“By the Resurrection Gate,” the woman stammered. “They’re going to kill him.”
Simon ran down the street, Kate and Penny at his side. Malcolm followed, a massive four-barreled Lancaster already in his grip. Simon knew the area well and cut through a narrow stinking alley, crowded with onlookers leaning out of windows or standing on the curbs, wondering about the shouting mob that poured out of the Devil’s Loom. Simon reached a wrought-iron fence. Through the rails, he saw a disturbance in the churchyard of St. Giles-in-the-Field. Shadowed figures surrounded someone who was on the ground.
Simon passed through the columns of the Resurrection Gate and pulled his sword from his walking stick. “Here! Leave off!”
A face turned from the mob. It was grey and flaking with teeth bared. More cold stares rose as the cadaverous group stopped flailing and froze.
Penny’s steps faltered slightly at the sight, covering her nose at the horrific stench. Her eyes widened and her breath panted faster. No doubt she was remembering the night her undead mother paid her a visit. Kate’s eyes darted to Penny, and the engineer nodded her resolve after a moment.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Malcolm muttered. “More undead. I thought they were all at rest.”
“Careful,” Kate cautioned Simon, reaching into her bag for useful alchemical vials. “You don’t have Penny’s gauntlets.”
Penny dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. She hefted her rucksack. “I could have easily fit them in here.”
Malcolm snorted.
There were nearly twenty of the dead things; several had their clawlike hands on a man lost from sight among their bony legs and ragged grave clothes. Most of the cadavers moved toward Simon and his companions while a few dragged their insensible victim toward the steps leading down to the crypt under the church.
Malcolm immediately moved in front of Simon with annoying protectiveness and opened fire with his pistol. Each careful shot smashed into a walking corpse, shattering leg bones, caving in rib cages, and splattering heads. He drew a second Lancaster. Penny drew a pistol and fired too.
Kate put a shoulder ahead of Simon and lobbed a vial toward the undead. It shattered on the ground and a black substance began to spread around the shuffling feet. The creatures were soon held fast in the treacle.
“If you two don’t mind.” Simon pushed past his colleagues with an exasperated sigh. He started around the trapped cadavers who grasped for him, but they fell forward, dropping awkwardly into the pool of black tar. He approached the three undead who were busy hauling an unconscious man down the worn steps into the crypt. When one looked up, it received Simon’s sword through its cheek. He ripped the blade free, breaking off a good portion of the thing’s head. A quick counterswipe lopped off its head completely. Simon used his foot to hold a second cadaver back. It seemed very desiccated, so he kicked hard through its face and pushed it down the steps where it lay flopping at the crypt door. The last undead seized Simon’s calf and he felt sharp fingernails tearing his flesh. He fell back onto the ground. Teeth gnashed close to Simon’s face.
He drew the length of the sword through the undead’s mouth, slicing off the lower jaw. The thing paused in confusion, allowing Simon to slash straight down through its skull. It fell back with its arms still scrabbling for prey. Then a blast from Malcolm’s Lancaster blew the body into pieces.
“Well, thank you, Malcolm.” Simon reached for the battered man lying on the steps.
Kate had deterred the crowd that followed from the pub, shouting something about plague and leprosy. Even the angry drunks of the Devil’s Loom paled at the mention of those dreaded maladies. Most covered their mouths and retreated.
Simon felt along the neck of the fallen man, finding a strong pulse. There was an odd familiarity to the victim. He looked up. “Malcolm, help Penny disable those last undead. I’ll bring this fellow.”
Simon slid his hands under the man’s arms, dragging him back up the steps. Kate joined him, kicking flailing directionless limbs out of their way. Simon heard a deep groan of returning consciousness. He knelt and tilted the fellow’s face upward.
“Nick?” Simon gasped and fell back on his haunches in amazement.
Kate shouted, “Jesus Christ!”
“Not quite, but close.” Nick Barker smiled up at them with lips and teeth bloody. “It’s about time you saved me for once.”
Nick Barker was ensconced in his old spot in the sitting room at Gaunt Lane with his head on one upholstered arm of the sofa and his feet on the other. He was cleaned up and wore fresh clothes. His face had swollen purple in the two hours since they had left the St. Giles churchyard. He clutched a glass of whiskey, his third. “You’re keeping the place tidier, Simon. Must be Miss Anstruther’s influence.”