran over, pulling him into a tight embrace. Fitzwilliam told them of Elizabeth's injuries as they ran towards the grate. Elizabeth's eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow.

"Elizabeth?" Fitzwilliam said eagerly, gently tapping her shoulder. "You need to wake up, love."

She moaned and peeked up at him through narrow eyes. Her hand was now covered in blood from grasping her thigh.

"Oh, Lizzy!" Jane said, gently clutching her sister's hand and bringing it to her lips for a kiss. "What happened?

"She was stabbed in the thigh and lost a lot of blood," Darcy explained. "We need to get her to a physician."

"Wickham's dead," Charles asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes," he responded, knowing his friend wasn't asking a question.

"We figured," said Jane, "given the change in the undead's demeanor. But they didn't die like we hopped."

"We can still take them out," said Fitzwilliam, "but first, we need to regroup. Charles, where is Alastair?"

"Will she be alright?" Darcy asked nervously.

The Scottish physician was hardly what Fitzwilliam had envisioned. An older man with wrinkles around his eyes had ran up to him as he hollered for help while carrying Elizabeth into Thornton Hall. The front of his clothes were stained with red from other wounded individuals. His dark kilt rose uncomfortably high as he leaned over to inspect his wife. After examining her for some time, his thick red beard moved as he said, "Yes. She will be just fine."

Darcy sighed with relief. After the physician closed her wound and made his way to his next patient, Darcy knelt down next to Elizabeth and took one of her hands in his. Gripping it tightly, he brought it up to his forehead as if in prayer.

"Forgive me," he whispered before kissing her hand and making to leave.

"Where are you going?" she asked, opening her eyes.

"We have to end this. For good," he responded.

"I know what you're planning to do," she said. He sighed softly. Of course she did. She knew him better than anybody. His strengths. His weaknesses. His faults. "I'm going with you," she added, taking his silence as confirmation.

"You can barely walk, my dear. How will you fight?" he responded. "You're not indestructible."

"Yeah, well neither are you," she retorted. He knew she was right. The others were perfectly capable of accomplishing what needed to be done. But he was a leader. A Colonel. It was his duty. And she knew this. That is why she would forgive him.

A figure rushed into the room just then, and Darcy turned in time to see the winded face of his best friend.

"Alastair is outside," Charles said breathlessly. Upon seeing Darcy's face, Bingley murmured that he would wait outside as well before quickly turning to leave.

Darcy turned back to his wife, meeting her stern expression. He could tell she was fighting back the tears. And he ached inside. He was once again causing her pain. Leaving her, risking his life for the greater good. He knew the warrior side of her understood and that she would come to resent him if he stayed here to hide, but it was still hard to ask so much of her.

"I know you're hurt," he said, "but I have to... And you would do the same."

He slowly met her eyes and after sometime, they softened. She nodded and reached a hand out, cupping his cheek.

"Come back to me," she whispered.

He leaned into her palm. "Always," he said before kissing it lightly and walking out the door.

"It maucht wark, laddie," Alastair said with a toothy grin. "It jist maucht…."

Darcy smiled.

"Then let's go," he said.

The Scot leaders and a few ranking militia quickly ran back to the battle while others went towards the carriage house and tunnel. As he grabbed his newly sharpened katana, he felt someone grasp his arm.

"Wait," Charles said, his voice lowering. His eyes were anxious and face grew glum. He sighed heavily before asking, "Where is Caroline? She said she was going in to help."

He had been dreading this moment. Granted he knew it was coming, but he hoped it wouldn't have come so quickly. How could he explain? What could he possibly say to make it better? He fought his entire life to protect his dear friend, and here he was about to tell him something that could break him. His sister was dead. She had sided with the enemy and tried to kill his wife. And in return, his wife had run her through. Such was their society.

He slowly met his friend's eyes and he saw the realization slowly come to Charles' face and he registered what was there.

