Lady J wonders:
Hmm…where is Darcy? I swear I just saw him a second ago by the punch bowl. Not that I was hanging around the punch bowl. In fact, I am going to go across the room, away from the punch bowl and rows of éclairs and tiers of petit fours. Mmmmh…petit fours.
O.K. I have my eye on both entrances. I am away from the punch bowl. I am sitting up straight and coquettishly playing with my lacy fan. How does my crimson gown look in this light? WTF is Darcy?
There’s a kerfuffle going on in the next room? Is he fighting for my honor? I’m straining to see without looking obviously interested. Good thing I have this fan to hide behind. Huh, the shouts are getting louder. What seemed like a duel is turning into a riot, and here come the screaming idiot girls into this room. And there’s Miss Bingley, and oh, look, she fainted on the best positioned settee. Surprise surprise.
But what’s—Oh crap. It’s the Undead. Zombies are here and I haven’t even gotten one dance with Darcy.
“I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but could you hold this for me?” I say to the young woman beside me…I think I know who she is…Miss Jane or Fanny or Anne or Catherine or something like that. Her eyes wide, she takes my fan. Is she shocked by my boldness or the undead? I can’t tell.
I charge across the room, and give the first of the undead a solid high kick to the head. He must have been undead for a while, because his head spins off with the single blow and lands in Miss Bingley’s lap. Ha ha, she was just coming to.
Darcy is beside me, fastidiously battling the horde. He’s so sexy in his all business manner. Fighting side by side is almost as good as dancing but at least you can talk while you dance. Sure, a quip here or there, but that’s hardly a real conversation.
I try a high kick to the next one, but she’s more supple. With Darcy by my side, I’m grateful I wore clean underwear, as I wonder if he can see up my skirt with my leg up above my head like that.
Another kick and my shoe goes flying. Right into the punch bowl. Damn, I really liked those shoes.
These stupid men, some of them actually have swords and revolvers. Not that many of them know what to do with them. Most are actually terrible shots, and only one out of ten hits the zombie’s brain. I think that I am more terrified of their inaccuracy than of the undead.
Darcy takes off his jacket in order to maneuver better. I can’t help but be distracted by his rippling biceps beneath his blouse.
But distraction means death with battling the undead.
Oh look, here I am back by the punch bowl. How’d I let them push me this far back? Remind me to get that shoe later. Among the array of sweets I spy a knife. It’s dull, but it does its job as I stab a zombie through her eyeball. I quite like her necklace. Are those real rubies? I wonder if anyone will mind if I nick it later.
Oh, great, a child zombie is tangled in my skirt, the brat. I pick him up, holding him at arm’s length. His flesh is both dry and clammy to touch. Poor dear. To die and then to resurrect at such a young age. I swing him around, gaining momentum and toss him through the window, which rains down glass upon impact, sending shards into the carefully coiffed hair of both the men and women below.
~*~
*Guest Blogger, J.T. of Bibliofreak
- guest post titled: We Danced, We Slayed, Not Necessarily in That Order
*source for Zombie Stomper shoes
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Bit o'sip sip gossip...
from Bibliofreak
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