Zombies! The Fall of London

Zombies! The Fall of London

  by

  Kassandra Alvarado

  Zombies! The Fall of London

  Copyright 2013

  Cover Art designed by the author

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold

  or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

  please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

  “Let your gun, therefore, be the constant companion of your walk." --Thomas Jefferson

  1824

  Precisely six years after the failure of Captain John Ross and the mirage of Lancaster Sound, another John, by the last name Barrow, an ambitious moon-faced man holding the position as Second Secretary to the most powerful Naval power on God's blessed earth, the Admiralty; seethed with the possibilities of another attempt at forging the wastes of the North. He spun the sphere of painted paper, his long fingers like spider's legs skimming the surface of the known world - stopped - tapped contemplatively on the broad vista of Mare Incognita.

  But, budgets were tight. The Lords of the Admiralty were a general parsimonious lot whose disappointment over William Parry’s second voyage in 1821 had furnished little by way of filling the arctic chart. This, as Barrow feared, temporally dissuaded them from throwing continuous monies at fruitless ventures.

  He needn't have worried.

  A clipper ship inauspiciously named the Resurrection drew in at the Greenwich wharves carrying with it a pestilence far worse than rampant Cholera, simply put, the dead walked. Once, local Militia failed to contain this threat to King and Country, the Admiralty were eating out of the palm of Barrow's hand. Figuratively, sadly. With this precipitous arrival, though it was most annoying having to replace the odd servant boy or Charwoman with their disappearance then reappearance clawing out from the Gooseberry bushes in the morning, Barrow wasn't about to look this particular gift horse in the eye, rather place a smoking Hunting Gun to the moldering green temple and...well, you get the idea.

  Mrs. Barrow wasn't so sanguine with constantly changing servants. During the warmth and wetness of the summer months, entertaining was rendered nigh impossible by those things, she fretted. Her husband polished his favorite musket in the barricaded Library, glancing at her. "My dear, the unmentionables, you mean?"

  She fluttered a lace-edged handkerchief drenched in English Lavender, she'd had the foresight to purchase trunkloads as clutching a scented cloth to one's nose as they went about their business was becoming fashionable in certain circles. "Oh, you know what I mean!"

  "Indeed, I do." John Barrow set aside his musket, checking the tautness of a modified leather crop. Nine knots were tied into the flowing ends. He had very good insight as to this particular weapon's usefulness against Satan's hoards, from William Parry, recently made Captain Parry, whom he was meeting later on in the week. He hoped sincerely that dunderhead who ate his boots, John Franklin, didn't expire on the road to London beforehand.

  That would most definitely put a damper on his plans.

  ***

  "You seem terribly down, Mister Parry." Remarked the sensitive John Franklin, "whatever is the matter?"

  Known for his normally stoic command and cool-headed presence, William Edward Parry bore an expression close to pain. It could've been deep emotional suffering, a crisis of faith that began when Hell expelled its moaning, shambling vermin, or the fact that they were passing the Burning Fields and that he'd forgotten to pack extra-scented handkerchiefs.

  "So, it is noticeable then, I take it?" He breathed in shallowly, exhaling through partially closed lips. "I've recently received word from Captain Sabine that his dear niece, Ms. Browne, suffered a calamity of body and spirit."

  "She has fallen to the dreadful plague!?" John leaned forward, his pasty complexion diminishing to a sour milk color. William winced, preferring to little speak of the misfortune that had befallen their fair England. "Yes, when I reflect on our many pleasant hours together I find myself..."

  "We must pray for our safety - ah, I meant, salvation of Ms. Browne's soul!" Franklin backtracked guiltily, interrupting the other's soliloquy. William recovered quickly, clearing his throat. "Ahem, I agree. That shall be our first stop upon reaching London."

  "Is that wise? Wouldn't it better to pray for all lost souls from the comfort of the Hotel De Armis? They offer barred windows, you know and armed guards day and night." Franklin's wife, Eleanor, had taken especial care in selecting the hotel they would be staying at and had enumerated the various qualifications over a candlelit supper the evening before he began his journey. He had kept a residence on Devonshire Street for occasions of entertaining, but hadn’t heard from the personal valet he’d left in charge of the manse, for well over a week, that boded none too well, hence the insistence of a hotel.

  “One can never be too careful, William.” John warned, leaning back against the moth-eaten velvet of the Chaise, mopping his wide forehead beneath the cocked Chapeau, free of sweat. Rather than concur and drop the futile quest of seeking out a Church; Parry did just the opposite, promptly calling their driver to take them to the nearest house of worship.