"What happened?" Charles asked, desperately seeking out any information Darcy was willing to give.

Since he loved this man like a brother, since he valued his friendship, and could not deceive him, he told Charles everything.

Once he had finished, he expected his friend to yell. Scream in his face. Holler about how he was lying or that it was must be some misunderstanding. To be angry with Elizabeth for she had killed his sister. The Lord only knew what he would do should something happen to Georgiana. But Bingley just stood silent, gazing numbly at the ground, still retaining all Darcy had told him. Fitzwilliam wiped his sweaty palms on his breeches as he fidgeted in place, awaiting Charles' harsh reaction. But it never came.

Charles slowly met his eyes and nodded, accepting what he had said as truth.

He should never have doubted him. His friend was too good. The most forgiving person he had ever known.

"I am sorry," he offered, placing a hand gently on Charles' shoulder.

His friend's mouth quivered, as he, in turn placed his own on Darcy's shoulder like the used to do when they were younger. Fitzwilliam heard him clear his throat.

"We should carry on," Charles said quietly before taking off in a run.

Darcy nodded and ran after his friend and they hastily made their way in the direction of the barn.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Charles asked him as he now kept pace at his side. His eyes were red, but Darcy was happy he was changing the topic of conversation.

"It certainly offers the potential for the least amount of casualties," he responded. "Well, at least on the side of the living."

He offered a sideways smirk as they reached the barn, which Bingley halfheartedly returned. Throwing the doors open, they walked towards their awaiting horses and led them out. Darcy stroked Combat's neck before sticking his foot in the stirrup. Once he ensured Charles was situated atop his horse as well, and they made for the carriage house.

There, two men assisted with attaching the horses to the black carriage with as little harnessing as possible, and they were off in the direction of the tunnel. From his seat in his saddle, Darcy could already smell the rotting flesh and brains they had placed in the carriage. It had better work, he thought as he breathed out of his mouth.

They made good time and most of the explosives had been removed when they arrived.

"Let's start loading," Ashton ordered as they rounded the carriage as close to the grate as possible.

He hopped off the horse and ran to help the others, trying to ignore the smell. Together, their small group carefully placed the explosives into the carriage, avoiding the putrefaction.

"I still don't understand why we can't just detonate them where they are," Jane said. "Why risk moving them?"

"Within the tunnel, the explosives are currently underneath the house," explained Darcy. "Now that Wickham is dead, their compulsion isn't restricting them within the parameter around Pemberley. They have journeyed further and further from the house and now threaten to flee out the gap in the back wall. Alastair said he and his men widened the hole so the carriage will fit through and will fight with the militia to keep them within the boundary for as long as possible."

He saw Jane glance worriedly in her husband's direction before meeting his eyes. Darcy offered her a small smile, ensuring her he would take care of him. As in her typical sweet fashion, she offered a kind smile in return.

Kitty and Lydia placed the remaining explosives within the carriage and sealed the door shut firmly. He glanced at Mary and she said she was ready, removing her glasses with one hand and raised the matches Ashton had given her in the other.

Darcy grabbed the saddle and was about to mount Combat when he felt someone hug him from behind. He stiffened and uncomfortably turned. Upon seeing his sister, his tension eased, and he circled his arms around her.

"You'll be back," she said. He could tell she was trying to believe her own words; that saying it aloud would hopefully make it true.

"I'll be back," he promised before kissing her head. Pulling her tight one last time, he glanced at Ashton, who nodded at him. He returned the gesture, completing their silent agreement, and turned back around.

With Charles mounted as well, they took off.

His grasped the hilt of his katana and unsheathed his blade. Charles did the same. They were death's drivers and needed to lure the undead from the wall and towards the carriage.

The commotion of the fighting grew louder as they grew closer to the gap and Darcy could feel his heart pounding, the way it always did before a battle.

