"Tell me more about who we're up against. This...Wickham."

They all listened intently as I gave the complete history as best I was able about Darcy and Wickham, about my first encounters with him and his later deceptions. All the way through to the attack he'd led after the double wedding ceremony between myself, Darcy, Jane and Bingley. "He controls them in ways we've never seen before. As if by some kind of Black Magic...they listen to him. Respond to him. It's why our defended have been so badly hammered. With his knowledge of battle and English stratagems, we are without hope."

"You sure he'd come for you?" Rick asked, leaning back against the wall, his team close at his side.

I nodded. "Beyond a question. He wants me, and loathes my husband. He would not want to miss our deaths for the world. In fact, I'm almost certain he intends to see us both removed by his own hand."

"Good. That's good. Means we can get him to come to us."

We spoke of battle stratagems and tactics, a plan quickly formed though I struggled to follow most of it. The primitive and stilted way, in which they spoke aside, the words bandied about, such as—high-powered rifles, ammunition, bazooka launcher, C4 explosives and detonators—were beyond my scope of understanding. Apparently those contraptions sitting outside in the gardens were cars and contained within were powerful weapons they planned to use. Among other things.

"We need to draw him out. Get him to want to take you on in single hand. Or to think you plan to surrender." Gathered around the table in the study, I looked down at the basic drawing Rick had drafted clumsily with quill and ink.

"We'll position ourselves here and along here, flanking them."

"How on earth do you plan to manage that?" Lydia gasped. "There are scores of hundreds out there. Maybe thousands. You'll never make it."

"We'll gut a couple bodies, smear their entrails on sheets. We've done it many times with great success. It confuses them, allows us to blend in."

"In our world," Daryl, the most sullen of the group grunted, his dark gaze unconvinced. "We have no way of knowing if it'll work on these Walkers."

"It's risky," Carol nodded. A kindly woman with silver hair and a soft voice, though I detected a current of steel beneath her skin. She would not be a woman to underestimate, whatever her appearance. "But we're pressed for time and we're going to have to operate on a bit of faith."

At that moment the door burst open and a couple of our remaining guards burst in with Darcy strung between them. His face ashen and eyes glazed.

"Darcy—what happened?" Racing to them, I helped as they guided his body to slump to the floor, his back braced against the wall. Blood smeared his shirt and then I saw it. His arm... "Our Father in Heaven...He's been bitten."

"Stricken are moments from breaking through. I pulled the men back to stay within the house. We have minutes before the gates come down. If that. I tried to...stop them..." "I'm sorry, Dearest..."

"Shhh." I stroked his face, kissed his brow.

Darcy hissed as Rick sliced and tore away fabric to expose his arm.  "Who...who are these persons. I recognize them not." 

Glancing around me, I could only imagine what might be going through his mind at the sight of the strangely dressed women and harsh looking men without a hint of refined sophistication to be had about them. "I will have to explain another time, my love, but know that they are warriors here to help us."

Darcy's unwavering trust in me stood as testament of his profound affection, as he simply nodded his acceptance, saying no more on the matter.

Blood welled in the wound and shone almost black in the dim glow of candle light, Rick examined his arm carefully before his eyes pinned to mine. "We're gonna have to remove this. It's the only way to stop the spread of infection. To keep him alive."

Hope bloomed within me. "Is such a thing possible?"

"We've done it before. Many times."

"Absolutely not!" Lydia screeched. "Mr. Darcy is a Colonel and a Gentleman! You can't possibly maim him, sir. It would be...unseemly."

"It's that or we let him turn into one of them," Rick said. "Your call Miz Darcy."

"Do it," Darcy grunted, setting the hilt of his dagger between his teeth.

Waiting for my assenting nod, Rick freed his crude blade—his machete—from the sheath on his belt. Stretching Darcy's arm between us, I closed my eyes as the sickened sound of metal rendering flesh and bone mixed with my husband's cries blasted through my skull.

#

"Get on," Daryl said gruffly, straddling a rather alarming contraption I was eager to try. Motorcycle, he'd called it. His explanations had been brief in delivery, and in truth, more confounding than informative. All I'd been able to ascertain with any measure of clarity, was that this incredible bit of machinery was in fact a means of transportation. After changing into my britches, riding boots and blue overcoat, sword strapped to my back and daggers sheathed, I slid on the back end.

Daryl glanced at me over his shoulder, his gaze dark but reassuring. "Hold on." His hands twisted on the bars and the machine gave a mighty roar before surging forwards. Clutching at him, a gasp tore from my throat but the sound quickly gave way to breathless wonder as we sped around the grounds, wind whipping past. I felt as a bird must.

Free. Powerful. Glorious.