  In due time, the unattended gates of the City proper were passed. The wheels of the carriage creaked over dried bloodstains, ripped clothing and abandoned weaponry, sure signs of a skirmish between unmentionables from the countryside and King’s guardsmen. The temporary blockade had fallen during the night. Ignoring Franklin’s repeated mutters to close the curtains from the silence London’s once busy streets had become, William kept watch, covering his nose with his hand.

  “Attention, sirs!” The driver called out in a timely fashion, guiding the horses to a clattering halt before a single story edifice of brick and stained glass. Double doors stood slightly ajar a few steps from the street and streaked handprints in red stained the brass-colored handles. Not the slightest put off, William let himself off the carriage, pulling the small gold cross free from his velvet jabot. John followed much slower, wringing his thick hands anxiously.

  “We’ll just be a moment.” William instructed the driver.

  “Only a moment.” John seconded, clearing his throat meaningfully. An early morning haze clung to the spires of His Majesty’s capital, a fetid stench hovered miasmic-like over the surroundings. It was the stench of death and the horses recognized it implicitly, nickering and stamping massive hooves upon the filthy road.

  At the steps, William pushed one side of the door open with his boot, glancing in the dim interior before striding in."O' Merciful God!" He called in ringing, masculine tones. The empty, echoing Cathedral reverberated with them down to its root cellar. "William!" John hissed nervously, "you might key it down a touch!" As he spoke, something fell deep within the recesses of the cloister, fell and rolled clinkingly.

  Parry gave no sign of heeding him."We pray for the souls of the dearly departed and..."

  Franklin’s eyes widened to the size of supper plates as the cloister door to his absolute right swung open ominously. But, nothing appeared to his eye. Sighing softly at his own foolishness, he turned back to observe William’s devotion, hearing the creak of the door down the aisle they had entered through. A tomahawk-like weapon whizzed over Franklin's head as he spun around. He let out a yelp and ducked as the sharp black stone end embedded itself in the softening cranium of the resident priest. "Sacrilege!" Franklin cried, glancing at the fallen unmentionable then swung his gaze to the dashing figure the man striding up the aisle cut. "Oh, wait, the fellow was already gone anyway." He paled suddenly, realizing how close to undeath he had
come. "Scoresby! Monstrously glad to see you!"

  The Admiralty's resident dupe, though everyone but he knew it, William Scoresby, sized up the situation. He possessed high cheekbones to which they appeared as flying buttresses from the sharp, lean angularity of his dusky face. Scoresby's origin was said to have been Gyp and while John Franklin didn't particularly care for the man's company, in desperate times, he was willing to be anyone's friend. Even if Scoresby's distasteful tight breeches, billowing white shirt outfitted with a black pebbled leather Bandolier and brace of pistols, was completely inappropriate, more fitting a privateer than a whaler. "Why aren't you home with your wife?"

  "Oh, oh, yes! Eleanor is doing quite well, I assure you. But, um, William and I were called here to London for business -- oh my God," John caught sight of something swinging from Scoresby's belt. "Is that an unmentionable head?" In time, he remembered it was rude to point.

  "No, it's a shrunken head." Scoresby shrugged, "supposedly it's a good luck piece. Lyon brought it back from the Niger. Seems the Ottoman Turks have curious customs regarding the deceased." He tilted a finely arched eyebrow at William Parry's supplication. "No doubt they would be bemused at our own officiations." Scoresby said no more as a resident altar boy clad in bloodstained white crawled out from a nearby pew intent on munching on a certain polar explorer’s brains. Before it could quite lay clawing hands on him, William plucked up the cross from the altar before him, catching the unmentionable between the frontal lobes. As the altar boy crumpled to the floor, William rose quite cool despite almost becoming an unmentionable's supper. He deposited the bloodied gold cross down on the altar reverently, never sparing a glance to the smashed cranium of the undead lying at his feet. "Ah, Scoresby! How the Devil did you know we were here?"

  "I was passing by and saw your coachman being dragged off by a hoard of zombie children."

  John dug in his breast pocket for a cross.

  "-recognizing the Franklin coat of arms, I figured you two were inside knowing Mister Franklin's religiousness."

  "Oh, no. Goodness me, you are quite mistaken, Scoresby. It was William's idea to stop in," John disclaimed, "we were just on our way to Admiralty House, Mister Barrow summoned us." He deliberately ignored William's chastising look.

  "What luck! For I too have been summoned by the Admiralty! Come, gentlemen, you may share my armored coach...you know I have a patent pending for the design," Scoresby chuckled to himself, gesturing to the reluctant men, "so, I assure you, you both will be delivered safe and sound to our appointment."