Six Scottish soldiers stood upon the wall and shouted a warning to those inside the grounds, letting them know they were almost to the breach. They rounded the carriage past the militia on the outside of the wall and broke the boundary.

Alastair and his men had given them just enough space to come through. Darcy sliced down several undead that made a run for him, and he saw Charles was doing the same. More and more undead began breaking from the Scottish and militia grouping and chased after them, hoping for better luck with the newly produced flesh.

Darcy kicked one away and saw that half of the Scots were already beginning the second part of the plan. They ran to the other side of the wall while Alastair and the rest that remained continued fighting, blocking the undead from freedom. Although they were outnumbered, the living seemed to be prospering.

Fitzwilliam and Charles lead the carriage erratically around the grounds, slicing down those that got in their way. When they made it to the middle of the park, Darcy gave Bingley the signal and they both turned around, breaking the harnesses that bound their horses to the carriage.

Once Darcy was freed, he made for the gap, urging Combat onward. He saw Alastair, his men, and the militia now stood on the opposite side of the wall and had barricaded the gap with a wooden spiked wall. Several undead were making for him and he was about to strike them down when he felt a chill roll down his spine.

"Darcy!"

Charles. He rounded Combat and they made for Bingley, who was still attached to the carriage and swinging his katana desperately at the harnessing.

"It won't come undone!" his friend hollered frantically.

The undead were almost upon him as he rode up next to his friend. With one swipe, Darcy broke the harnessing and plowed over a small group of undead that had broken from the carriage and now pursued Bingley, slicing through those that he could.

"Follow me!" he shouted over the growls. He kicked his heels into Combat, urging him to go faster. Peeking over his right shoulder, he saw Bingley beside him.

Many undead now stood between them and the gap. They needed space to jump over the barricade. Sweeping through one section, Darcy and Bingley were able to thin out the horde enough to make one attempt.

"You first," Darcy ordered his friend while he continued to slice down the undead.

Bingley and his horse galloped towards the gap and cleared the spiked wall, landing safely on the other side. Several undead began running after him in vain, for the wooden spikes quickly impaled them all. He galloped away, trying to lure some from his destination, but it didn't work. Those that were originally by the carriage were now making for his position near the gap as well. He needed a new plan.

"Ya!" he shouted, gripping Combat's reigns tight and leading the horde in a large circle around the yard. On horseback, he was faster, and as soon as he neared the carriage, he stopped, luring them in. Glancing nervously towards the gap, he saw it was now clear, but he had a great distance to cover. The undead ran blindly towards him, leaving the pathway clear. Combat took a step forward, wishing to bolt. He could sense his horse's uneasiness.

"It's ok boy," Darcy encouraged. "Just a few seconds longer."

As soon as they were close enough to reach out and touch, he urged Combat onward. Alastair and another man had pierced the brains of the undead caught in the spikes, making for a clean getaway. When he was near the gap, he looked at Mary and shouted, "Now!"

All went silent. The shouting from the Scots has ceased. The zombie growls were no more. Even Combat's hooves were hushed. Then, they were flying through the air.

The sky lit up before he heard it- Bright yellow and orange clouding his vision and then the enormous boom that propelled him forward in his saddle, his face pressing into Combat's mane.

Combat landed safely on the other side, and Darcy gave him an encouraging pat on the neck. Glancing back, he turned just in time to see the rubble returning to earth. Pemberley. It was gone. Through the dark smoke, he saw all that remained of his home were two walls standing majestically amongst the rubble. A large crater was in the ground where the carriage once stood. Body parts, stone, and personal artifacts were strewn all over and dust fell from the sky. The smell of death clung in the air. But it was over. Wickham was dead. The undead from The Canal and St. Lazarus were gone. The war had been fought and the living had won.

He heard the Scots and British soldiers shouting triumphantly. Lydia and Kitty were hugging each other in victory. Jane and Charles were sharing an intimate moment. And Mary, whose feet were now fixed firmly on the ground, raised her bow and remaining flaming arrows in a toast in his direction. Her aim had been true. But of course, he thought, she learned from the best.

