Always Remember the Number of Dead Men Chasing You

And yet one more.

Making, and allow me to assist on the off chance that you are as mathematically challenged as I am, four.

Although my dear Rose assures me I am fearless, I know better. And I am far from stupid.

I kept my sword in one hand, grabbed the handle of my lantern with the other, and did the only logical and intelligent thing.

I turned and departed in the most precipitate fashion.

Indeed, I feel it safe to say I ran like a frightened child towards the mouth of the tunnel I'd so recently exited. My lantern swung, casting wild shadows on the dank, rough walls. I splashed through puddles whose contents I dared not consider. Well. These boots were a complete loss, not to mention my trousers.

The floor was uneven, I found the instant after I stepped into a hole disguised by a puddle.

"Stern letter of complaint to the London Sewer Board," I gasped as I fell to one knee. I kept a death grip on both sword and lantern as I scrambled up.

And of course, I had no doubt that I had reached the tunnel well before the reanimates were even halfway across the cavernous junction. They may be dead. They may smell to high heaven. Their eating habits may be disgusting. But thank all the multitudes of ancient gods, they're slow.

I took a quick glance over my shoulder, expecting to see them no further than halfway across the cavern.

Claws scraped the back of my greatcoat, just missing my nose. I admit, it is a rather large nose, quite Roman, but I have no wish to shorten it, especially by such a method.

I turned and ran faster, cursing under my breath.

What happened to the shambling gait, and when did these blasted things learn to move so quickly?

The tunnel was far smaller than the cavern I had just left, conveniently full of arcing turns, and the echoes of my pursuers reverberated through it in the most ghastly way imaginable. I ran, confident I could outpace them, but not confident enough to consider slowing down by the merest fraction.

Can you, can anyone, cast the faintest bit of blame?

I knew the next junction I reached would have a stout iron gate I could lock behind me, so I was not too terribly concerned. The tunnel curved around to my left, then straightened in front of me.

The gate, that dear gate to which I was looking forward so much, was there.

But it wasn't open, as I had left it.

Oh, dear me no. Of course not.

It was closed in front of me.

Shutting me in with the things close behind me.

One of which took that particular instant to give voice.

"Earrrgrrr," it said, or something to that effect.

"Dear Lord," I muttered as I skidded to a stop in front of the gate, "let Thaddeus be there."

I set my lantern down and gave the rusty metal a shake.

Ah. Shut. In fact, I could see quite clearly the shiny new lock I had brought with me looped between two links of a piece of old chain around the hasp.

Interesting. A pity I had no time to consider the matter, as things were rather coming to a head.

But hope springs eternal, as Mr. Pope so succinctly put it.

"Thaddeus!" I shouted. "Thaddeus?"

Silence.

So, either my man had deserted his post—impossible and, in point of fact, unthinkable—or he had been forcibly removed. Thaddeus is twenty-three stone eleven pounds, his excess weight due to several rather tasty metal and gutta-percha additions to his frame created by my darling Rose, who is an inventress of some note. He stands over six feet, is quite handy with his fists—one of which you do not wish to come in contact with anything about the face—and he always carries a variety of weapons about his person. So the fact that he was missing was not a reassuring thought.

A scuffling sound behind me alerted me to the oncoming danger.

I turned. Rather more quickly than I had anticipated, my pursuers were upon me.

The large blacksmith was first. He shambled forward, emitting groans and growls, and swiped at me with both hands.

Fortunately, reanimates are far from graceful.

I swung my sword, lopping one hand off cleanly about halfway to the elbow. It fell to the rough floor and wriggled, the fingers grasping at air. Then it struggled over on its palm and skittered away in into the shadows like some ghastly gigantic spider.

Well. That was interesting. In general, as I am sure you yourself have noticed, bits of reanimates cut from the parent body do not have life of their own.

I took another swipe at the massive reanimate and his head, teeth still clacking, went flying. It hit the creature shambling behind directly atop its own head, which seemed to addle the undecapitated gentleman quite nicely. He staggered backwards, bumping into the scrawny woman behind and bowling her over. Then the headless blacksmith, scouting about for its missing parts, surged against them both and they fell into a tumble of waving arms and legs.

Wait. Three. Where was the other reanimate I had seen emerge? Had there not been four? I scanned the dark tunnel as far as I could see, but no shambling corpse met my eyes.