Daryl steered us around the lumbering dead bodies, their arms reaching, their mouths gnashing and as he wove, circling the grounds, I slashed, removing heads, spilling entrails. The women from below spilled out on to the grounds, and even her Ladyship, the Countess of Cheshire, wearing naught but her chemise, swung her sword with the fury of a woman determined to live.

Over the roar of battle in full swing, I heard the staticy voice of Rick speaking to us from the marvel known as Walky-Talky, confirming that the 'Charges had been set and were ready for deployment'.

Releasing one hand from the bars as he rolled us to a stop, Daryl brought the Walky-Talky to his lips and replied, "We're clear. Blast 'em."

An explosion sliced through the army of bodies beyond the gates and the sky belched flames. Waves of the blast rolled over us, raining debris. Perched at the top of Pemeberly, Maggie and Carol fired bullets from their impressive guns with a range far greater than any musket in England. Heads popped from shoulders as another series of explosions, no less powerful in their display, shocked through the Stricken numbers. A rise of unadulterated joy claimed my heart. The first part of the plan had been executed. We'd dealt the dead a staggering blow and as expected, the rattling of the gates ceased, the undead screams fell silent so that a single voice could rise above them.

Bellowing my name. 

"ELIZABETH—BENNETT! Show yourself!"

Horde stood still as sentries awaiting his next command. And when that command came, the sea of festering bodies parted, revealing a long pathway connecting me to my adversary. Wickham, mounted on horseback, his arm raised with the brutal weapon fashioned on the stump where a hand had once been. The hand I'd severed. 

"Impressive display of force," he sneered, "but you and I both know you are greatly outmatched. Face me and I swear no harm shall come to those on Pemberley grounds. Deny me and all shall perish. You last, so that you may bare witness to each cruel and horrendous death."

Steeling my nerve, I stood before the gates of Pemberley and gave the guards a nod of ascent. Slowly, the gates opened. Though I could not see Rick and his crew, I knew they were close, stealthily weaving through the undead in their crafty guises. But I could not turn my gaze from my enemy.

And so, dropping my sword, I strode forward to meet my fate. The eyes of the dead followed me. I could hear the clicking of their teeth as if their jaws ached to open and devour, but they stayed rooted to the ground like daisies in a field. They might have swayed towards me, as if brushed by a stiff wind, but never once did they reach out to grab. Or bite.

As I drew near Wickham dismounted from his horse to greet me, wearing his crimson coat, black britches and polished boots. A smile split his face, the right side a ruin of tattered flesh and oozing sores.

"Elizabeth," he said, voice strained with effort. "At last." Above the folds of his cravat I could see the edges of wound as if someone had slit his throat or attempted to remove his head but failed. Pity.

Stopping before him, I kept my chin high and my eyes clear. "Well, now you have me, Wickham."

He glanced past me, inclined his head. "I admit I am surprised not to see Darcy by your side. It's not like him to leave his woman to champion her battles alone."

I kept my gaze steady. My voice strong. "Darcy is dead. Bitten by your Horde; I ran him through with my own blade to end his suffering."

Perverse joy flashed across Wickham's face. "You have my sincerest sympathies. A widow so young. Such a shame."

"Spareme your false words. What do you want?"

His laugh was jagged as broken glass, and the fractured edges scored across my skin. "I've travelled the world, Elizabeth. I've seen wonders you could not possibly imagine. Civilizations you've never read about," he said, circling me in slow, measured paces. "Unlike you I trained in the hot sands of Egypt and studied the dark arts of necromancy."

A chill sliced up my spine, swift as a blade that shocked me with understanding. So his sway over the Stricken was in fact owed to some mystical source that allowed him power both the to commune with and control the dead. But how? What was the source of his power? And how to sever it?

"Look around you--look to the faces of the undead. Our countrymen. Our soldiers," he raged, spittle flying from his mouth. The ragged flesh hanging from his jowls wobbled with his fury. "The foundation of the British Empire was built upon their blood, their lives and losses. The price of your entitled noble birth stems from their sacrifice. No more!" He spat at my feet and not even the milky grey film of death could mask the blaze of hellfire rising within his eyes.

Raising his arm with his remaining hand, an etching of a hieroglyph scored deep into his palm and glowed bright as his hatred.

"With this hand," he shouted, "I hold the power of Osiris, heathen God of the Underworld and the Afterlife. By His grace, I will command legions of Stricken to smite weakness from this world. Crush the monarchy. I am a God among mortals. With this hand—!" A figure broke through the wall of corpses at Wickham's back.

A flash of movement—a glint of steel arcing down—severing hand from arm!

Wickham screamed, a high shrieking pitch as he hugged his wounded limb to his body. Blood, thick and putrid, oozed from the stump. As the hand dropped to the grass, a wave rolled through the corpses. An invisible tether had been cut as swiftly as the hand had been cleaved from Wickham's body. Their groans and grumbles deepened as he cried.