He dismounted and sheathed his katana, glancing dazedly at the commotion surrounding him. Elizabeth should have been here with him. Fighting by his side, drawing off of each other's strength. But now the fighting was over. And apart from the few stray undead that remained throughout England, the zombies were no more. The pestilence would end.

"Fitzwilliam!" Georgiana cried, breaking his reverie. He hugged his sister tightly, drawing her as close as possible. When they pulled apart, he didn't even have to speak his intentions before she smiled and said, "Go."

He grinned and hastily mounted Combat. He needed to get to Elizabeth. To ensure she was all right. And to tell her that it was finally over.

Her eyes were closed when he entered the room. It seemed he had just left moments ago. Kneeling next to the bed, he grasped Elizabeth's small hand in both of his and kissed it gently. He stared at her face, hoping the movement would wake her, but she didn't stir. His heart quickened. Darcy hastily leaned forward to check if she was breathing. Placing his hear near her mouth, he waited. After what seemed like years, he heard her quiet steady breaths. She was sleeping. He sighed with relief and took the opportunity to watch his wife.

Her mouth was slightly agape and her eyelashes fluttered as if she was in the middle of a dream. Raising his other hand, he moved a stray curl that had fallen across her face. Unable to resist, he placed his lips softly upon hers before wearily lowering his head onto the bed next to her, eventually drifting off into a deep slumber.

Darcy awoke to the stroke of fingers running gently through his hair. His neck and back ached, but he remained still, not wanting to ruin the moment. Only when they stopped, did he open his eyes and raise his head.

Elizabeth stared back at him. Her eyes were brighter and her face was no longer pale, but the bruises upon her face had darkened. Just when he thought she was about to open her mouth to reprimand him, she wiped a finger across his cheek, and held it up to him, revealing a smudge of black dust now upon the tip. She smiled and he laughed, all the stress fleeing his body.

She joined him but winced as pain shot through her body.

"Are you all right, my dear?" Fitzwilliam asked worriedly, cupping her head with his hand.

"Yes," Elizabeth answered automatically, grasping his extended arm with her hand. "No…" she admitted, tears streaming down her face. "Charlotte… My parents…" she sobbed, cracking on the last word.

Darcy sat upon the bed and took her in his arms, feeling her tears soak his shirt and skin. He rocked her gently like a child, soothing her until she had no tears left. He recalled how he felt when his own parents had died. The ache he felt in knowing he would never ben able to see or speak with them again. The empty void that had been inside of him for so long. When his mother had died, he was still a child and was free to grieve freely and openly. But when his father passed, it was different. He was a man, and his father had been turned. He sliced his father clean through and bore the agony inwardly. He had endured the pain twice, the first preparing him for the latter, but his dear wife had lost both at once. Two times the heartache. Two times the grief. And he knew she would soon also feel the anger, frustration, and guilt that followed.

They pulled apart until their noses barely touched and stared silently into each other's eyes relishing in each other's comfort until the physician knocked on the door and entered. After examining Elizabeth, he concluded she should not place too much weight on her leg and remain off it if at all possible. The Scot then rushed off to attend to other injuries.

"The undead?" she asked him once the door was closed again. Her eyes were still reddened and he could tell she was trying to think of anything other than those they lost.

"Gone for good," he responded.

"And Pemberley?" she inquired.

He glanced sadly at her. Everything inside had been ruined- all his parent's possessions, priceless paintings, his favorite books, Georgiana's belongings- all of it had been destroyed. But that was not what he cherished most. All of that could be restored. He could not say the same for those he loved. And he would destroy all of his worldly possessions again if it meant saving those he cherished most.

"Oh, William," Elizabeth said, "I am so sorry."

"I can rebuild," he said, grasping her face gently with both hands. "We will rebuild."